‘Don’t cry because I am gone; smile because I was here’

September 11th always brings a flood of memories and emotions to the forefront. For a myriad of reasons, it is a day never to be forgotten. Kurtis has been gone since 2005 and time has a way of being elusive. It was a million years ago; it was yesterday.

I am at a new school now but for the last decade I had a newspaper clipping stapled next to a faded American flag on my classroom wall. There is a casket in the photo and a heading titled, Sad Farewell. The caption reads, “At least 700 people gathered in Palmer at the state fairgrounds to remember U.S. Army Sgt. Kurtis Arcala, 22, of Palmer. He died September 11th, 2005 in Iraq, victim of a roadside bomb.”

On that same wall, I had a black and white photo of Kurtis. He has that familiar charismatic smile on his face and sparkle in his eyes. My students probably thought that I created the wall for one of those “teachable moments.” My stomach would always knot up waiting for unanswerable questions. None ever came. Maybe deep down, they understood and knew it was for me.

I would always look at Kurtis as we recited the Pledge of Allegiance in the morning. If I concentrated, I could almost hear his distinctive high pitched laugh in my head. I wanted to glory day it and ask him about life. Maybe I could get some perspective about the military and the Middle East. Kurtis just stared back at me in silence. This uncomfortable ritual was torture for me. I don’t know if it was healthy— maybe it was my way of attempting to deal with reality.

“Kurtis Arcala, 22, of Palmer…victim of a roadside bomb.” What does that mean? It almost sounds casual, which is unsettling. Life is fragile and unforgiving. My understanding is that Kurtis believed in what he was doing halfway around the world in a war zone. I respect him for taking on a greater cause, protecting his country, and standing up for what he believed in.

Kurtis had the gift; he loved soccer. Seeing him run was like watching a wild horse. When he donned the blue jersey, laced up his boots, and took the field it was pure joy. Kurtis had soft feet, a deft touch on the ball, and could strike from distance. Field vision is an intangible; Kurtis was a selfless playmaker. I loved watching him spray the ball all over the field and he had the ability to thread the needle like no other.

Furthermore, Kurtis was a leader. He wore his school colors and shouldered the responsibilities that come with wearing the captain’s band. Kurtis was flesh, blood, tears, and courage. No excuses; just sacrifices. How many athletes know what it means to give everything? Kurtis crossed the line: lungs screaming for air, heart pounding, jersey drenched in sweat— whatever was necessary to win.

Kurtis took the hard road. His high school soccer career was marred by an off field incident and a series of injuries. Who hasn’t hit a bump in the road? I could relate— my own life has been compiled of twists and turns. I reminded Kurtis that life is a journey. We all make mistakes. The true test lies in our ability to take responsibility, learn from our mistakes, and have the fortitude to move forward.

I still visit Machetanz Stadium on occasion. The field is hallowed ground. Sense of place…This is where I knew Kurtis. A somber Pioneer Peak looks down on me, the fall leaves rustle in the wind, and Palmer High School rests in the background. I sit in the lonely bleachers with a blank stare. Kurtis loved this field and his spirit will always be present.

Watching the U.S. Army fold a flag over a casket and present it to a dead son’s mother still haunts me after all these years. The helplessness, hopelessness, and reality of Kurtis being gone was overwhelming. I wanted to say something to his family that day but only felt a drowning sensation, like I had been swept overboard.

Over the years I have spent some time around Kurtis’s father. I have never been able to convey to him how much Kurtis impacted me. My thoughts are always fragmented and the words never quite make it to the surface.

Team is family. I am writing this for Travis Rapp, Trevis Anderson, Leon Kenshalo, and all of the other young men who had the privilege to play soccer with Kurtis. Be strong, be true to self, and don’t be afraid to stand up for what you believe in.

Lastly, I am writing because I am still an open wound. Kurtis called me “coach” and we shared a bond. It wasn’t supposed to end up like this. I miss you Kurtis. You are not forgotten.

Blake Livingston is an English teacher at Mat-Su Career and Technical High School