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This kind of view is not so well reported in the media. - Perdita
War Torn - Parenting advice for those left at home - Richard Hanlin, SF Chron, June 13, 2004
Somewhere there must be a parenting book with a section titled: "When Your Child Goes to War." In case one doesn't exist, I'll make a contribution. My credentials: Our son, Max, is an infantry officer with the Stryker Brigade in Mosul, Iraq, FOB (Forward Operating Base) Regular.
It might seem useful in the age of the Internet and cell phones to enjoy daily updates both personal and institutional. Yes and no. When the coalition announces that a soldier has been killed, the name is withheld for a couple of days. Which means that because you know where he is, his unit, the names of his officers and men, you end up hourly searching the Web for a name to go with the bad news.
Your mind jumps from imagined event to imagined event. A homecoming party at Malvina's in North Beach transforms itself into a funeral at Grace Cathedral, where Max went to grade school. When my son telephoned to tell me he'd crossed the Tigris River, I ended the call by reminding him (why, I'll never know) to floss his teeth. Which left me wondering if these would be my last words to him.
Fear might take another form. I dreamt Max came home with a missing arm. I was not distressed in the least. I told him (in the dream), "OK, you've done that, time to get on with your real life." Would I make that trade? You bet I would.
The most unsettling of my thoughts came after reading an article about how bodies are preserved before and after being sent home. Embalming only takes place after a body reaches the East Coast. For the flight, the article said, bodies are packed in ice. I could only think: Gee, my kid never liked to be cold.
My thoughts also take on a more banal cast. When I see a young couple smiling at one another, I can only hope when our son comes home he will also do this. When I see young men in their mid-20s drinking and laughing in a restaurant bar I want to say, "How dare you laugh when my son is doing what you should be doing?" Perhaps the most wistful of moments occurred while sitting with a group of parents at a high school track meet. They were anguishing over their children's upcoming SAT tests. I wanted to laugh and tell them I'd trade worries with them, but of course I didn't. At that moment I got a hint of what grandparents must feel.
Fear often gets replaced by pride when I'm reminded that I have (along with his mother and my wife) produced an alpha male -- Ranger, paratrooper, battle-hardened soldier. I contrast this with the memory of watching a country collapse (South Vietnam) because young men only wanted to ride around on motor scooters, not move to contact (with the enemy), as my son expresses it.
Conversations with people who watched him grow up run the spectrum. "I hope he's all right or will be all right," being the best. "What does he think of the war?" being the worst. How can I explain, nicely, that soldiers in combat don't ask large questions, at least not my soldier. It's flattering when he solicits my advice, but having never been in charge of, as he is, 45 men and four 20-ton armored personnel carriers (Stryker Vehicles), I can only answer his questions -- an example being my thoughts about enlisted hazing rituals -- by telling him to do what he thinks is best. I just listen.
What gets the most worrisome is vagueness. In his first of three months, it was FOB this and FOB that. Lately, as his unit has gone south to Najaf, it's been, "I'm at an FOB." Which one? Where? I ask. "Watch the news," he tells me. So I do, and when the Army decides to assault Najaf and if U.S soldiers are killed, I can only hope it's somebody else's kid. It gives me no pleasure to say that, but it's the brutal truth.
Richard Hanlin is a North Beach landlord and the father of a paratrooper.
War Torn - Parenting advice for those left at home - Richard Hanlin, SF Chron, June 13, 2004
Somewhere there must be a parenting book with a section titled: "When Your Child Goes to War." In case one doesn't exist, I'll make a contribution. My credentials: Our son, Max, is an infantry officer with the Stryker Brigade in Mosul, Iraq, FOB (Forward Operating Base) Regular.
It might seem useful in the age of the Internet and cell phones to enjoy daily updates both personal and institutional. Yes and no. When the coalition announces that a soldier has been killed, the name is withheld for a couple of days. Which means that because you know where he is, his unit, the names of his officers and men, you end up hourly searching the Web for a name to go with the bad news.
Your mind jumps from imagined event to imagined event. A homecoming party at Malvina's in North Beach transforms itself into a funeral at Grace Cathedral, where Max went to grade school. When my son telephoned to tell me he'd crossed the Tigris River, I ended the call by reminding him (why, I'll never know) to floss his teeth. Which left me wondering if these would be my last words to him.
Fear might take another form. I dreamt Max came home with a missing arm. I was not distressed in the least. I told him (in the dream), "OK, you've done that, time to get on with your real life." Would I make that trade? You bet I would.
The most unsettling of my thoughts came after reading an article about how bodies are preserved before and after being sent home. Embalming only takes place after a body reaches the East Coast. For the flight, the article said, bodies are packed in ice. I could only think: Gee, my kid never liked to be cold.
My thoughts also take on a more banal cast. When I see a young couple smiling at one another, I can only hope when our son comes home he will also do this. When I see young men in their mid-20s drinking and laughing in a restaurant bar I want to say, "How dare you laugh when my son is doing what you should be doing?" Perhaps the most wistful of moments occurred while sitting with a group of parents at a high school track meet. They were anguishing over their children's upcoming SAT tests. I wanted to laugh and tell them I'd trade worries with them, but of course I didn't. At that moment I got a hint of what grandparents must feel.
Fear often gets replaced by pride when I'm reminded that I have (along with his mother and my wife) produced an alpha male -- Ranger, paratrooper, battle-hardened soldier. I contrast this with the memory of watching a country collapse (South Vietnam) because young men only wanted to ride around on motor scooters, not move to contact (with the enemy), as my son expresses it.
Conversations with people who watched him grow up run the spectrum. "I hope he's all right or will be all right," being the best. "What does he think of the war?" being the worst. How can I explain, nicely, that soldiers in combat don't ask large questions, at least not my soldier. It's flattering when he solicits my advice, but having never been in charge of, as he is, 45 men and four 20-ton armored personnel carriers (Stryker Vehicles), I can only answer his questions -- an example being my thoughts about enlisted hazing rituals -- by telling him to do what he thinks is best. I just listen.
What gets the most worrisome is vagueness. In his first of three months, it was FOB this and FOB that. Lately, as his unit has gone south to Najaf, it's been, "I'm at an FOB." Which one? Where? I ask. "Watch the news," he tells me. So I do, and when the Army decides to assault Najaf and if U.S soldiers are killed, I can only hope it's somebody else's kid. It gives me no pleasure to say that, but it's the brutal truth.
Richard Hanlin is a North Beach landlord and the father of a paratrooper.
