Wanting You
And Not Wanting Them to Want You
Memorial Day in New York City is usually somewhat of a big deal, for two reasons. First, lots of people leave, which opens up more space (physically and psychologically) for those of us who stay. And second, it coincides with Fleet Week, where various branches of the military glide in on the Hudson River for a yearly exchange: They open their boats and planes and tanks; New York opens itself to them. Visitors can climb on trucks and tanks, sit in cockpits, slide bolts on real rifles.
My son, like nearly all American males, has a fascination with military hardware, one that I had myself. Unlike most American males, we live in a place where we actually get to see some of it up close. My son was excited to see the real thing; I was excited that we could be two men out doing men stuff. Or something.
The Boy is big now and makes for great company. He doesn’t tire easily, and we walked every civilian-accessible foot of the USS Iwo Jima aircraft carrier in a couple of hours, which is a lot of floating ground to cover. We headed first up to the flight deck to look over the aircraft before the crowds got crushing, and he was particularly excited to see the Cobra attack helicopter. Chinooks have been thumping up and down the Hudson for the past few days, escorted menacingly by a pair of Cobras. It’s hard not to want to see such things up close, and he loved sitting at the machine’s baffling controls.
Only when he was ready to go 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 that get 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 encourage him to ask the young marine. He was too shy, so I asked for him. Turns out they’re smoke flares for evading pursuers. I also asked, for myself this time, about a particularly thick-necked gun mounted on the side. The marine said that it’s an MK 19 automatic grenade launcher, capable of shooting 325+ rounds a minute adding, with more than a little relish, that having it is like “playing a game with all the cheat codes.” The smell of grease and machine was ubiquitous.
The M1A1 tank drew the longest line, but we agreed the wait was worth it. When our turn finally arrived, a young serviceman helped us scale 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.
Back before we begin this day, The Boy and I get bagels to keep our heads out of our stomachs until we get back from the ships. He likes poppy seed with scallion cream cheese, and I spread what smooshes out of his onto mine. We sit at the window as usual. Across the street, I see the “U.S. Army Career Center.”
He reads the awning and asks what it means. I start to tell him, but before I finish, he says, “I know, dad.”
I don’t know how to tell him 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 want him to understand the absurdly real risk they embrace, to understand the gravity of their commitment. How, then, do I let him know that here’s something honorable that I don’t want him to do?
Me: …
Me: Some of your relatives on my side of the family flew planes for the Air Force.
The Boy: I know, dad.
Me: Mom and her family were in a war.
The Boy: I know, dad.
Me: People in the military do important things.
The Boy: I know, dad.
Me: They help to keep us safe, and they deserve our respect.
The Boy: I know, dad.
Me: They risk a lot to do what they do. It’s not like playing video games.
The Boy: I know, dad.
Me: [long pause] You know, I really don’t want you to—
The Boy: —I know, dad.
But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that my uncle was a conscientious objector during the Vietnam War but was drafted and served as a medic, and refused to talk about his time there until he died from Agent Orange that sowed cancer in his bones. He doesn’t know that the same insatiable war killed his mother’s grandfather and drove her from her country out onto the ocean when she was half his age. He doesn’t know that the war changed our trajectories such that his existence became possible, just as it made so much existence impossible. He doesn’t know that he was born into two wars, both of which are still older than he. He doesn’t yet know the weight of a rifle and the heat of a desert. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be deeply, truly afraid. He doesn’t know that if I lost him, if he was taken from me in defense of a map, I would lose myself, I would find no nation worth believing in.
“Finish your bagel,” I said. “Let’s go look at the boats.”
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