For Michael Diraimondo, Always
The young, joyous 8th greater became a gracious, compassionate caring young man and a soldier whose life was cut short.
In the early 1990’s, still in my 20’s and partially filled with ideals and optimism about my teaching career, I met Michael Diraimondo and his family. He was an 8th grader with boundless energy and just a hint of naivete that I don’t think one would find in today’s middle schoolers. He smiled all the time, and told corny jokes and loved his big Italian-American family and was kind to me, and friendly. His was a class full of such kids, and I was so grateful for their presence in my life.
Those first three years of teaching made an indelible impression on me, not because of all the good graces of those kids and their families at Valley View Junior High School in Simi Valley, Calif—but also because the job was not always good and gracious, and I went through a good deal of turmoil, wondering if I was cut out to do this work. Little did I know then, those kids and their families planted the seed that would allow me to eventually fall in love with teaching, and carry on through 30 years of what became a deep passion for me.
So, when I stop and reflect on them all, Michael springs to mind quickly. He knew in 8th grade that he wanted to be paramedic, or a firefighter. He was as sure of that as any confident 13 year old, and I used to smile and think about my own memories of wanting to be a highway patrolman when I was 13. “It’ll fade, Michael,” I would say to myself. “But let it carry you on to the next opportunity. That’s how we do it…” I should have known better.
Michael moved on to Simi Valley High School and I was there too, by then teaching high school English. I lost track of my Simi Valley kids after 1996 because I went on to teach in a different district, so I wasn’t aware that after 9/11, Michael joined the army and in it, he fulfilled his dream of becoming a medic. He was sent to Iraq as part of the 571st Air Evacuation and Ambulance company. Considered an elite group, Michael had joined a squadron of people who did what it took to bring back those who had died, and those still living, who were injured in combat.
On January 8, 2004, Michael was aboard a Black Hawk (UH-60) helicopter over Fallujah, Iraq, doing the job he was both trained to do, and loved dearly. The helicopter was hit by enemy fire from the ground, and crashed in the vicinity. Michael, and eight others on board were killed.
Since that dark time, his father, Anthony and mother, Carol (Mr. and Mrs. Diraimondo to me) have at times reached out to me and I had the opportunity as a journalist to sit down with Mr. Diraimondo at one point, writing a story about him on a different issue, in a newspaper for which I worked at the time. We talked a great deal about Michael and it did my heart good to hear stories from his father, who remembered me from the junior high back-to-school nights. Carol has also called me and we’ve spoken in these later years. In those moments, I am not a now retired teacher with an adult daughter, a pension and a freelance writing career. I am transported to that time at Valley View Junior High School, and Michael is sitting in the front seat of the first row down, left side of the classroom, and he’s cracking a joke, smiling and radiating his good nature. He is young, alive and looking to a bright future.
But in more recent years, I had a student at Camarillo High School, who also joined the army after 9/11. Brian Watson didn’t know Michael, but he too served in a helicopter unit as a crew chief. He is alive, though he has seen the very worst of war, and he keeps vigil over all of his fallen brethren, including Michael, whom he considers a brother. Brian survived the war, and the two of them are connected to each other because of this—and because of Memorial Day. I am connected to them because they sat in my class, and I got to know them—one as a boy, the other as a young man about to graduate.
Michael died when he was 22 years old, fighting for his country in yet another war that brought no glory, but did bring suffering, pain and loss. I’ve been remembering Michael on Memorial day for 18 years, now. I still remember roaming the halls of my own house on the phone with my brother, saddened by Michael’s horrific death. My own daughter was then three-years old, and I remember thinking about the Diraimondos and how they must be feeling then. My daughter is now 22 , and is just beginning life again after the last three terrible, ugly years—and yet, she is here, thriving in the open air and ready to take on the next chapter of her young adulthood.
And it’s all time that is lost and behind us. I fear Memorial Day has become perfunctory. It gets tied up with a kind of Nationalistic cliche, rather than a sincere effort to honor fallen soldiers, sailors and aviators. There’s a time and place for patriotism, I believe that. But before I wrap Michael up in a flag, I’d rather take comfort from his father’s conveyance of an e-mail Michael shared with one of his sisters shortly before January 8, 2004. “He thought a lot about the families back home, and how he was helping to save lives.”
We’ve all got to be about something greater than ourselves. Whether God, country, family, love, friendship, a creed—what have you. Michael was about the families back home and saving lives. It’s an imperfect world and sometimes we find ourselves in impossible hellscapes we didn’t create. Best then to be about something, and saving lives is about the best something. That was Michael, God bless him, and his saintly young soul.
In honor of Michael A Diraimondo on this, and all Memorial Days.
A perfect way to honor someone that has made the ultimate sacrifice for his country.
Holy smokes. That was amazing. Thank you