“Mother, mother/ there’s too many of you crying…” —Marvin Gaye, “What’s Going On.”
On a young day in April, I spoke to a young lady, who asked me to tell her of my experience as a family member of someone in the Armed Forces. She is a student, studying Fine Art Photography at a local college. I know her because she is a contemporary of my two youngest children. She is working on a thesis project that “re-imagines a historic painting by Gustav Klimt … by photographing people connected to the military family.” I responded to her open invitation on a social media site, and she contacted me to ask if I wanted to participate. I said, “Yes.”
She came to see me with props to accessorize me — a costume of her design and two realistic reproductions of the state flower of Indiana, the peony — and posed me in the shade against the back wall of a house. She took photos of me. Speaking to the family members is a part of her project, so we sat to talk. She asked how I felt about the Armed Forces service of a family member. I told her that, for the longest time, I believed that all of the warriors of my family were women.
My sister’s oldest daughter joined the Army directly after high school; she retired after 27 years. My brother’s oldest daughter is also retired from the Army, and her daughter is currently in the Army. I told her that my niece was in Desert Storm, and she asked me how I felt, knowing that my niece was in a war zone. I said that my sister — who created the “rock” that my baby girl, “Sar’n Daniels” became — knew more than I ever did, though little about the extent of whatever danger my niece actually faced.
That young lady listened to me speak about some things that I feel and have felt about those in service to the country, and she said some things about her fears for her younger brother, an Army infantryman. She believes that he may be posted to Afghanistan. I suggested to her, that voluntary service in the Armed Forces was a big decision, and even if there may have been a lack of information when people first join, they have gotten it since, and we needed to have a certain level of faith about what they have chosen to do: “We need to trust their decisions.”
“Brother, brother, brother/ there’s far too many of you dying…”
We talked about guns, and I shared with her the column I wrote about a friend, a door gunner during the Vietnam conflict, and my young son’s passion for realistic toy weapons and my difficulty in making him understand the danger of his innocent war games. I told her of the legacy of service inspired by my warrior nieces: their sons, all warriors, too. I showed her the tri-cornered flag presented to my mother at my father’s funeral.
I cannot place a value on the experience and the information that the young lady received from me, but I can wonder if, in the headline above, a comma should be placed after “Young.” I was listening to a young person who was trying to understand, but I was also listening to a young person — who did not express to me an opinion that was either “for” or “against” — and trying to understand, myself. I was encouraged by her artistry and her courage in facing her fears, her quest for understanding. Perhaps one day, we will both understand “what’s going on.”