Truth, as the saying goes, is stranger than fiction. But sometimes fiction can be truer than truth. In his masterpiece The Things They Carried, writer and Vietnam veteran Tim O’Brien creates a perfect horrific vision. His imaginary retelling of war is as real as it gets. A true war story, he says, is never moral. If you feel uplifted, you’ve been made the victim of a very old and terrible lie. There is no rectitude, no virtue. Sometimes, he says, a true war story is simply beyond telling.
There has been much debate about the truth behind the war in Iraq. One thing we know to be true—the reason justifying our being there turned out to be false. Some have responded by creating new justifications. In the meantime, every day, more civilians and soldiers are dying.
I was watching the news the day the number of dead American soldiers in Iraq reached 2,000. At the end, the newscaster announced that pictures of fallen soldiers would silently scroll across the screen. Shamefully, I started to change the channel. I had turned on the news to be informed, to fill my head with information and facts. I wasn’t prepared to feel. I wasn’t, as O’Brien would say, prepared to make my stomach believe.
Something, though, compelled me to watch. I looked into the eyes of the 19 year-old from Morrisville, Pennsylvania and the 23 year-old from Rosedale, Maryland and the 34 year-old from Arlington, Texas and the 22-year old from Knoxville, Tennessee. Some were dressed in uniform, some were not. Mostly they were smiling, all of them now gone. Numbers can lie, or at least they can hide things. Those photographs were the real news, the quiet faces of truth.
It goes without saying that on Veteran’s Day—on all days for that matter—we should honor those who fought for our country, remembering soldiers from every war, past and present. It is beyond “should.” It is our moral duty. We salute and we march and we pay tribute and we listen to the trumpet sounds and we hold our hand on our heart while we pledge allegiance and watch the flag ripple in the wind. We acknowledge bravery and respect sacrifice. You can be against a war and still support the soldier who fights in it.
And so on this Veteran’s Day I will read truthful fiction by someone who has lived through the very worst of human experience. I will enter the haunting stories he tells from the trenches of his gut. If nothing else, we must be reminded of the horrific in a way that takes us beyond generalizations, in a way that, like it or not, makes us feel. Though I will never come close to understanding the true horror of this thing called war, I hope I will never stop trying to understand.
As O’Brien writes, “In the end, of course, a true war story is never about war. It’s about sunlight. It’s about the special way that dawn spreads out on a river when you know you must cross the river and march into the mountains and do things you are afraid to do. It’s about love and memory. It’s about sorrow. It’s about sisters who never write back and people who never listen.”
And that is the truth, plain and simple.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)
Showing posts with label world events. Show all posts
Showing posts with label world events. Show all posts
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Monday, January 15, 2007
Finding Hope in Troubling Times
In the weeks after the terrorist attacks five years ago, desperate for a way to cope with my anxiety and sadness, I started a journal. I wrote page after page of raw unpolished prose, recording my thoughts, feelings and fears. In the beginning I wrote of the constant heaviness, the oppressive force that pulled me down, down.
I couldn't stop thinking of all those lives so viciously wiped out, just ordinary people going to work, making a phone call, getting a cup of coffee, or a family going on a vacation, perhaps returning home. I couldn't stop thinking of all those who died trying to save others.
Later, I wrote of my weakness and shame. How could I - someone with no loved-one killed or injured - be so completely torn apart? Deep down, I knew that though I'd been spared in some ways, this was something that affected all of us. I think that now as I see what is happening in the world - the war in Iraq and the Middle East, the tragedy in Darfur, and other areas marked by death and despair, including places closer to home.Though these tragedies may not directly affect me, they too, touch all of us.
What struck me as I read through my journal entries, and what I remembered at the time, was the universality of my experience. When talking to family and friends and hearing reports from people I didn't know, I noticed we shared the same thoughts and worries, sometimes even using the same words to describe our feelings, talking of our disbelief about this new, changed world. What helped me then, as it does now, is to remember we are not alone. Other people are out there trying to cope, both with everyday problems and with tragic world events that are beyond our understanding.
About a month after the terrorist attacks I found myself in a parking lot sitting in my car, unable to move. I turned and saw an old man in the car next to mine. I wondered if his life experience had better prepared him to handle the enormity of what had happened. He must have been a young man during World War II, I thought. Perhaps he was a soldier. I wondered how living through that war affected him. Did he feel helpless? Was he afraid? Just knowing people got through that terrible time helped lessen my anxiety. For a brief moment I was strangely connected to the old man, and felt a faint glimmer of hope.
It helps to remember we are not alone, but we also need to believe that things will get better. In those dark days five years ago we were desperate for positive stories about the good side of humanity, about ordinary people doing brave things, about rescues against all odds, about strangers helping strangers. There was no shortage of such stories.
These days we are overwhelmed with disturbing reports. Though we may have to search for positive stories, we must find them. When we read about a Palestinian boy scout camp giving pins for promoting hate, we need to hear about Seeds of Peace, where Arab and Israeli teens come together to promote understanding. When we learn of anti-Semitic or anti-Arab attacks, we need to hear how local interfaith groups are bringing people together to foster acceptance and celebrate differences.
When we see the ongoing suffering of those hit by Hurricane Katrina, we need to hear about the extraordinary resilience of those who have recovered. We need to be inspired by people who refuse to accept the status quo, who are steadfast and optimistic even in the face of dire conditions. For it is in the worst of times that we most need to have hope.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2006)
I couldn't stop thinking of all those lives so viciously wiped out, just ordinary people going to work, making a phone call, getting a cup of coffee, or a family going on a vacation, perhaps returning home. I couldn't stop thinking of all those who died trying to save others.
Later, I wrote of my weakness and shame. How could I - someone with no loved-one killed or injured - be so completely torn apart? Deep down, I knew that though I'd been spared in some ways, this was something that affected all of us. I think that now as I see what is happening in the world - the war in Iraq and the Middle East, the tragedy in Darfur, and other areas marked by death and despair, including places closer to home.Though these tragedies may not directly affect me, they too, touch all of us.
What struck me as I read through my journal entries, and what I remembered at the time, was the universality of my experience. When talking to family and friends and hearing reports from people I didn't know, I noticed we shared the same thoughts and worries, sometimes even using the same words to describe our feelings, talking of our disbelief about this new, changed world. What helped me then, as it does now, is to remember we are not alone. Other people are out there trying to cope, both with everyday problems and with tragic world events that are beyond our understanding.
About a month after the terrorist attacks I found myself in a parking lot sitting in my car, unable to move. I turned and saw an old man in the car next to mine. I wondered if his life experience had better prepared him to handle the enormity of what had happened. He must have been a young man during World War II, I thought. Perhaps he was a soldier. I wondered how living through that war affected him. Did he feel helpless? Was he afraid? Just knowing people got through that terrible time helped lessen my anxiety. For a brief moment I was strangely connected to the old man, and felt a faint glimmer of hope.
It helps to remember we are not alone, but we also need to believe that things will get better. In those dark days five years ago we were desperate for positive stories about the good side of humanity, about ordinary people doing brave things, about rescues against all odds, about strangers helping strangers. There was no shortage of such stories.
These days we are overwhelmed with disturbing reports. Though we may have to search for positive stories, we must find them. When we read about a Palestinian boy scout camp giving pins for promoting hate, we need to hear about Seeds of Peace, where Arab and Israeli teens come together to promote understanding. When we learn of anti-Semitic or anti-Arab attacks, we need to hear how local interfaith groups are bringing people together to foster acceptance and celebrate differences.
When we see the ongoing suffering of those hit by Hurricane Katrina, we need to hear about the extraordinary resilience of those who have recovered. We need to be inspired by people who refuse to accept the status quo, who are steadfast and optimistic even in the face of dire conditions. For it is in the worst of times that we most need to have hope.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2006)
Retrieving Remmants of the Past
There have been many heartbreaking stories in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina - tales of utter devastation, unbearable loss.
The most precious thing that can never be replaced is of course, life. But those who were spared the worst kind of grief are still deeply affected by the loss of their life mementos.
There were the New Orleans residents who returned to retrieve something - anything - from what was left of their homes. A man found his parents' rings, an old football trophy, his wife's wedding dress, a teddy bear. The dress and bear were tattered, mildewed, most likely unsalvageable. A woman saved a few family photographs enclosed in warped wooden frames.
These stories left me wondering. Why are some things so precious that people would return to their destroyed homes, trudging through mud and debris to retrieve them?
Perhaps it's because they are vital links to our personal history. A photo of a child's gap-toothed smile, a honeymoon airplane ticket, a father's hand-scrawled note of apology - these are things that would pain us to part with.
I have no luxurious possessions that I would be desperate to save - no high definition TV or elaborate stereo system. No antique furniture, heirloom china or expensive jewelry.
Most things I own I could easily do without. Sure, I'd miss my favorite worn-in jeans, my cashmere sweater, my multi-colored Fossil belt. I'd miss my collection of Jane Austen novels and classic movies. I'd miss my CDs, including Haydn's Cello Concerto, Corelli's Concerti Grossi, and the nostalgic sound of the Eagles and Jackson Browne. I'd miss Ella and Frank. I'd miss my turtle collection of figures and boxes made of wood, clay, soapstone and glass.
Mostly, though, I'd miss the things that meant something to me that would be forever lost - my children's stories, drawings and homemade Mother's Day cards, the ruby anniversary bracelet from my husband, the long-ago letters from college friends, my mother's paintings and stained sock doll she had as a child.
I'd miss the newborn stocking caps taped at the top, and my children's first pair of little white shoes. I'd miss my journals where I've recorded bits of my life.
I'd miss the things that belonged to those who are gone.—my grandmother's crocheted shawl sewn with pearls, my grandfather's plaid flannel shirt, my father's favorite wool cap and a gold pocket watch. When I hold my grandmother's shawl, I see it draped around her frail shoulders. When I touch my grandfather's shirt, I watch him working in his wildflower garden.
When I open the wooden box where my dad's pocket watch rests, I see him tucking it into his suit vest pocket, the gold chain dangling down in a U shape. I see his smile as he reads the inscription etched on the back. Having something that belonged to people I loved helps me feel close. It pulls me deep into the core of their spirit.
I treasure the links to yesteryears - the journals, scrap books and letters, the photographs, caps and dolls. These things have the power to evoke, to stir. They help me tap into my essence. Without them, there is nothing to help me remember. As I get older and more and more of my life builds behind me, it is more important than ever for me to feel connected to my past.
And so I would think carefully about which things to save. My choices would tell the story of my life. I would save as many photographs as I could gather. And the letters and the journals and the paintings and the shawl and the flannel shirt and the bracelet and the sock doll and the wool cap.
And the gold pocket watch. Even though it no longer ticks.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)
The most precious thing that can never be replaced is of course, life. But those who were spared the worst kind of grief are still deeply affected by the loss of their life mementos.
There were the New Orleans residents who returned to retrieve something - anything - from what was left of their homes. A man found his parents' rings, an old football trophy, his wife's wedding dress, a teddy bear. The dress and bear were tattered, mildewed, most likely unsalvageable. A woman saved a few family photographs enclosed in warped wooden frames.
These stories left me wondering. Why are some things so precious that people would return to their destroyed homes, trudging through mud and debris to retrieve them?
Perhaps it's because they are vital links to our personal history. A photo of a child's gap-toothed smile, a honeymoon airplane ticket, a father's hand-scrawled note of apology - these are things that would pain us to part with.
I have no luxurious possessions that I would be desperate to save - no high definition TV or elaborate stereo system. No antique furniture, heirloom china or expensive jewelry.
Most things I own I could easily do without. Sure, I'd miss my favorite worn-in jeans, my cashmere sweater, my multi-colored Fossil belt. I'd miss my collection of Jane Austen novels and classic movies. I'd miss my CDs, including Haydn's Cello Concerto, Corelli's Concerti Grossi, and the nostalgic sound of the Eagles and Jackson Browne. I'd miss Ella and Frank. I'd miss my turtle collection of figures and boxes made of wood, clay, soapstone and glass.
Mostly, though, I'd miss the things that meant something to me that would be forever lost - my children's stories, drawings and homemade Mother's Day cards, the ruby anniversary bracelet from my husband, the long-ago letters from college friends, my mother's paintings and stained sock doll she had as a child.
I'd miss the newborn stocking caps taped at the top, and my children's first pair of little white shoes. I'd miss my journals where I've recorded bits of my life.
I'd miss the things that belonged to those who are gone.—my grandmother's crocheted shawl sewn with pearls, my grandfather's plaid flannel shirt, my father's favorite wool cap and a gold pocket watch. When I hold my grandmother's shawl, I see it draped around her frail shoulders. When I touch my grandfather's shirt, I watch him working in his wildflower garden.
When I open the wooden box where my dad's pocket watch rests, I see him tucking it into his suit vest pocket, the gold chain dangling down in a U shape. I see his smile as he reads the inscription etched on the back. Having something that belonged to people I loved helps me feel close. It pulls me deep into the core of their spirit.
I treasure the links to yesteryears - the journals, scrap books and letters, the photographs, caps and dolls. These things have the power to evoke, to stir. They help me tap into my essence. Without them, there is nothing to help me remember. As I get older and more and more of my life builds behind me, it is more important than ever for me to feel connected to my past.
And so I would think carefully about which things to save. My choices would tell the story of my life. I would save as many photographs as I could gather. And the letters and the journals and the paintings and the shawl and the flannel shirt and the bracelet and the sock doll and the wool cap.
And the gold pocket watch. Even though it no longer ticks.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)
Caring, Elder-Centered Communities
An inevitable part of life is loss. No one knows this more than elders who, due to declining health and incapacity, are forced to give up their homes. Remaining in one's home should always be the goal. Many programs, like those offered through the local HESSCO Elder Services, help elders remain in their homes by offering assistance with daily living, home-delivered meals, adult day care, and respite for stressed family caregivers. But when elders need 24-hour nursing care, or when Alzheimer's disease has taken its toll, all the homecare support in the world may not be enough.
We often hear the horror stories about nursing homes, reports of substandard care and neglect. We rarely, though, hear about those that are doing things right, where elders are given a chance, not just to exist, but to thrive. Physician-farmer William Thomas has created a nursing home model that does just that. Thomas' approach, recently profiled in US New & World Report, is unique but simple, innovative, but born of pure common sense.
Thomas brought his perspective as a farmer - of nurturing, planting and growing - to the world of nursing homes. In the early 90s, he instituted dramatic changes in the upstate New York nursing home he directed. This is no ordinary nursing home. It has dogs and cats and birds and plants. Instead of rigid rules - waking residents at the same time for breakfast, providing care according to the convenience of shift workers - the home has a resident-focused approach. People eat when they're hungry, sleep when they're tired, talk when they're feeling sociable, remain silent when they want to think and reflect.
The positive results of this approach were seen in statistics: a 50 percent decrease in infection, 71 percent dip in daily drug costs for each resident, and a 26 percent drop in nurse's aide turnover. The Eden Alternative, as it is called, is a philosophy that views nursing homes as "habitats for people rather than facilities for the frail."
Thomas has converted more than 500 nursing homes in the U.S. and abroad into models that replace scheduled institutional care with more humane elder-centered care.
Another of Thomas' innovations, the Green House Project, has led to the construction of over 100 nursing homes with small clusters of houses. The smaller units are designed for 8 to 10 residents, and include private bathrooms and kitchens.
They are described as "intentional communities where elders can receive assistance and clinical care without the assistance and care becoming the focus of their existence." Unlike standard institutions, these places are much more like home.
Concepts like "smaller size, client-centered and intentional programming" are nothing new. School systems have known for years that smaller is better. Middle schools are often organized into teams, creating an environment that fosters personal connections between students and teachers. Large high schools work to create more intimate schools-within-schools. And everyone knows that small class sizes are preferable to larger ones.
Good quality child care is child-centered, intentional. It builds everything - the physical environment, activities, the way staff interact with children - around the developmental needs and interests of children. Quality programs for older school-age children plan with kids, not for them. They address the unique needs of adolescents by providing opportunities for physical activity, social interaction, leadership and meaningful activities connected to the real world.
Likewise, nursing homes should be designed to meet elders' social and emotional needs as well as their physical ones. Innovative models like the Eden Alternative help combat loneliness, helplessness and boredom by giving residents opportunities to have contact with real life: children, plants, animals. They offer variety and opportunities for people to be spontaneous. And, perhaps most importantly, they give elders a chance to engage in activities that are meaningful.
These models show that sometimes the best solutions are straightforward ones that don't require manuals or complicated formulas - just common sense, and the determination to turn a simple but great idea into reality.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2006)
We often hear the horror stories about nursing homes, reports of substandard care and neglect. We rarely, though, hear about those that are doing things right, where elders are given a chance, not just to exist, but to thrive. Physician-farmer William Thomas has created a nursing home model that does just that. Thomas' approach, recently profiled in US New & World Report, is unique but simple, innovative, but born of pure common sense.
Thomas brought his perspective as a farmer - of nurturing, planting and growing - to the world of nursing homes. In the early 90s, he instituted dramatic changes in the upstate New York nursing home he directed. This is no ordinary nursing home. It has dogs and cats and birds and plants. Instead of rigid rules - waking residents at the same time for breakfast, providing care according to the convenience of shift workers - the home has a resident-focused approach. People eat when they're hungry, sleep when they're tired, talk when they're feeling sociable, remain silent when they want to think and reflect.
The positive results of this approach were seen in statistics: a 50 percent decrease in infection, 71 percent dip in daily drug costs for each resident, and a 26 percent drop in nurse's aide turnover. The Eden Alternative, as it is called, is a philosophy that views nursing homes as "habitats for people rather than facilities for the frail."
Thomas has converted more than 500 nursing homes in the U.S. and abroad into models that replace scheduled institutional care with more humane elder-centered care.
Another of Thomas' innovations, the Green House Project, has led to the construction of over 100 nursing homes with small clusters of houses. The smaller units are designed for 8 to 10 residents, and include private bathrooms and kitchens.
They are described as "intentional communities where elders can receive assistance and clinical care without the assistance and care becoming the focus of their existence." Unlike standard institutions, these places are much more like home.
Concepts like "smaller size, client-centered and intentional programming" are nothing new. School systems have known for years that smaller is better. Middle schools are often organized into teams, creating an environment that fosters personal connections between students and teachers. Large high schools work to create more intimate schools-within-schools. And everyone knows that small class sizes are preferable to larger ones.
Good quality child care is child-centered, intentional. It builds everything - the physical environment, activities, the way staff interact with children - around the developmental needs and interests of children. Quality programs for older school-age children plan with kids, not for them. They address the unique needs of adolescents by providing opportunities for physical activity, social interaction, leadership and meaningful activities connected to the real world.
Likewise, nursing homes should be designed to meet elders' social and emotional needs as well as their physical ones. Innovative models like the Eden Alternative help combat loneliness, helplessness and boredom by giving residents opportunities to have contact with real life: children, plants, animals. They offer variety and opportunities for people to be spontaneous. And, perhaps most importantly, they give elders a chance to engage in activities that are meaningful.
These models show that sometimes the best solutions are straightforward ones that don't require manuals or complicated formulas - just common sense, and the determination to turn a simple but great idea into reality.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2006)
Traveling Home With the Boys in White
I was heading to the gate when I first saw them, a group of seven young men dressed in white, calling to each other, walking in circles, trying to decide which way they should go. They are so young I thought to myself, and then continued on my way. When I reached the gate, I was relieved to see my flight to Providence was on time, unlike my trip out to Chicago when I faced a five hour delay. I settled in my seat, pulled out my newspaper and waited to board.
I looked up when I heard their voices and then spotted one of the crew, a tall lanky young man with closely cropped hair leading the others to an area where they could sit together. He was followed by a slight young man with a boyish grin, barely filling out his uniform, oversized pleated collar draped down the back. The sailors had found their way, and they were on my flight. I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t help looking at their faces. Though different, one thing defined them. They were all so young.
On the plane, one of the recruits sat in the aisle seat next to me. “Good morning, Ma’am,” he said in a slight southern drawl. I nodded and smiled and said good morning back. The group of seven were scattered, some sitting with a comrade, and others, like the sailor next to me, seated with civilians.
As we fastened our seat belts and readied for departure, one of the sailors asked, “Rhode Island isn’t really an island, right?” I think he was joking. The young man next to me said they’d just finished Boot Camp at the Great Lakes Naval Station, and were now heading to their base in Rhode Island. He’d never been there before. He talked of being relieved to be done with training. “It will be nice not being yelled at all the time,” he said, before going on about how cool it was to see the inside of a gas chamber and to shoot a gun. I looked down and saw a PlayStation Magazine resting on his lap.
I thought about what these young men were doing—risking their lives, protecting us. And then it hit me. I wondered what dangers they would face, how they would fare. I thought and thought and thought about this as I sat so close to them and looked at their excited, anxious faces. They were so young; they were really just boys.
During the flight the sailor next to me leaned over and gazed out the window. “Look out there,” he called to his buddies in front of him. “Check out at all the clouds.” And later, “Wow, that’s a really big river down there,” he said. “It just goes on and on.” I got the feeling he’d not been in an airplane many times before. He asked if I knew how far Groton Connecticut was from Rhode Island. His brother lived there, and he hoped it wasn’t too far away. I told him I wasn’t certain—I thought it was on the coast and might not be more than an hour away. I assumed the naval base was in Newport, but none of them spoke of going anywhere but to Rhode Island.
I asked how long he would be at sea. He told me he wasn’t sure, that it depended on his duty. One assignment would put him on a nuclear submarine for a three month stretch without a break, while the other would take him away for nine months, stopping at ports every now and then. He said he would miss his family, and that they lived in Dallas.
As we prepared for the final decent, the sailors began chatting again. They talked about mundane things, like how they can now fall asleep sitting up and how they might be getting new blue dress uniforms soon. I looked again at their sailor suits—they were almost blindingly white—and at their shiny black shoes poking out below their big bell bottoms. When we landed, they began gathering their things, each clutching an identical manila folder with their names printed on the outside. I wondered what was in those folders.
As I said goodbye and was called Ma’am again in the most respectful of tones, I thought about all the soldiers who have been killed in Iraq. I hoped that these boys would not be going anywhere near there. I thought this again as I watched them stand and politely insist that others go ahead of them. And again as I watched them walk down the aisle and make their way up the gate plank, bright white fading into the distance.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2006)
I looked up when I heard their voices and then spotted one of the crew, a tall lanky young man with closely cropped hair leading the others to an area where they could sit together. He was followed by a slight young man with a boyish grin, barely filling out his uniform, oversized pleated collar draped down the back. The sailors had found their way, and they were on my flight. I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t help looking at their faces. Though different, one thing defined them. They were all so young.
On the plane, one of the recruits sat in the aisle seat next to me. “Good morning, Ma’am,” he said in a slight southern drawl. I nodded and smiled and said good morning back. The group of seven were scattered, some sitting with a comrade, and others, like the sailor next to me, seated with civilians.
As we fastened our seat belts and readied for departure, one of the sailors asked, “Rhode Island isn’t really an island, right?” I think he was joking. The young man next to me said they’d just finished Boot Camp at the Great Lakes Naval Station, and were now heading to their base in Rhode Island. He’d never been there before. He talked of being relieved to be done with training. “It will be nice not being yelled at all the time,” he said, before going on about how cool it was to see the inside of a gas chamber and to shoot a gun. I looked down and saw a PlayStation Magazine resting on his lap.
I thought about what these young men were doing—risking their lives, protecting us. And then it hit me. I wondered what dangers they would face, how they would fare. I thought and thought and thought about this as I sat so close to them and looked at their excited, anxious faces. They were so young; they were really just boys.
During the flight the sailor next to me leaned over and gazed out the window. “Look out there,” he called to his buddies in front of him. “Check out at all the clouds.” And later, “Wow, that’s a really big river down there,” he said. “It just goes on and on.” I got the feeling he’d not been in an airplane many times before. He asked if I knew how far Groton Connecticut was from Rhode Island. His brother lived there, and he hoped it wasn’t too far away. I told him I wasn’t certain—I thought it was on the coast and might not be more than an hour away. I assumed the naval base was in Newport, but none of them spoke of going anywhere but to Rhode Island.
I asked how long he would be at sea. He told me he wasn’t sure, that it depended on his duty. One assignment would put him on a nuclear submarine for a three month stretch without a break, while the other would take him away for nine months, stopping at ports every now and then. He said he would miss his family, and that they lived in Dallas.
As we prepared for the final decent, the sailors began chatting again. They talked about mundane things, like how they can now fall asleep sitting up and how they might be getting new blue dress uniforms soon. I looked again at their sailor suits—they were almost blindingly white—and at their shiny black shoes poking out below their big bell bottoms. When we landed, they began gathering their things, each clutching an identical manila folder with their names printed on the outside. I wondered what was in those folders.
As I said goodbye and was called Ma’am again in the most respectful of tones, I thought about all the soldiers who have been killed in Iraq. I hoped that these boys would not be going anywhere near there. I thought this again as I watched them stand and politely insist that others go ahead of them. And again as I watched them walk down the aisle and make their way up the gate plank, bright white fading into the distance.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2006)
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