It’s not that you mind getting deployed, you tell me on the phone. You just wish you were going somewhere with more action, Afghanistan maybe.
We agree that the Afghan war may not be worth fighting. We agree that the tribal societies of Southwestern Asia may not be appropriate nurseries for democracy. We disagree about the solutions: I think our nation needs to cut its losses and run; you’d like to “really fight the war — not the way we do under a Democratic president.”
I say, what’s the point of killing more people, and you reply that sometimes killing a few people can be very effective.
The whole conversation is a distraction. Granted, you aren’t going to a forward operating base, like the one author Sebastian Junger described. You’ll have showers, and a place to work out, and books to read, you tell me. And even writing about this feels a little out of fashion; I mean, some say that whole war is almost over. Haven’t we moved on, to writing about rehabilitation, and recovery, and moving on, for God’s sake?
Apparently not.
The fact is, you’re going someplace where someone will want to shoot at you; otherwise, they wouldn’t call it deployment. The fact is, I can’t protect you; I can only threaten to turn into another Cindy Sheehan in the unthinkable event of your death. The fact is, I won’t even be the one you’ll worry about the most during your months on a desert base. You’ll save that for your wife, keeping the apartment neat and love alive, stranded in a military town, thousands of miles from family.
Your little brother folded his tall, slender form into the sofa as he spoke with you, tears flooding his eyes, diction clipped. He offers me his netbook to Skype on while you’re away. “It’s more important that you have a chance to talk than for me to get to watch videos,” he comments. He spends the rest of the day laughing at my most inane jokes, and complies, oddly, with all my requests, even a museum trip.
It’s not like I’m even unique — there are thousands, tens of thousands of moms who have been simply grateful that our kids have salaries, unlike so many in their 20s for whom a job with a living wage seems unattainable. Now it’s time to pay the piper, to deal with the worry and hope that the mistakes made will not be fatal.
Bon voyage, beloved.
Eva Syrovy (evasyrov@msn.com) of Colorado Springs is a special education teacher.
