The Shaved Headed Boys

I'm supposed to be thankful that young men are willing to go and fight for my freedom. I'm supposed to be thankful when they leave their families, and their homes with a couple of bags of camo, and one pair of clothes. I'm supposed to be thankful when they stand out in hot deserts, kicking cans, and carrying guns. I'm supposed to be thankful. But I'm not.

I'm not thankful because I can't help but think that they shouldn't be there in the first place. What began as a nation's war became a couple of mens' war, and those mens' mens' war, and those mens' mens' mens' war, and so on and so forth until a sweet boy had his head shaved and was called a man and sent to do "man things" in the desert.

I probably have it all wrong. The truth is, I don't know much about anything because no one talks about it. I see books about marines who are heroes, and national geographic tells me about the bad men who were caught by the good guys and put away. But where are all the sweet boys turned grown men with shaved heads? What are they doing? Where did they go? Why don't I see or hear from them??

Do they want to be there when they get there? Do they know why they're there. Do they wish they weren't there. Do they wish that I knew that they don't want to be there, they don't know why they're there, and they want to be here?

I have a problem with this war because I can't see it. I too easily forget it in the morning, and I sleep too easily at night. And only when I hear about so-and-so who lost his leg overseas because he stepped on something that blows up in the ground, do I feel any attachment to it at all. And that's only after I learn that that same so-and-so went to my school and graduated with my class, and his picture is in my yearbook.

I'm supposed to sing patriotic songs, and wave an American flag, and applaud those who have fallen, but I can't do it convincingly. I move my mouth, and my throat makes noise, and the flag hangs in the wind, and my claps are small...and I know that the men who are leaving shouldn't be leaving. They shouldn't be fighting someone elses' war.

I don't know a lot, but I know that peace is a fool's dream. I know that when people don't want you in their country, it's better to leave. And I know that humans are worth more than oil. I know that you can't fix another man's problems. And I know that the only war that can last 11 years is an invisible one. And if it's invisible, I don't know how "good"and "necessary" it really is.

Tomorrow a boy named Jay is leaving to prepare for going to Afghanistan. And he's not just some so-and-so, he's my, and Rachael, and Rebbecca, and Alycia, and mike, and Cassie, and Seth, and Chris, and Justin, and Brittany, and Blair, and Jaime, and Kendal, and Jeremy, and Hannah, and Bill, and Sarah, and Hayley, and Laz's and too many others' so-and-so.

He's shaved his hair, he's a man, and he's leaving.

And because he's leaving, I can't ignore the war. I can't ignore it, I can't love it, I can't embrace it, I can't do anything but wish Jay's hair was long, that he was on the couch watching a movie or- more likely- sleeping, and that I was sitting on the other end , and Rachael was in her chair, and Becca was folding clothes, and our little family was still a little family.

I used to look at pictures of men from the war, and they were just men. But now, they're shaved headed boys, I know they aren't really boys, but that's how I see them. Before they were fighters: cold faces, camo, metal and steel, black boots, and dirty hands, but now they're Jay:funny, and sweet, and smart, warm faces, bones and blood, pictures, and memories, and someone's someone. They're more than soldiers, more than camouflaged bodies, more than single file lines...