Watching Jason---Changing my mind...
It was just a simple sunday afternoon barbeque--I was tagging along with friends to a "friend of a friends" barbeque that was being held to welcome home a Marine from Iraq. That part of the invitation didn't phase me, what I was interested in was the fact that I would get to spend time with old friends, possibly make some new friends, eat a grilled burger, have a cold drink, and enjoy the San Diego sun on a beautiful sunday afternoon. No thoughts about meeting a marine, no conversations about the war, the politics of the war, or the president. All this, within earshot of the California Democratic Convention, where all of the Democratic candidates for President in the '08 election were campaigning and speaking-- all about their opposition to the war, and all are quick to add "but we support the troops." Yep, I oppose the war--vehemently, adamently, believing that we entered Iraq based on a lie, and our mission and purposes are not clear, nor noble, and we have lost over 3,000 children because of the lies that Dick Cheney and George Bush believed--and promulgated to the rest of us. As a teenager, I was an active protester against the war in Vietnam, which began on the day that I entered first grade, and "ended" on the day that I graduated from high school. I have lived my entire life with war in the background, as the soundtrack for my life. Though I have never been in the military, I have had numerous friends who have made the Navy, Coast Guard, Marines and Army their careers, and we remaind close, dear friends. It was just NOT for me--I chose to fight my battles on the streets of Los Angeles, San Francisco, Dallas and Fresno. Our people on American soil are not yet truly free: so, why would I need to go elsewhere to fight for our freedom? I fight at the ballot box, on the pages of our newspaper, magazines, blogs, and in speeches and in classrooms. I fight the bigger enemies of ignorance, intolerance, bigotry, hatred, poverty, isolation and apathy. My war is bigger, but, my army is dwindling. I work to elect those who fight with me/for me, and sometimes, that is a more difficult battle.
But, I digress-
On that afternoon, I waled in and met Jason, a 21 year old ( or so) Marine, proudly from Dallas, Texas, and a good baptist boy, strong, healthy with bright eyes and smile- and he had spent the past 18 months in Iraq, riding on those same Humvees that I see so often blown to bits on the news. He said he shook out sand from everything he owned--his face betrayed the sadness that lay under the surface. It was his birthday, too, and the happy birthdays seemed muted under what we wanted to say--"thank God you are alive." "Thank God it didn't happen to you."
I just wanted to look at him--a survivor, one of the "lucky ones." I wanted to take him in, and in some ways, I wanted him to be safe--very safe--and I wanted him to be happy. After the food and conversation, he brought out a box that he had sent to himself--a box of momentos from Iraq- an "Iraq Transition guide" with words and phrases- a couple of tools, a portable shower, a clasp of Thank you cards from school children. Letters, magazines, pictures--and as he took out heach item, he slowed down, and he looked at them, and he touched them with reverence--and a bit of awe. It was as if he was trying to imagine that he had actually BEEN there, had had to use these items, that they had really become a part of him. A gun clip, a light, a glove--all dusty with desert sand, all with the scent of heat and life on them-- and, he, with a bit of ceremony, took them out--looked at them, then, tucked them back into the box. To remember them, then, to forget them. No one of us said, "it must have been terrible." Our silence spoke that. No one of us said, "are you afraid to return." Our faces said that. Our touch, our laughter, our conversation, the giggles of the little kids at the party. Somehow, my view of Iraq was changed last sunday-- it is now real to me- not just images on the tv screen and sounds on the radio. It's boys like Jason. Bright, handsome, funny, intelligent, promise-filled, Jason--living his life--and, giving his life. All the more, I want to "study war no more." Stabilize Iraq, bring home our troops, find a diplomatic solution. Dear God, keep Jason, and those like him, safe in your arms.
But, I digress-
On that afternoon, I waled in and met Jason, a 21 year old ( or so) Marine, proudly from Dallas, Texas, and a good baptist boy, strong, healthy with bright eyes and smile- and he had spent the past 18 months in Iraq, riding on those same Humvees that I see so often blown to bits on the news. He said he shook out sand from everything he owned--his face betrayed the sadness that lay under the surface. It was his birthday, too, and the happy birthdays seemed muted under what we wanted to say--"thank God you are alive." "Thank God it didn't happen to you."
I just wanted to look at him--a survivor, one of the "lucky ones." I wanted to take him in, and in some ways, I wanted him to be safe--very safe--and I wanted him to be happy. After the food and conversation, he brought out a box that he had sent to himself--a box of momentos from Iraq- an "Iraq Transition guide" with words and phrases- a couple of tools, a portable shower, a clasp of Thank you cards from school children. Letters, magazines, pictures--and as he took out heach item, he slowed down, and he looked at them, and he touched them with reverence--and a bit of awe. It was as if he was trying to imagine that he had actually BEEN there, had had to use these items, that they had really become a part of him. A gun clip, a light, a glove--all dusty with desert sand, all with the scent of heat and life on them-- and, he, with a bit of ceremony, took them out--looked at them, then, tucked them back into the box. To remember them, then, to forget them. No one of us said, "it must have been terrible." Our silence spoke that. No one of us said, "are you afraid to return." Our faces said that. Our touch, our laughter, our conversation, the giggles of the little kids at the party. Somehow, my view of Iraq was changed last sunday-- it is now real to me- not just images on the tv screen and sounds on the radio. It's boys like Jason. Bright, handsome, funny, intelligent, promise-filled, Jason--living his life--and, giving his life. All the more, I want to "study war no more." Stabilize Iraq, bring home our troops, find a diplomatic solution. Dear God, keep Jason, and those like him, safe in your arms.
posted by Downtown Don Simmons at
4:57 PM
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