I am a reluctant patriot humbled by the American flags fluttering off freeway overpasses. Ten years ago I would have laughed if told I'd be wearing a "My Son Is A Marine" pin, let alone flying a small American flag on my gate.
My friends in the literary and academic worlds don't fly flags. They wouldn't think it was appropriate. They teach at place like Harvard and UCLA or write novels. They say things like "The American flag's been hijacked by right wingers."
Ten years ago "patriotism lacks nuance," is the way I would have put it. What I would have really meant, but never admitted, was that to me, a "sixties-generation" bohemian old fart, patriotism was working class. I was a snob.
Then in 1999 my youngest son John unexpectedly joined the Marines right out of high school. His older brother was at Georgetown; his sister had gone to NYU. What had been my indifference toward our military was replaced by a personal stake.
My friends didn't understand. They inadvertently insulted my son by saying "sympathetic" things like: "What a waste. He's so talented," or, "He seems to be too smart for the military."
John and I wrote "Keeping Faith - A Father-Son Story About Love and the United States Marine Corps" together while he was stuck at Ft. Huachuca, Arizona, waiting for his top secret security clearance. We finished the book on September 10, 2001.
Though I'm a modestly successful novelist 23 publishers turned the book down. "Your readers are too sophisticated to be interested in the military," said one publisher who had published several of my novels that enjoyed both good sales and reviews. America was attacked a day after our twenty third rejection letter was passed on to me by my agent.
In October 2002 our story was published into a very different world from that in which we wrote it. My new editor had run several dozen blocks escaping the dust cloud from the collapsing World Trade towers. Suddenly people---even "sophisticated" people---were interested.
America went to war in Afghanistan and then Iraq. My son packed up his body armor, got his Anthrax shots, picked up desert cammies from the cleaners, was issued a new Kevlar helmet, strapped on his 9-mm sidearm, slung his weapon over his back and went to war.
John going to war was the last step in dragging me off my high horse of indifference toward our military. I haven't hit the ground yet. I don't even know what the ground looks like.
On this Veteran's Day, on this the weekend of the 10th of November, the 231st Marine Corps' birthday, as our country asks the same men and women to return to combat again and again and again and again, remember that we are also asking their families to go with them in heart and spirit.
While our president asked nothing more of the rest of us than to go shopping, the American military family lives in another world, one our leaders don't share. They have no skin in the game. In that sense they are not leaders, simply people issuing orders.
I stayed a night in my son's barracks just before his first deployment. I think our troops would be better off if the President, most members of congress, our leading opinion makers (of all political persuasions) and most privileged citizens shared more experiences like this:
February 27, 2003
I woke up in the dark a little before he did and listened to him breathing.I borrowed his prayer book and sat on the edge of his bed. As I made the sign of the cross over his chest I couldn't help but think of that small bulletproof vest, pray that he'd wear it, pray that if he got shot the bullet would hit the plate.
The words of the ancient Greek Orthodox prayers comforted me. I held my son's hand. At first his grip was tight; I think John was remembering all he had to do that day. But as we prayed his hand relaxed...
Lord, I have cried unto Thee, hear me. Hear me, O Lord.
Lord, I have cried unto Thee, hear me...
****We were standing in a snowy parking lot opposite the base. John was in his cammies, wearing his cammie cover. I shook his hand, then kissed him goodbye.
"God bless you, John. Come home safe," I said.
"I'll work on it," John answered.
"I love you, John. I'm proud of you."
"I love you too, Dad."
John walked away.
I called after him; "I love you, son!"
John turned and kissed the air. I got back in the rented car but didn't drive until he was out of sight and I could get the tears out of my eyes.
To love a child going to a war is to admit that the mystery of sacrifice is greater than any explanation of it. I'm learning again, as I did with the birth of each of my children, that the most deeply meaningful events in my life are those I can't control: undeserved love, love without safe limits, love that is founded on a sacrifice made by another.
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