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John Is My Heart

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#1 ·
by Frank Schaeffer of the Washington Post

"Beforemy 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 cutsto my heart. When I see a picture of a member of our military who has beenkilled, I read his or her name very carefully. Sometimes I cry.

In 1999, when the barrel-chested Marine recruiter showed up in dress blues andbedazzled 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 andflawless uniforms. I did not. I live in the Volvo-driving, highereducation-worshiping North Shore of Boston I write novels for a living. I havenever served in the military.


It had been hard enough sending my two older children off to Georgetown and NewYork University. John's enlisting was unexpected, so deeply unsettling. Idid not relish the prospect of answering the question, "So where is Johngoing to college?" from the parents who were itching to tell me all abouthow their son or daughter was going to Harvard. At the private highschool John attended, no other students were going into the military.


"But aren't the Marines terribly Southern?" (Says a lot aboutopen-mindedness in the Northeast) asked one perplexed mother while standingnext to me at the brunch following graduation. "What a waste, he wassuch a good student," said another parent. One parent (a professorat a nearby and rather famous university) spoke up at a school meeting andsuggested that the school should

“carefullyevaluate what went wrong."

When John graduated from three months of boot camp on Parris Island, 3000parents and friends were on the parade deck stands. We parents and ourMarines not only were of many races but also were representative of manyeconomic 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 thetrip.


We in the audience were white and Native American. We were Hispanic,Arab, and African American, and Asian. We were former Marines wearing the scarsof battle, or at least baseball caps emblazoned with battles' names. We wereSouthern whites from Nashville and skinheads from New Jersey, black kids fromCleveland wearing ghetto rags and white ex-cons with ham-hock forearms defacedby jailhouse tattoos. We would not have been mistaken for the educatedand well-heeled parents gathered on the lawns of John’s private school ahalf-year before.


After graduation one new Marine told John, "Before I was a Marine, if Ihad ever seen you on my block I would've probably killed you just because youwere standing there." This was a serious statement from one of John’s goodfriends, a black ex-gang member from Detroit who, as John said, "would diefor 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 andinsular to experience before. I feel closer to the waitress at our localdiner than to some of my oldest friends. She has two sons in theCorps. They are facing the same dangers as my boy. When the guy whofixes my car asks me how John is doing, I know he means it. His younger brotheris in the Navy.


Why were I and the other parents at my son's private school so surprised by hischoice? During World War II, the sons and daughters of the most powerfuland educated families did their bit. If the idea of the immorality of theVietnam War was the only reason those lucky enough to go to college dodged thedraft, why did we not encourage our children to volunteer for military serviceonce that war was done?


Have we wealthy and educated Americans all become pacifists? Is the worlda safe place? Or have we just gotten used to having somebody else defendus? What is the future of our democracy when the sons and daughters ofthe janitors at our elite universities are far more likely to be put in harm’sway 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 takenotice of who is defending me. I feel hope because perhaps my son is partof a future "greatest generation." As the storm clouds of wargather, at least I know that I can look the men and women in uniform in theeye. My son is one of them. He is the best I have to offer. John is my heart.

 
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#3 ·
LO,
Thanks for posting this most excellent read! I serve, my father served, my grandfather served. My wife's grandfathers both served. We know the price for freedom is paid with blood and that at anytime that could be our own blood. I'm fine with that and so were they. It's a noble venture worth experiencing and I recommend it to any military-aged American. They will likely experience something they will never forget, good and bad.

Thanks, Dinny
 
#4 ·
Dinny,
You are most welcome. Thank you for your kind words and continued service.


My son served. I served. My father served. My mother's grandfather served. It is and was a unique experience, one that I will never forget, which experience and benefits along with grit and determination, successfully propelled me into the 21st Century.
 
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