thedrifter
12-22-05, 06:05 AM
Commentary: To my nephew, who has joined the Marines
Lee Enterprises
It is one of those fairly harmonious family holiday dinners, the usual grumpy toddlers, arm-wrestling and spilled gravy. A little quieter tonight, because my brother’s son, young Evan, is joining the United States Marines Corps, and boot camp starts before Christmas. After supper, his three blood uncles, self included, load him up with sound advice from our collective years of wisdom, gleaned from the experience of being ourselves.
He listens patiently. Very soon, masters of the science of applied sadism will hold his attention. He’s 21, old enough to know what he’s doing. Perhaps he will ship out to a combat zone, like his grandfather, an 18-year-old Marine in World War II.
When I first heard the news, my thought-balloon text was curt and unprintable. But he has the right to plan his own life; whether or not I agree with the plan, it is still worthy of respect. He will learn the military mind. Expert instructors will call him a worthless maggot, tell him when to blink and what to think, all part of the brainwa — I mean, the standard Marine Corps recruit indoctrination process — so effective that, for the rest of his life, he will snap to attention when he sees the American flag go by. Is that so bad?
On the table beside the turkey is a brochure: “A Parent’s Guide to Surviving Marine Corps Boot Camp.” It is the most effective writing I have ever been privileged to read, with words almost reaching out of the page to hold your hand. The tone is pitch-perfect, an ideal that every good writer shoots for in the persuasive essay, such as: “Words of Encouragement.” It is brilliant.
Above all, the unknown writer never talks down to the reader, who is certainly the recruit’s mother. This is because: “Besides the Corps itself and their country, there’s only one other thing Marines revere: their Mamas.” A lesser writer would have succumbed to the standard military designation of “Mothers, (1) Each.” But no, the other word was a sweet ending note, meant to melt the hearts of the mothers of Marine recruits.
The new BDU’s (Battle Dress Uniforms) have better camo patterns. The Marine dress uniform is the snappiest in the world, not to mention the cool sword. Not bad for an enlisted man. After this military experience, he will never again doubt his own worth as a human being.
At the moment, he is studying certain movies on the subject of Duty and Honor. “Full Metal Jacket” was an obvious choice. So far, he has also seen “Master and Commander,” “Starship Troopers,” “The Last Samurai,” “Hamburger Hill,” and my personal pick, “Fly Away Home,” which has nice underlying messages about freedom, flight, spirit and nurturing wild geese, as opposed to blowing them away with musketry.
Damn right; I support this particular troop. That said, I oppose the war, the military machine, the current administration and (pardon me for going overboard), the relentless onslaught of the Industrial Revolution. Every Marine is a rifleman first. Evan has joined the forces of armed progress, the rule of the bayonet. Whereas I’m a lifelong rational-anarchist Luddite who recently divested himself of all firearms, a pointless gesture for world peace.
Right now, he needs total support and friendship from his doddering old hippie uncle Jeff. Too late for advice. His wise uncles, in chorus, advise him strongly not to volunteer for anything else after this. Most of all, to absolutely bring his young, arguably reckless self back alive. Evan nodded: “Amen; roger that.”
We might as well have saved our collective breath, of course. What will happen now is between him, whatever gods there be, and his destiny as a human being. Advice is free for a reason.
I only hope that his guardian angel gives him eyes in the back of his head and hones his survival instincts to a keen edge. Also, that he will not be compelled to take another person’s life. While he’s in the Corps, I’ll send him regular, encouraging, avuncular letters. No sedition or leftist propaganda, either — just a subtle repetition, like a drumbeat, of the fact that Life is Valuable.
And Youth is Fleeting. If I were once again 21 (only 34 short years ago), the advice that I would give myself would fill several densely packed journals. Instead, I give him a blank notebook and pen, and tell him what old men have been telling young warriors for thousands of years: Write and tell us how you are.
Jeff Taylor of Summit is an Oregon writer.
Ellie
Lee Enterprises
It is one of those fairly harmonious family holiday dinners, the usual grumpy toddlers, arm-wrestling and spilled gravy. A little quieter tonight, because my brother’s son, young Evan, is joining the United States Marines Corps, and boot camp starts before Christmas. After supper, his three blood uncles, self included, load him up with sound advice from our collective years of wisdom, gleaned from the experience of being ourselves.
He listens patiently. Very soon, masters of the science of applied sadism will hold his attention. He’s 21, old enough to know what he’s doing. Perhaps he will ship out to a combat zone, like his grandfather, an 18-year-old Marine in World War II.
When I first heard the news, my thought-balloon text was curt and unprintable. But he has the right to plan his own life; whether or not I agree with the plan, it is still worthy of respect. He will learn the military mind. Expert instructors will call him a worthless maggot, tell him when to blink and what to think, all part of the brainwa — I mean, the standard Marine Corps recruit indoctrination process — so effective that, for the rest of his life, he will snap to attention when he sees the American flag go by. Is that so bad?
On the table beside the turkey is a brochure: “A Parent’s Guide to Surviving Marine Corps Boot Camp.” It is the most effective writing I have ever been privileged to read, with words almost reaching out of the page to hold your hand. The tone is pitch-perfect, an ideal that every good writer shoots for in the persuasive essay, such as: “Words of Encouragement.” It is brilliant.
Above all, the unknown writer never talks down to the reader, who is certainly the recruit’s mother. This is because: “Besides the Corps itself and their country, there’s only one other thing Marines revere: their Mamas.” A lesser writer would have succumbed to the standard military designation of “Mothers, (1) Each.” But no, the other word was a sweet ending note, meant to melt the hearts of the mothers of Marine recruits.
The new BDU’s (Battle Dress Uniforms) have better camo patterns. The Marine dress uniform is the snappiest in the world, not to mention the cool sword. Not bad for an enlisted man. After this military experience, he will never again doubt his own worth as a human being.
At the moment, he is studying certain movies on the subject of Duty and Honor. “Full Metal Jacket” was an obvious choice. So far, he has also seen “Master and Commander,” “Starship Troopers,” “The Last Samurai,” “Hamburger Hill,” and my personal pick, “Fly Away Home,” which has nice underlying messages about freedom, flight, spirit and nurturing wild geese, as opposed to blowing them away with musketry.
Damn right; I support this particular troop. That said, I oppose the war, the military machine, the current administration and (pardon me for going overboard), the relentless onslaught of the Industrial Revolution. Every Marine is a rifleman first. Evan has joined the forces of armed progress, the rule of the bayonet. Whereas I’m a lifelong rational-anarchist Luddite who recently divested himself of all firearms, a pointless gesture for world peace.
Right now, he needs total support and friendship from his doddering old hippie uncle Jeff. Too late for advice. His wise uncles, in chorus, advise him strongly not to volunteer for anything else after this. Most of all, to absolutely bring his young, arguably reckless self back alive. Evan nodded: “Amen; roger that.”
We might as well have saved our collective breath, of course. What will happen now is between him, whatever gods there be, and his destiny as a human being. Advice is free for a reason.
I only hope that his guardian angel gives him eyes in the back of his head and hones his survival instincts to a keen edge. Also, that he will not be compelled to take another person’s life. While he’s in the Corps, I’ll send him regular, encouraging, avuncular letters. No sedition or leftist propaganda, either — just a subtle repetition, like a drumbeat, of the fact that Life is Valuable.
And Youth is Fleeting. If I were once again 21 (only 34 short years ago), the advice that I would give myself would fill several densely packed journals. Instead, I give him a blank notebook and pen, and tell him what old men have been telling young warriors for thousands of years: Write and tell us how you are.
Jeff Taylor of Summit is an Oregon writer.
Ellie