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OT: My Heart on the Line ** by Frank Schaeffer

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Before my son became a Marine, I never thought much about who was

defending me. Now when I read of the war on terrorism or the coming

conflict in Iraq, it cuts to my heart. When I see a picture of a member

of our military who has been killed, I read his or her name very

carefully. Sometimes I cry.

 

In 1999, when the barrel-chested Marine recruiter showed up in dress

blues and bedazzled my son John, I did not stand in the way. John was

headstrong, and he seemed to understand these stern, clean men with

straight backs and flawless uniforms. I did not. I live on the Volvo-

driving, higher education-worshiping North Shore of Boston. I write

novels for a living. I have never served in the military.

 

It had been hard enough sending my two older children off to Georgetown

and New York University. John's enlisting was unexpected, so deeply

unsettling. I did not relish the prospect of answering the question

" So where is John going to college? " from the parents who were itching

to tell me all about how their son or daughter was going to Harvard. At

the private high school John attended, no other students were going into

the military.

 

" But aren't the Marines terribly Southern? " asked one perplexed mother

while standing next to me at the brunch following graduation. " What a

waste, he was such a good student, " said another parent. One parent, a

professor at a nearby and rather famous university) spoke up at a school

meeting and suggested that the school should " carefully evaluate what

went wrong. "

 

When John graduated from three months of boot camp on Parris Island,

3,000 parents and friends were on the parade deck stands. We parents

and our Marines not only were of many races but also were representative

of many economic classes. Many were poor. Some arrived crammed in the

backs of pickups, others by bus. John told me that a lot of parents

could not afford the trip.

 

We in the audience were white and Native American. We were Hispanic,

and African American and Asian. We were former Marines wearing the scars

of battle, or at least baseball caps emblazoned with battles' names. We

were Southern whites from Nashville and skinheads from New Jersey, black

kids from Cleveland wearing ghetto rags and white ex-cons with ham-hock

forearms defaced by jailhouse tattoos. We would not have been mistaken

for the educated and well-heeled parents gathered on the lawns of John's

private school a half-year before.

 

After graduation one new Marine told John, " Before I was a Marine, if I

had ever seen you on my block I would've probably killed you just

because you were standing there. " This was a serious statement from one

of John's good friends, an African American ex-gang member from Detroit

who, as John said, " would die for me now, just like I'd die for him. "

 

My son has connected me to my country in a way that I was too selfish

and insular to experience before. I feel closer to the waitress at our

local diner than to some of my oldest friends. She has two sons in the

Corps. They are facing the same dangers as my boy. When the guy who

fixes my car asks me how John is doing, I know he means it. His younger

brother is in the Navy.

 

Why were I and the other parents at my son's private school so surprised

by his choice? During World War II, the sons and daughters of the most

powerful and educated families did their bit. If the immorality of the

Vietnam War was the only reason those lucky enough to go to college

dodged the draft, why did we not encourage our children to volunteer for

military service once that war was done?

 

Have we wealthy and educated Americans all become pacifists? Is the

world a safe place? Or have we just gotten used to having somebody else

defend us? What is the future of our democracy when the sons and

daughters of the janitors at our elite universities are far more likely

to be put in harm's way than are any of the students whose dorms their

parents clean?

 

I feel shame because it took my son's joining the Marine Corps to make

me take notice of who is defending me. I feel hope because perhaps my

son is part of a future " greatest generation. " As the storm clouds of

war gather, at least I know that I can look the men and women in uniform

in the eye. My son is one of them. He is the best I have to offer. He

is my heart.

-

 

Frank Schaeffer is a writer. His latest book, co-written with his son,

Marine Cpl. John Schaeffer, is " Keeping Faith: A Father-Son Story About

Love and the United States Marine Corps. " www.washingtonpost.com.

 

FREEDOM ISN'T FREE

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