David Self is a man of many talents, a man for many seasons. He's worked in radio, worked in health care, and worked in software . . . a true creature of our age. Ronald Reagan had significantly fewer qualifications than those when he ran for public office, a fact that means almost nothing in connection with Dave, but one I felt bound to point out.
I've known Dave for a couple of years now and feel better for it. He's a marvelous guy and a brilliant writer. This essay made me weep.
What Happens now, Dad?
By David Self
Night before last, my son asked me-in front of a friend-whether I thought they would be drafted. I did the only thing a strong, caring, pillar-like father could do: I dodged the question. In my best Ronnie-Radio voice, I replied, “Well, everyone has to register when they turn eighteen”. My son and his friend, both seventeen turning eighteen within the next five months, gave me the “nice-try-but-you’d-better-do-better” look.
The day Desert Storm began, I drove home between a conference and a dinner meeting to assure my two young sons that the world was not going to end and they could sleep well. This despite the fact that their mom and I were overly interested in a reporter named Bernard holed up in the Baghdad Hilton and another guy named Wolf. They accepted what my wife and I told them, as long as it was followed by another reading of “Goofy’s Big Adventure” or a chance to watch Inspector Gadget before bedtime. Simpler times, yes, but it was easy to be confident when it wasn’t MY sons who were old enough to blow the living hell out of large tracts of sand in a faraway country. They were just kids and I could still hold both of them in my arms at once. They had not uttered their first curse word or been to their first dance. My sons, who are just fifteen months apart in age, did not have driving privileges, or jobs, or friends that called at eleven PM to ask about a math assignment. They were still kids who thought Santa was a darn good reason to keep their rooms clean.
When we rained hell-fire on Iraq and made CNN a household term, my sons were CHILDREN. As the well-circulated e-mail points out, Viet Nam has the same historical significance as World War II for people the age of my sons. So, this was a first in their young lives. When we all watched laser guided bombs hit an air duct at 5th and Main in downtown Baghdad, our boys were known as Douglas and Gregory. They are now Doug and Greg, a senior and junior in high school. Big boys with real lives. The pictures in our family album, taken at the same time as our last venture into Saddam’s backyard, show teeth sacrificed to the tooth fairy and grand smiles that reflect the pure joy of being a kid.
Fast forward to 2002. The teeth have grown back nicely and faces which need daily shaving frame the smiles. Despite my best efforts, my sons have grown up. In many countries they would have already been carrying guns for several years. But this is not another country. It’s our home. It’s the land of the free and the home of freedom. It is the place that my sons grew to know as they themselves grew. Sure, fourteen-year-old Somali kids fought in Mogadishu, but they weren’t MY kids. Kids kill kids in faraway places every night on the news, but they aren’t MY kids. My sons are going to find what makes them happy, and live and work with your kids, right? Isn’t that what the script says?
My ranting is selfish. It is self-absorbed and shows what my fellow control freaks know in their bones: sooner or later there is something so big and out-of-our-control, that we feel inadequate. And when it comes to the growing possibility of war, I bring absolutely nothing to the party. I do not know the key players personally and cannot make a call to try and mend a misunderstanding. The Iraq situation is moderately more complex than telling a junior high school teacher that his homework assignments don’t match the curriculum. It is more difficult than coaching when your kid is on the team. It is even tougher than assuring a seven year old that the noises he is hearing are not someone in his room, but just to be certain, you’ll just lay down next to him for a few minutes. I did those things with, and for, my sons. And now when it truly counts I do not have a way to make things “all better”.
There is a fairly new tune from a band from called Dispatch. Its called “The General” and I cannot stop listening to it. A seasoned general awakens the day of an infantry battle and addresses the troops:
“I have seen the others, and I have discovered that this fight is not worth fighting. And I’ve seen their mothers, and I’ll will no other to follow me where I’m going. So, take a shower and shine your shoes, you got no time to lose. You’re young men, you must be living-go now, you are forgiven.”
Nice touch, don’t you think? A fiscal conservative who voted “R” in the past four presidential elections who quotes war protest songs! A big part of me still wants to go to Iraq, flex our significant military muscle, level a few buildings for effect, and stand tall as the world’s cop. I truly believe that Saddam Hussein is a sick, twisted individual with some scary weapons that need to be neutralized. And for the record, he should be neutralized. He is bad voodoo and I want him gone.
And now Dr. Jekyll, I’d like you to meet Mr. Hyde
There is also a part of me, a growing part of me, that is looking desperately for a reason that all our G2 is wrong and that a good spanking will keep Saddam in check. When I sort through all the psycho-babble in my head, the bottom line is that a war could conceivably include people that are living in, hanging out in, and eating all the food in, my home. I have grown attached to seeing Jake, Isaac, Josh, Tucker, Joey, Tom, Clay, Jordan, Big Chris, Alex, B-Boy, and a bunch more testosterone charged teens in one piece. And of course, at the core of my concern are two young men who should be concerned with trigonometry and not trajectories-my sons.
And what exactly do we do in this situation? Somehow prayer alone seems inadequate as does trusting the crowd in Washington, D.C. They are completely focused on getting re-elected. I am trying like hell to keep a strong, patriotic posture, but my oldest son just asked me if I thought he was going to be drafted to fight a war. Trust a band of suits and suitettes who believe the most important agenda item of the day is assuring that they get their full fifteen minutes on C-SPAN? Get real. As unpopular an idea as it may be, I believe that our position on Iraq contains elements of both preserving world peace and preserving the flow of oil. Now, I realize it is a fairly slim chance that a war in Iraq would actually involve my sons, but until now, it was a lot easier for me to be a “good” American and talk the talk. With one question from my son, the stakes changed and I am now reminded of an old cowboy saying that refers to people who talk a good game, but whose actions don’t match their mouth: “Big hat, no cattle”.
So here is the bottom line: I am proud of our nation. I fly the flag at our home each day, and am in awe of, and indebted to, each man and woman that has placed themselves in harm’s way to preserve the freedoms we cherish. Yet when it comes to the prospect of my own sons go to war for those same ideals, I find I am just a dad. A dad who wishes he had better answers to important questions during very scary times.
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07/24/05