How to Respect Service
Memorial Day in New York City is somewhat of a big deal for two reasons. First, lots of people leave for the weekend, which opens up more space (physically and psychologically) for those of us who stay. Second, it coincides with Fleet Week, when the maritime branches of the military glide up the Hudson River for a yearly exchange: They open their ships and planes and tanks to the New York; New York opens itself to them.
When my son M was younger, he, like nearly all American males (including myself), had a fascination with military hardware. We used to visit the big ships that came in each year, sometimes just him and me. He and I once walked every civilian-accessible foot of the USS Iwo Jima aircraft carrier in a couple of hours, which was a lot of floating ground to cover. We went early, starting up at the flight deck to look over the aircraft before the crowds swelled. Chinooks, large dual-rotored passenger helicopters, had been thumping up and down the Hudson for the past few days, escorted menacingly by a pair of Cobras, and here they both were for us to touch. M was particularly excited to sit at the Cobra’s baffling controls. The machine looked smaller than expected up close but still dangerous, built like a blade.
Only when he was done with the air did we renegotiate the steep grade (“Use low gear,” a sign advised) to the belly of the ship, passing service men and women posing for photos with tourists holding guns. We felt the weight of sniper rifles (heavy) and mortar shells (very heavy) and machine guns fed shells on a belt (how do they carry these all day?). We climbed onto some amphibious vehicle with large weapons mounted in all directions. My son wondered what some oddly shaped canisters on the truck/boat’s stern do, and I encouraged him to ask the young marine. He was too shy, so I asked for him. Turned out they were smoke flares for evading pursuers. I also asked, for myself this time, about a particularly thick-barreled gun mounted on the side. The marine said that it was an MK 19 automatic grenade launcher, capable of shooting 325 rounds a minute adding, with more than a little relish, that having it was like “playing a game with all the cheat codes.”
The M1A1 tank drew the longest line. When our turn finally arrived, a young serviceman helped us up to the turret. The tank felt hard and cold, like the fist of a god. My son, smiling wide, asked me to take a picture of him in the gunner’s helmet. I took five. He slid into the tight driver’s seat and asked for a photo of that, too. He said he wanted to print out these photos so that he could put them up somewhere important. I don't know what happened to them.
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M and I began that day with bagels to keep our heads out of our stomachs until we were done with the ships. He liked (and still likes) poppy seed with scallion cream cheese, and I spread what smooshed out of his onto mine. I remember that we sat at the window as we often did, and at the time the U.S. Army Career Center was just across the street. M read the awning and asked what it meant.
I didn’t know how to help him understand that the people who make up the military both do an important job and deserve our respect and that I don’t want him to do that job. I wanted him to understand the absurdly real risk they embrace, to understand the gravity of their commitment. How could I let him know that here’s something honorable that I don’t want him to do?
Me: You know, some of your relatives on my side of the family flew planes in the Air Force.
M: I know, dad.
Me: Mom and her family were in a war and had to leave their country because of it.
M: I know, dad.
Me: People in the military do important things.
M: I know, dad.
Me: They help to keep us safe, and they deserve our respect.
M: I know, dad.
Me: They risk a lot to do what they do. It’s not like playing video games.
M: I know, dad.
Me: [long pause] You know, I really don’t want you to—
M: —I know, dad.
But he didn’t know. He didn’t know that my uncle was a conscientious objector during the Vietnam War but was drafted anyway and served as a field medic. He refused to talk about his time there and died from Agent Orange that sowed cancer in his bones. M didn’t know that the same insatiable war killed his mother’s grandfather and drove her from her country to drift on the ocean when she was half his age. He didn’t know that the war changed our trajectories such that his existence became possible, just as it made so much other existence impossible. He didn’t know that he was born into a country pursuing two wars, both of which are older than he is and still devouring lives.
The warships and aircraft still glide up and down the Hudson each Memorial Day, but we haven't toured them in years. M is big now, almost as old as those who enlist to defend their country or pay for college. M now knows about my uncle and why his mother's family ended up living in the basement of a Lutheran church in Minnesota. But he still doesn’t know the weight of a rifle he's been told to hold and the heat of a desert. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be deeply, truly afraid.
I know that I am thankful for those who, like many in my own family, have and do risk themselves for us. And I know that if he was taken from me in defense of a map, I would find no nation worth believing in.