My Heart on the Line.
By Frank Schaeffer in The Washington Post
Before my son became a Marine, I never thought much about who was
defending me. Now when I read of the war on terrorism or the coming conflict in
Iraq, it cuts to my heart. When I see a picture of a member of our military who
has been killed, I read his or her name very carefully. Sometimes I cry.
In 1999, when the barrel-chested Marine recruiter showed up in
dress blues and bedazzled my son John, I did not stand in the way. John was
headstrong, and he seemed to understand these stern, clean men with straight
backs and flawless uniforms. I did not. I live in the Volvo-driving, higher
education-worshiping North Shore of Boston. I write novels for a living. I have
never served in the military.
It had been hard enough sending my two older children off to Georgetown
and New York University. John's enlisting was unexpected, so deeply unsettling.
I did not relish the prospect of answering the question, "So where is John
going to college?" from the parents who were itching to tell me all about
how their son or daughter was going to Harvard. At the private high school John
attended, no other students were going into the military.
"But aren't the Marines terribly Southern?" asked one
perplexed mother while standing next to me at the brunch following graduation.
"What a waste, he was such a good student," said another parent. One
parent (a professor at a nearby and rather famous university) spoke up at a
school meeting and suggested that the school should "carefully evaluate
what went wrong."
When John graduated from three months of boot camp on Parris
Island, 3,000 parents and friends were on the parade deck stands. We parents
and our Marines not only were of many races but also were representative of
many economic classes. Many were poor. Some arrived crammed in the backs of
pickups, others by bus. John told me that a lot of parents could not afford the
trip.
We in the audience were white and Native American. We were
Hispanic, Arab, and African American, and Asian. We were former Marines wearing
the scars of battle, or at least baseball caps emblazoned with battles' names.
We were Southern whites from Nashville and skinheads from New Jersey, black
kids from Cleveland wearing ghetto rags and white ex-cons with ham-hock
forearms defaced by jailhouse tattoos. We would not have been mistaken for the
educated and well-heeled parents gathered on the lawns of John's private school
a half-year before.
After graduation one new Marine told John, "Before I was a
Marine, if I had ever seen you on my block I would've probably killed you just
because you were standing there." This was a serious statement from one of
John's good friends, a black ex-gang member from Detroit who, as John said,
"would die for me now, just like I'd die for him."
My son has connected me to my country in a way that I was too
selfish and insular to experience before. I feel closer to the waitress at our
local diner than to some of my oldest friends. She has two sons in the Corps.
They are facing the same dangers as my boy. When the guy who fixes my car asks
me how John is doing, I know he means it. His younger brother is in the Navy.
Why were I and the other parents at my son's private school so
surprised by his choice? During World War II, the sons and daughters of the
most powerful and educated families did their bit. If the idea of the
immorality of the Vietnam War was the only reason those lucky enough to go to
college dodged the draft, why did we not encourage our children to volunteer
for military service once that war was done?
Have we wealthy and educated Americans all become pacifists? Is
the world a safe place? Or have we just gotten used to having somebody else
defend us? What is the future of our democracy when the sons and daughters of
the janitors at our elite universities are far more likely to be put in harm's
way than are any of the students whose dorms their parents clean?
I feel shame because it took my son's joining the Marine Corps to
make me take notice of who is me. I feel hope because perhaps my son is part of
a future "greatest generation." As the storm clouds of war gather, at
least I know that I can look the men and women in uniform in the eye. My son is
one of them. He is the best I have to offer. He is my heart.
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Semper Fi.