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By Marie Huston He gets out tomorrow. They could change their minds and keep him longer because of the recent trouble, but maybe he'll slide through the system and ease on out. They've had him for five long years -- owned him body and soul. They've fed him, clothed him, monitored his days and indoctrinated his thoughts. Before he left, I wondered what kind of man he would be when my waiting was over and they returned him to me. I worried about the challenges he would face, whether he would be strong enough to survive. If he survived physically, what would they do to him emotionally? How would he change? How would I react to the changes I found in the man they would send home? My head told me it was for the best, but my heart never followed in sync. No mother's does. He gets out tomorrow. Thank goodness. * * * "Mom, I've been talking to the Army recruiter and I need for you to sign the papers giving me permission to enlist. I don't want to go to college. I'm tired of sitting in a classroom and I want to see some of the world before I settle down." Every mother's dream when they're changing their son's diapers -- have him grow up to go off and shoot people. And be shot at. Sure. I wasn't particularly surprised, but I certainly wasn't happy with all those child psychologists who tell you to encourage your children's dreams. He was four the first time he asked me if he could be a soldier when he grew up. I told him, sure, no problem, thinking he'd outgrow it. I guess I should have taken the hint when he started getting crewcuts voluntarily. The subject came up periodically throughout his early years and I was very encouraging because I really, truly, honestly, always thought he'd get over it. Now he was 17. It was November of his Senior Year. He was serious. I was in trouble. The Army recruiter was very insistent that he needed to sign up NOW and had done a complete number on my son, convincing him that if he didn't sign up NOW, all the good jobs in the entire United States Army would be gone in two days and he wouldn't be able to get the job he wanted. Sounded like a car salesman to me. I plastered the biggest fake smile on my face that I could rouse and I calmly asked him which job it was that he and all the other seniors in America wanted so badly that it was going to be grabbed up in two days. He didn't know, but the recruiter had told him he had to act fast or all the good ones would be gone. This car salesman knew a sucker when he saw one. It was a few days before Thanksgiving. I bit my tongue and, having known a few car salesman in my day, am quite proud to report that I never mentioned the word "quota" to my son. But deep inside the brain that was frantically racing to buy time, the words were circling like buzzards over roadkill, "No, Mr. Army Recruiter, my son will not be your Christmas bonus." And, having legal custody of my son, I knew my signature was the sole fortress against a full frontal assault. But I believe in being devious when you can. I was reasonable. I knew my son's life-long dream would ultimately defeat me so I used a minor delaying tactic. My main goal was to keep him out of the Army and guide him gently over to the Air Force. After all, I had a nephew situated quite pleasantly at the Air Force Base in Panama City and it's always nice to have a free place to stay in Florida. I attacked his ego and his 17-year-old bid for maturity. I explained that this was a Life Decision that was ultimately his to make and that whatever he decided, I would fully support. Ha! But since this was a decision that would affect his life for several years, I would prefer that he make an Informed Decision. I would be happy -- ha! again -- to sign the papers if I were certain that he had investigated all the options. I requested, quite calmly and rationally, that he speak to recruiters from all four branches of the military and educate himself on the various careers available before making an Informed Decision based on his research. Being a Professional Procrastinator myself, and having raised my children to adopt my better qualities, I figured this bought me a few weeks to come up with Plan B. I even suggested a trip to visit his cousin over the Christmas holidays. What 17-year-old boy can resist the lure of airplanes near a beach covered in bikinis? His greatest fear had been averted. I had not died of a heart attack on the spot. Nor had I pitched a raving fit. Nor had I taken to my bed with spasms and heaving bosoms. Nor had I said no. He left the meeting unaware that I was cursing the person who made the rule that 17 years is enough time to prepare a mother for this day. Well, a good car salesman never gives up. It's Wednesday night before Thanksgiving. My entire family is coming to dinner at my house the next day. I'm up to my neck in food and the Army Recruiter decides to call. It was a real shame that he did not know me well. Evidently, he was not happy with the fact that I had not properly appreciated the urgency of signing papers in November so my son could go into the Army in June. I think he'd been in the Army too long. He was obviously accustomed to ordering 17-year-olds around and having them jump at his pleasure. And, after all, I was a mere female. Of course, I was the female whose signature he desperately needed on that dotted line. I felt a kindred spirit to all the loan officers of the world. He began by telling me how anxious my son was to join the Army. Yes, I calmly agreed that my son was interested in joining the military. Then he started kicking the tires and I started crumbling the cornbread for the dressing. He patted the hood and I iced the cake. He reclined the seats and I checked the turkey. He knew he had me sold and he went in for the kill. He demanded that I sign the papers on Thanksgiving Day! It was a real shame that he did not know me well. Southerners are only rude to their families and closest friends. I had been courteous to a salesman who dared to call while I was cooking Thanksgiving dinner for 20 people. Since I had a long phone cord, I had listened attentively to his entire sales spiel written for the intelligent two-year-old. I had forgiven his condescending manner. But when he decided that he could order me to ruin my Thanksgiving Day by signing my son's life over to him, he had crossed the line. I pulled out the Southerner's most deadly weapon -- I was polite. I was understanding. I was sincere. I pleasantly explained to him that I had every intention of signing enlistment papers, just as soon as my son had done the one thing I had requested and talked to recruiters from the four military branches. Yes, it was unfortunate that my son had not completed this task yet and, yes, I completely understood the urgency of the matter. However, it was out of my hands at this point and I certainly couldn't lose my son's respect by rescinding my request. Surely he understood my position? Apparently not. If the soft sell doesn't work, move on to the hard sell. Rudeness and belligerence may work with Army privates but they don't go over well with mothers who are chopping onions. He was getting on my last nerve and I decided the conversation was over. I wished him a Happy Thanksgiving and a pleasant evening and hung up. It was a real shame that he didn't know me well. Because, naturally, this conversation came up over the candied yams and cranberry sauce the next day. I couldn't remember the entire conversation -- I just repeated the rude comments verbatim and mimicked the belligerent tone. My son had sunk under the table before the pumpkin pie and I was humming "Da-da-da, Into the Wild Blue Yonder" as I cleared the table. I learned that the Army Recruiter later told my son that he would soon be 18 and could do what he wanted in spite of his mother and wouldn't need my signature. His exact words were, "Well, you tell her she can either sign now or you'll do it yourself later." I wanted to write the President a letter! Politicians were mouthing off about "family values" at every chance and the Army was telling my son not to respect his mother? Excuse me? Well, it seems while I had been working on Plan B, my son had come up with his own Plan C. He eventually got around to talking to all the recruiters. Being a child of the 60's, I was naturally elated when he made his Informed Decision and wanted to bring the Marine sergeant to the house for a chat. Parris Island? Oops. Southern children are taught at an early age to say "Ma'am" and "Sir" and I had raised him right, a fact that accorded me small comfort when he went to take the entrance tests. The Army Recruiter asked why he had joined the Marines instead of the Army. I was quite proud of my son for answering, "Because you were rude to my mom, SIR." I accepted defeat gracefully. I resigned myself to the fates. I honored the deal. Well, okay, so there might have been a few discussions about which part of the Marines he was joining. He brought the brochure for me to look at, the brochure with "Infantry" circled in red. Having assured him that he didn't have to be in the infantry to get a gun, I calmly read over the brochure, suggesting that he consider taking advantage of his military time to learn a skill which he could use in later life. This sounded reasonable when I said it. The next time I saw the brochure, there was a red check by a word I didn't know. He explained that these people defuse bombs and are highly sought after by law enforcement agencies once they leave the service. Luckily, I happened to notice that he would be based an hour from home. I said, "When you said you wanted to travel the world, I didn't realize you meant you wanted to go to Alabama." He got the point and opened the brochure to another dangerous assignment. I mentioned the snowy winters in New Jersey and pointed to the chef school. He went back to talk to the recruiter. He chose avionics. He would work on airplanes. I was satisfied -- at least he wouldn't be on airplanes as they flew bombing missions. I was satisfied except for one minor technicality. Avionics training would take a year and required adding a year onto his service. Okay, it was a set-back. I admit that. I hadn't planned on it but I accepted defeat once more. I accepted this defeat somewhat less gracefully, but I eventually got over it. Graduation approached and I planned a party. His birthday was on Wednesday and he would be 18. It would be his third day at Parris Island. I threw a graduation-going-away-to-the-Marines-happy-birthday party. Try finding a card for that one. I prepared the proper feast, as only a mother can, of all the favorite foods he would never get again -- well, at least for three months. He didn't eat a bite. I watched as reality set in and his eyes dimmed and his face slowly ashened and he prepared to meet his fate. And, yes, I smiled him off. I never shed a tear. Until the car disappeared. But I was a Marine mother now and I was determined to perform my duty nobly. The sergeant had told me that mail was important in boot camp. Okay, he would get mail. I remembered my college homesickness and my mother faithfully writing every week. I had told her she could stop after I got the postcard that said, "We had left-over green beans and okra for supper and we're on our way to church." I knew then she was grasping. As my son drove off, I realized I had become every girl's nightmare -- my mother. So, I put on my shopping shoes and did my motherly duty. I hit every card shop in Atlanta looking for funny cards. I wasn't picky about the occasion. I would have sent him Easter cards in August if they were funny enough and the print was large. I didn't want spiders to take up residence in his mail box and I mailed a card every day. I made everybody I knew write him. Who knew he was embarrassed to be getting so much mail when other boys had none? I think the Marines made him write. I formed a network with family and friends, even lowering myself to include my ex-husband's new wife in the circle. I didn't care who heard from him, they were to call and share his news. It was dismal. Not so much what he said, but his handwriting. It was so poor we hardly knew what was going on. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss. There was one half-finished mournful card where he was obviously upset. One of the big bosses had suggested that he have a doctor look at a mark and he hadn't bothered to go to the doctor. Later this big boss carefully explained to him that officers do not make suggestions to enlisted men. He thought they were going to kick him out and I started cooking. I created a mantra and repeated it every day. "This is what he wanted. This is his dream. This is his dream." Nah, it didn't work. What do you expect from a mother? And then it was over. My mother and I headed to South Carolina and I, ironically, I thought, got the only speeding ticket of my life. It was a speed trap. Honest. Even my mother agreed. Beaufort is a lovely coastal city overlooking the marshes. Ancient oaks drooping with Spanish moss line the boulevards, guarding antebellum homes in splendid grandeur. It's a city which has aged well in spite of the heavy sea air and sultry heat. We chanced into a lovely dinner at one of the older converted homes. We watched the sun set over the marsh as the cranes flew toward the land beyond. Parris Island. We sat in that lovely restaurant and viewed the swamps where my son had lived for three months and wondered if we had sent enough mosquito repellent. Friday dawned hot. Sweltering hot. We could see my son at 11:00. We arrived at 9:30. They let us hang out with all the other parents and screaming kids. We were on a street of government buildings and perfect grass. I found a place for my mother to sit along a low brick wall underneath the flag pole. She was dressed for church. The rest of us were dressed for a blazing day, ranging from cutoffs to sundresses. She was the coolest person there. The wait became a party. Anticipation created long-lost best friends I would never see again and I wandered through the milling mass searching for advantage in the rush to come. Speakers blared with some ungodly tune which I could only supposed was a military number. It started as a background beat to the music of the crowd. Thump, thump, thump -- a silent noise at first. A steady beat. A deep shout in rhythm. They were coming. Slowly. Steadily. Thump. Thump. Thump. I raced to find my mother. Clumps of people joining tightly. Thump. Thump. Thump. The shout again. Ah, she was fine. Perched atop a high wall, standing tall above the crowd. Thump. Thump. Thump. Clawing through the crowd. Where will they stop? Thump. Thump. Thump. A shout. Silence. Deep shouts in the silence. Pressing closer. They all look alike. The thump of salutes. Where is he? A final shout. The line breaks. He's hugging me. And he whispers in my ear, "Mom, that's enough. We're not supposed to hug in public." I look around. Howcome the other boys didn't listen to that rule? We had three hours. We also had brownies and Cokes on ice. He looked fine. Clean. Neat. Tall. He grabbed the cooler from the car. His favorite brownies, from his favorite bakery -- a gift from Mac, the owner, in tribute to his best customer's graduation. I bought the Cokes, so it was a real home-made meal. He opened the box, lifted a brownie out and promptly sat down on the curb. "Mom, we're not allowed to eat standing up." I sipped a Coke as he talked to his grandmother and I watched the parade pass by. Laughter filled the air and joyful shouts of greeting. There was something odd, but I couldn't figure out what it was. I heard his "Yes, ma'am" in answer to a question as they softly chatted. That was normal for my son. I wondered how many of these boys' mothers were hearing it for the first time. I watched as families headed for cars and then I saw it. The walk. Straight. Tall. Steady gait. Hands cupped. Low swing. All these young men walked exactly alike. It was eerie and I tried to hide my chuckle. As the day progressed and we met his friends, they sounded alike. They looked alike. The Marines were cloning Marines? Well, this would take some getting used to. We toured the island. My son was shocked. "There's a McDonald's two blocks from our barracks? Sheesh! I wish I'd'a known that." Brought in darkness, marched in line, held in check. Two blocks from civilization and all he knew were swamps. And the Pit. He stood beside a rectangle of white sand and demonstrated. "You do push-ups in the sand. Then you have about 30 seconds to get all the sand off your uniform. If you don't make it, more push-ups and it starts again." He laughs. This is funny? Obstacle course. He laughs. He laughs in pride. It's over. He did it. I want to throw up. Our time for today is over and we are left alone with the antique shops of Beaufort. Oh, well. Bleachers on a football field. Speakers blaring marches. Straight lines of uniforms. Some kind of demonstration which I can't remember because I was having trouble with the videocamera. Speeches. Awards. It's over and we can take him home. He introduces me to the Big Boss whose suggestion he had ignored. They laugh. The Colonel asks, "Did you tell your mom about that?" They laugh. I don't hit them. We drive to Savannah to spend the night. He talks. Nonstop. I had reserved a suite because I thought after spending three months in close quarters, he would want some privacy. He wants to talk. I come out of the bathroom and stand in shock. He and my mother are discussing brands of spray starch. I leave the room before I laugh in his face. He shows all his insignia and equipment to my mother, carefully explaining each one in detail. She has a frozen smile on her face as she watches him talk. She nods appropriately every now and then and he thinks she is listening. I know better. My daddy loved sports. Alone in a hotel room with his mother and grandmother, he locks his duffel bag, carefully explaining the rule, "If it's further than arm's length, it has to be locked." In a room with his grandmother? Travel-worn from living out of suitcases, my mother and I are ready to tour River Street. He has to iron his t-shirt. I wonder if I picked up the wrong boy. In blue jeans and t-shirt, he finds a seat to eat some fudge. I say, "I don't think the rule applies when you're not in uniform." He promises to check the book because he isn't sure and he doesn't want to take a chance. * * * A few days leave and this young man who didn't want to sit in a classroom, is off to spend a year in school and travel the world. California. "Hey, Mom, guess what? We had an earthquake!" Memphis and the slut. North Carolina. Home base. Finally. Deployment: "Don't worry, Mom. We're not taking rifles. Just handguns." Great. Wait till they're close. North Carolina. Thank goodness. Deployment: "Hey, Mom, guess what? We got to fly into Bosnia and see all the bombed-out buildings. It was cool." North Carolina. A sigh of relief. Deployment: "I don't know when I'll get home, Mom. We were on our way, but something came up. There's an air-lift. I'm in Spain now and may go south." Riots in Africa. Two weeks later, I get a postcard of a castle overlooking the sea. His Spanish quarters. North Carolina. Whew! Deployment: Turkey. "Hey, Mom. Guess what? My second earthquake. They say the town's demolished." North Carolina. At last. Deployment: "Africa was boring. They were expecting riots, so we weren't allowed to leave the hotel except to go to work." North Carolina. I can breathe again. Deployment: Turkey. Monica Lewinsky. Testimony. Bombing. "Mom, I won't be home for the holidays." I didn't care about Monica Lewinsky. I didn't care about her testimony. I didn't care about the right or wrong of bombing Iraq. I wanted to write the President a letter. I wanted to tell him to step down. I wanted to jump up and down on his head. He had placed my son in danger for his personal benefit and I was mad as hell. I decided that for once in my life, I was going to write that letter. I did one better. Hey, it's the 90's. I e-mailed. I e-mailed the President. I e-mailed Mrs. Clinton. I e-mailed Gore. I e-mailed Mrs. Gore. I would have e-mailed Socks if I could have found the address. My menopausal moment continued for two days. I e-mailed every state senator and representative and then I moved on to other states. I e-mailed everybody I knew and gave them the e-mail addresses of all the politicians on my list. Turkey. He's on a plane. Destination Iraq. The engine's running. Ten minutes to take-off. The bombing stops. He's home on Christmas Day. I'm a coffee commercial. There's new trouble now and I'm holding my breath. He gets out tomorrow. We think. The recruiter told me five years ago: "We take a bad boy and turn him into a man. We take a fine young man, polish him and fine-tune him and give you back a better man." It's been five years and that better man could come home tomorrow. But he won't. You see, there's this girl . . .
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