Military Issue
“Mom, I want to be a soldier,” Danny said as he climbed from the sandbox. His miniature army, scattered about the sand dunes and valleys, had won a great victory against the bent twigs from the neighboring tree. As I brushed the sand from his clothes and helped him gather his troops, I thought about what it might be like to have a son in the army…someday.
Although he was only six, I could not imagine him becoming good at what he would learn in basic training. Things such as tanks, guns, grenades, and everything in-between that could maim or kill another person. Mothers always imagine their children being the best they can be in professions such as medicine, science, academia, or anything else but being trained in weaponry. The army was not on my list of things I wanted for him.
As Danny meandered his way through elementary school, he and I talked a lot. Long conversations. Loud conversations. Always talking. Always debating one thing or another. The topic did not matter…all that mattered was that we talked. Danny was taught to question what was said and to never take things at face value. I instilled in my child the quest for truth, the story behind the story.
“Danny, what do you want to do with your life?” I would often ask between the ages of six and ten. “Mom,” Danny would say, “I’m not sure, but I’d like to do things differently.” For instance, the first time Danny was confronted with reading Shakespeare, he read all his plays at once. When I asked him why he did this, he replied simply, “I’ll have to do it in high school, so I’ll just get it over now. I only must refresh my memory later.” As with any other child his age, rules were made to rebel against. He wanted to do everything his way, on his timeline. We would often butt our heads over rules. If there was a shortcut to getting things done that would circumvent the rules, Danny would do it. He honed the fine art of genteel rebellion against authority to new levels. He never openly rebelled, he just structured things so that you knew he was up to something. You just couldn’t put your finger on what it was.
Danny never let go of the thought of being a soldier. He delighted in going to his father’s home and having mock battles in the woods that surrounded his house. While there, his father taught Danny about firearms and taught him to shoot. Danny became an excellent marksman. He would come home from there full of soldier talk and battle plans which would make me inwardly cringe. It seemed to me that by now he should have shed this idea along with the sandbox and its toys. But he never did.
As Danny moved into adolescence, he began developing his own style. As he began expressing his own tastes, he also felt the need for a more grown-up name. He wanted to be called Daniel. His clothing choices were surprising. He refused to wear anything other than black and some white. Not any other color, especially green. He hated green. He did not want to dress and look like all the other boys. There were no creases in his pants, no ironed shirts, and no alligators on the chest. He lived in T-shirts and jeans. He set his own style that reflected his outlook on life and how he saw himself as an individual.
As Daniel moved through his teen years, I continued to ask him what he wanted out of life. I was still hoping that his answers were not related to the military so I could quit worrying. I did not have anything against military service, but this was my youngest son, my baby, the one I worked so hard to be friends with. Every day he struggled with boundaries, rules, and regulations. How could he want to be a soldier when he fought the daily regime of everyday life?
“Daniel, you are a sophomore now. Three more years and you’re on your own. Thought about your future? You need to figure this out.” I would ask. It seemed no matter what we were talking about, the subject of the military would pop up along with our toaster pastries in the morning.
“Mom, I still have time,” he would say. “I am only 15. Don’t worry. I’ll live with you forever.” In a way, this is what I dreaded but also what I hoped for.
On a hot day in late June, we celebrated Daniel’s 17th birthday. Our tradition was to give three presents – two surprises, the third one of their own choosing. As Daniel got older, the presents got more expensive. He had chosen well during those years, everything from a Super Nintendo to a CD player and sound system for his room. I always dreaded the third present. Daniel, in an unusual move, asked for a rain check. He will let me know later. “No sweat,” I said. “Great,” I was thinking, “maybe I can save more money for this one.” I fully expected the request for a car to be heading towards me.
The next day Daniel called me. “Mom, I know what I want. Meet me at the mall after work, okay?” When I met Daniel at the Mall, he quietly escorted me to the Army Recruiting Station. He placed his hands on my shaking shoulders and looked down into my uneasy face. He said, “Mom, I want to be a soldier and I want to be called Dan.”
As a parent, I tried to instill in Dan strength of character, determination, and pride. I tried to provide him with good skills in making decisions and judgments. I supported his decisions if they were safe, harmless ones. Now I was being asked to hand him over to strangers – strangers who did not look at life the way I did. Strangers who were proficient with tanks, guns, and grenades. This was not a safe, harmless decision. How could I do this? How could I live with this decision?
I did this thing. I signed my son over to the Army. I provided him with the one thing he wanted all his life . . . to be a soldier called Dan.