Abstract
Comfortably, I sit here and write, not having to search the street garbage cans for morsels to eat, not having to watch every step for the AK-47 that is aimed at my head. Who am I to speak of the glories of America when I have relatives across the Atlantic, in the often forgotten sands of Cairo and Upper Egypt, which have to fight for every breath of life? Who am I to proclaim the Great American Dream when I have enough education in diction to even write this essay, when I have the most fortunate chance to make something great of myself? Until one sees the slums of the world, will one even remotely fathom the paradise we have in America. Until one has a cousin nearly die in a terrorist attack or have a friend have to hold his dead uncle in his heart because of the blind knife of a thoughtless fanatic, can one even remotely comprehend the blessing of not just life but an AMERICAN life.
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