my father's daughter

A lot of the noise on Facebook the past 36 hours has made me think about my dad, which is funny because he’s probably closer to going to the moon than ever entering the social network. But… I suppose that is one of the things about being a daughter. You don’t require a status update to think about your father.

In April of 1968, my father was stationed in Alabama. I regret my memory of this story does not recall the fort at which he was a military policeman. I just know that he volunteered in anticipation of the draft and that’s where he was the day Martin Luther King Jr. was shot. He has never gone into detail with what he observed that day, just that he was so disgusted with the rejoicing of that man's death he made the request to go to Vietnam. 

Now, I don’t want to draw a parallel to these assassinations of two very different men and two very different motives for killing them. It’s just something that trickled into my brain after seeing an interpretation of King’s thoughts posted and re-posted intermingled with all the celebratory and congratulatory comments on Facebook… and the questions I keep asking myself about when it is right and when it is wrong to be glad a life is taken.

My father served two tours in Vietnam. Again by choice. The military wasn't his career. Indeed, he opted for the second tour because he wanted out of the military and this got him out of service more expeditiously. When he came home, a group of hippies spit on him as he was getting off the plane. And something that fascinates me to this day about him… within a year, he was alongside those protestors throwing away his medals decrying the war that wasn’t ending.

I thought of this part of his story whenever I saw a comment congratulating the military yesterday. I think about it every time I see anyone say they honor our vets. I can’t do that anymore. I can’t put it in a contrite little status when everyone else does it, on designated holidays when the masses decide to remember there are men and women giving up their lives (and I especially mean the ones who don’t die but will never return to the life they knew) to fight for this country.

I don’t want to say I doubt the sincerity of the back patting of our military yesterday. But… don’t we need to think of them on days when there isn’t a victory? My father fought in a war that wasn’t even validated by calling it a war, never mind by a victory. That resulted in a whole series of whys that still go unanswered. Is it only worth commemorating the sacrifice if we have the blood of one specific end on our hands? 

And… why can’t we remember these soldiers when they need us to remember? Why do we forget their sacrifice when we call the GI Bill an entitlement program? Or our taxes pay for their medical benefits? Or we pass a homeless man on the street holding out a cup for change? How much do we honor the sacrifice then? 

I know these thoughts are the influence of the stories my father told me… and by watching him struggle with them. I know these are two separate events in history, with their own subtleties and rationalizations. But… if we cannot learn the lessons of those who came before us… how can we say we honor their sacrifice?