Go ahead and laugh while you’re squirming. You know you’re squirming.
“Thank you for serving your country.” It is a phrase that has made me cringe. Those of us caught wearing our uniforms in public have encountered well-meaning citizens happy to shake our hands or give us a hug. Many of my fellow service members take this in stride and handle this more gracefully than I do—after a brief acknowledgment, I excuse myself and scurry away from these strangers before they tell me how much they appreciate my sacrifice. More than once I’ve wondered how many people who shake the hands of soldiers passing through the airport think nothing of saying, “Of course our soldiers deserve the best but—“?
… as long as somebody else picks up the tab. Not me, though. I support the soldiers, but not the war. They spend too much on weapons. Too much bureaucracy. Out of sight, out of mind. Okay, then—since the military-industrial complex is in need of some fiscal fitness, where would you make those cuts? Not all healthcare costs for wounded warriors will become the responsibility of the Veterans’ Administration. Significant delays transitioning from one system to the other leave wounded warriors stranded in healthcare limbo.
How many civilians have a first-degree family member currently serving in the military? Where is the “shared” in “shared sacrifice”? For those of us who grew up as Army (or Navy) brats, sacrifice was second nature. It still is. Military families live with as they cope with the stresses of multiple deployments, economic instability due to frequent moves, and the threat of job losses due to involuntary separations. Adjusting to life after deployment is difficult. Although many are resilient, these transitions are risky times for vulnerable soldiers and their families. Wounded warriors and their families must define a new normal, often while fighting a new war: for benefits paid in full for services rendered to our country. For some of our band of brothers, Plato’s words come to mind: “It is only the dead who have seen the end of war”.
The next time you shake a veteran’s hand, ask what it cost him or her to serve your country. For those of us who came home, the price is higher than you think.
As a woman of color who lived in New York for several years, I say, “Res ipsa loquitur”. (Or, if you prefer, “Duh.”)
The headline caught my eye: “The Good News About Race in America”, Jason Riley’s interview with Abigail Thernstrom appearing in Saturday’s Wall Street Journal. Thernstrom expressed dismay at Attorney General Eric Holder’s comments, which she described in exaggerated terms: “Did you hear Eric Holder the other day say how much he loves Al Sharpton?” This clip shows an anodyne acknowledgement of a controversial host’s record of hard work on behalf of the disenfranchised, rather than a sweeping unqualified endorsement. (Reverend Sharpton’s record as a media figure and advocate is mixed; his role in the Tawana Brawley case is duly noted.)
Her description of her position on the periphery of the civil rights movement—“marching around in front of Woolworth’s in Cambridge (Mass.) in the ‘60s”—pales in comparison to what happened to mixed-race military families like mine who were sent to southern Army posts during that time. My father did not have the luxury of declining an assignment to Fort Gordon, Georgia. He wore his dress uniform off base to ensure his safety, since it was a federal crime to assault a member of the military. My parents shielded my sister and me from many of the minor indignities of everyday living. It was still up to us to play our own small pioneering roles, simply by going to school, holding our heads up when everybody else received party invitations, and defying or exceeding expectations.
If we had to bite our tongues over small slights, we could express ourselves in the voting booth. And we did. Voting came naturally in my family. Perhaps not in every municipal election (particularly if we were new to an area), but we follow the national elections the way some of our friends follow the NFL. We’ve never taken our right to vote for granted, perhaps since the Voting Rights Act of 1965 was signed during my lifetime. The point of the law was to increase, not restrict, access to the ballot. It is absurd to pretend that voting rights are at not threatened when efforts to curtail them are cynically disguised as anti-fraud measures, when they are remedies in search of problems. Her claim that racial gerrymandering and lack of competition a larger role in suppressing minority turnout than voter-ID laws doesn’t make sense—wouldn’t sequestering a population within a selected district help improve voter turnout? Voter suppression is multi-factorial and not limited to voter-ID requirements: bad weather, intimidation efforts executed as targeted mailings and media efforts, and lack of transportation on election day can be effective as well.
When does the group advocate on behalf of its members, and when is it protecting its own interests? It is a fair question, and one that can—and should—be put to not only the Congressional Black Caucus, but also the Congressional Hispanic Conference. This topic is fair game for both sides of the aisle.
There is good news about race in this country: it is stitched into the fabric of our national story by the hard-working individuals who use the opportunities made possible by publicly funded education or military service. Many of them now struggle to keep their tenuous foothold on the ladder of success. This is a complex tale, and more difficult to tell because it doesn’t fit on a bumper sticker. Many of these gains may be jeopardized if voting rights are threatened.
What luck! I had been thinking of something to write. It’s spring after all, and commencement speeches are fair game. I can’t honestly say I remember the ones given at the ceremonies I sat through. Platitudes about youth, dreams, and finding your way. Or variations on “So sorry, but you’ll have to clean up this mess.” A roll of the dice. If you were exceptionally lucky, you were treated to a speech that made you laugh, cry, and think.
This potion has near-mythic properties: mere drops can endow your work with the attention of people who had never met you. Nurture a hidden wellspring and perhaps you will be rewarded with something approaching status with fewer of the hassles tied to the real world. If you work hard enough (because of course you already are blessed with talent) you can get lucky and find an unclaimed stash of Google juice in the office fridge. In that case, help yourself. More likely you will have to grow the tree, harvest the fruit, and make your own.
What is this mercurial substance? Is it hand-crafted ginger ale or radioactive pixie dust? What would you do with it: share a real-time family archive, reserve your very own space on Speakers’ Corner, or fire the opening salvo of the next media empire? Would you see the world, or save it? Why?
Clinging adamantly to my Introverts’ Society card, I had found Facebook to be a mixed blessing. It was too easy to exchange ideas and reconnect with old friends from the comfort of my laptop. Facebook was like the light in the fridge—I already knew it was on, but I had to open the door to see for myself. All the time. And—oh look—a new status update!
Okay, okay … it was like crack. Happy now?
It’s time to get a life, and try something new. Start with simple goals. Check out those undiscovered countries. Live by my wits. Write fearlessly. Keep trying. Be interesting.