Here's Hopin'
There have been few moments in my blogging experience where I have truly wanted to show my self, and let my feelings be all out in the open. I felt I had achieved that with the first draft of the blog you are about to read, but thanks to the grand ol’ DukeEngage website, that draft is gone, never to come back. (I clicked the save button gosh darnit!)
I suppose this desire to express myself on today in particular stems from the experience I had this weekend during our “culture” outing—we went to the Contemporary Arts Museum and the World War II Museum, this place in particular being very influential to my current mental state. At first, I was just superficially touched by the exhibits---seeing the blown up images of ‘Schindler’s List’ conjured up memories of watching the movie in high school, the plane, Higgins boats and artillery making me think about Saving Private Ryan and various passages from the book Band of Brothers (I read it before it was a HBO special, thank you). There was nothing truly personal to tie me to these things, just the basic historical knowledge I’ve gained over the years. At least, this is how I felt until we reached the room where all of the D-Day exhibits began.
It all started with the contents of the soldiers bags. As we stood there, squinting and attempting to read a pharmacist’s v-mail to his family (talking about missing pralines, no less) I scanned the other contents. Razors, tooth powder, mirror and suddenly something very familiar to me: a flashlight. The fact that it was a flashlight wasn’t the interesting part, but the structure of the thing instead—ugly military green, with neck bent at a right angle, I was shocked to see that apparently, military-issued materials haven’t changed much since World War II. This green metal monstrosity (they take D batteries!) was exactly like the flashlights we had when I was little. I was automatically taken back to my days of living on naval bases (both my parents are ex-Marines) and felt as though a strange but albeit palpable connection had been made between myself and this flashlight, wherever it’s owner may now be.
While my mind was swimming around through the waters of nostalgia, I continued to take pictures absentmindedly, the drone of the D-Day operation video playing from the floor screen fading into the background. My thoughts wandered home, where my sister has just returned from basic training. She is 17 years old (though she likes to act as though she’s in her 30s). She’s Amazonian in her features, tall and thin, beautiful and loud as hell (guess that part is genetic and proves that we’re related). She actually used to model until she dropped out of high school and got her G.E.D., only to join the Army Reserve shortly thereafter.
As we moved further along the D-Day timeline, we reached the part of the museum where images of the soldiers (and their subsequent death tolls) were found. It was about this time that my thoughts reverted back to my sister—she has to rush to get enrolled in school by the 12th of this month so they won’t ship her off to Iraq. Even more disconcerting news was given to me this week as well—I have been made the secondary beneficiary on my sister’s life insurance policy. While neither my mother nor I truly want my sister to be deployed, I will admit that my worries were minimal until recently because there was this assurance in her status as Reserve—surely they wouldn’t send her anytime soon. Clearly, this theory fails, as she could very well be sent before I even get a chance to see her again. That realization, added to the realization that she might not come back unsettles me.
Even as type these words, I feel tears forming behind my eyes and my vision is becoming distorted—the struggle to keep my tears in check, even as I sit here, was the same that I felt there in the museum. Unlike now, it seemed that I had no control over my tear ducts and everything I was feeling just burst forth. I cried silently, trying to blink the tears away and not make eye contact with anyone. It only got worse when we stood in front of a huge depiction of the Omaha Beach memorial.
I put myself in the same place as all of the mothers and sisters and wives who had lost their loved ones during that war, and I hoped that my mother and I didn’t have to share a similar fate. I’m usually not one to show weakness, but this experience was so harrowing, I’m not even embarrassed at my subsuming to emotion.
I quoted Edwin Starr because although this song was written during the Vietnam War, it is still so true. Maybe I’ll get lucky and my little sister will never get deployed. Maybe I won’t.
Here’s hopin’.