Not The Marines!

I couldn't understand any of the words. "Z-z-z-z-t z-z-z-t,
z-z-z-t," the voice on the phone buzzed. I'd been expecting a call from
my son, a US Marine, who always called me on Sunday morning. This
Sunday he was really late in calling, so I was already worried.

"Is this my son?" I asked the unfamiliar buzz.

"Z-z-t," the voice replied. It could have been yes, or it could have
been no.

"Say more than one word if the answer is no," I tried.

"Z-z-t."

"Oh, son I can't understand you, can you call back? The connection must
be bad."

"Z-z-t z-z-t. Two words, it must mean no.

"No? You can't call me back?"

"Z-z-z-t z-t z-z-z-z-z-z-z-t z-z-t z-z-t Francisco z-z-t."

"You're leaving San Francisco?"

"Z-z-t." One word, must be a yes.

He managed to get out an "'ove you" before he had to hang up on me, but
it was clear he was calling to say good-bye. I appreciate it when he
does that, but I hate it, too. I'm a worrier, and military trips out
when there is so much 'peace-keeping' going on around the world scares
me to no end.

Two years ago, when he finally told me he'd joined the Marines, I
slapped him upside his shoulder and asked him if he'd forgotten
everything I'd ever taught him; an entire lifetime of preaching against
war went out the window, and with my one child I'd expected it from
least. I wanted to write him a note excusing him from his term, saying
he was temporarily insane and too young to make that decision.

When he was little, he was my only boy and the only survivor of the
twins. I cherished him and coddled him, probably more than my other
children before him. He was sweet and loved animals and talked to them
like they were other people. He was one who would always cry and come
running to his Mommy when he got even the smallest of scrapes or
scratches. I continually loved the pain away, and my husband told me I
was creating a sissy. But he was still young, and he was my boy. Then
when he was six and ran to me over a name calling and the other boys
had teased him, and I found myself demanding respect for my son. It hit
me like a hammer that my husband might have been right.

We enrolled him in Judo lessons to teach him confidence and poise. He
got hurt at first, but learned to take it and protect himself, along
with the respect that martial arts teaches the kids about violence.
Ryan liked it, but not enough to continue after two years.
He was stocky but had muscle; he was no weakling, and grew to be a sort
of gentle giant, like his father, and had a sleeve-worn heart like his
mother. He was a sensitive boy who seemed to feel everything. In school
he got good grades and was chunky, and liked to sweep up for the
teacher after school; the kind of kid that other kids like to tease. I
always taught him to never, ever throw the first punch; violence is no
way to deal with problems, and he took my word to heart. Then one day,
when he was in fifth grade, he came home furious.

"Mom, this kid is bugging the crap out of me!" Ryan never said words
like crap, so I let it slide, figuring he was really upset. He was
red-faced and I could see he was next to tears as he talked. "Today
Brandon had a broom handle and he kept hitting me on the head with it
on the bus! He does stuff to me every day, and I don't want to walk all
the way home!"

"Have you told the bus driver?"

"I can't tell on him, Mom. He wants to fight me, and he gets off on the
stop before me. All he has to do is wait until my stop and once he's
off the bus, he can beat me up!"

"Why does he do this to you? Did you do something that made him
mad?"

"No, it's 'cause I'm fat!" He was stocky, but I would not have called
my son fat. He just felt fat and ugly because of these other children.
Kids can be so cruel, it's really true.

I was just finding out this had been going on for months. I told him he
was going to have to either find a way to deal with it and keep getting
hit, or deck the kid. He looked up at me in disbelief, with
saucer-shaped blue eyes.

"He's already thrown the first punch by hitting you with the
broomstick. You can't let him treat you like that every day, just
because you can't throw the first punch. You know how to protect
yourself, do it. But get off the bus, first." It took some explaining
to make him understand this double-standard.

Two more weeks went by, and Ryan was angry every single day of them.
The beginning of the third week, Ryan came home running in the door and
he went straight to his room. I followed him in and found him
crying.

"Brandon was hitting me again, so I got off the bus at his stop this
time, along with five of his friends," he started, without my
prompting. "I knew there was no backing out, so I just threw my books
down and took off my coat. His friends all stood behind him and I
figured I'd have to fight them all, so I started it. I just let him
have it, one good punch square in the face! Brandon just fell to the
ground and all the other kids ran away, but he just laid there, crying!
He didn't get up for a long time, he just laid there crying!" Ryan knew
what it was like to be the kid left crying on the ground.

I thought I'd won my fight to teach him a non-violent life; my son was
more upset about hurting the other kid than he was about getting in the
fight at all. Brandon never bothered him again, but once when another
kid was teasing Ryan at school, the bully told him, "Better not mess
with him, he's a time bomb!" So it turned out to be a sort of
protection for him. I knew Ryan wouldn't turn into a fighter; he had
soaked up some of what I'd been teaching him, but could protect himself
as well. He gained confidence and turned out to letter in sports nine
times in high school. He did all the hardest things, all the things
someone said he couldn't or wouldn't do, but he did them very quietly,
and never bragged. Always quiet and polite, even when he was mad.

That's the kind of guy Ryan is. Was, rather. He joined the USMC and at
first I got letters telling me how he was rethinking his enlistment,
his sargeant was a jerk and he missed home. He didn't like it, but then
boot camp is hard work, mentally and physically. It challenged him and
changed him over the weeks, and he came home a hard-bodied, stronger,
more confident and industrious man who answers with a "Yes Ma'am". The
Marines drilled ultimate respect into him, though he always was
respectful to me.

No more lounging on the couch watching television, in fact, he can't
even sit still for more than a few minutes. His 'energy switch' now
only operates in 'on' and 'off' positions. Up without an alarm clock
before dawn. I'd get up for coffee, and he was already gone from the
house, out on a run or out shopping. He's a Lance Corporal, coming up
on Corporal, now.

A man in a fast-food establishment took offense to my accidently
bumping him, and made a loud warning for me to keep away. He scared me,
walking toward me while he yelled, and I backed up. My son was there,
and just a little too calm for normalcy; he looked like a brick wall
that didn't show anger; he was just very calm. When the man took
another step toward me, my son took a step toward him, and the man
stopped to finish his verbal assault. My son still didn't say a word
but I saw a look on him that I'd never seen before; an unatural
coolness that looked volatile as hell; something about his eyes had
changed. There was potential for explosion that I knew could be quick
and deadly, and it scared me. At the same time, I felt invincibly
safe.

I had a brick wall on my side, so in my newfound bravery, I told the
attacker to get himself a taco 'cause he seemed a little cranky. The
whole restaurant-ful of customers, who were by then paying attention to
us, burst out in laughter and it further angered the man. We turned and
left, not wanting food so badly we'd fight for the empty calories and
fat, and the man followed us out to yell with renewed anger. When we
got to our car my son turned around and began unzipping his coat, and
when the man noticed, he stopped in his tracks, stopped screaming at
me, and then walked away. It was funny because in his anger the man had
forgotten his food and had to come back to get it. But, I was safe in
my son's company.

Another time, I was casually complaining about a client that suddenly
turned romantic on me, and didn't seem to understand that I didn't
appreciate his advances. My son popped out with, "Want me to take care
of it for ya', Ma? I could have a talk with him if ya' want." Again, I
felt safe, but this time I didn't accept the offer. I now believe, that
(God forbid) if anything did happen, my son would have the confidence,
training and strength to be one of the surviving heroes. No more
standing up for him, or kissing his cuts. He could do it on his own
now, and even take care of me, if necessary.

He's a completely different man. He's still polite and still has his
heart, but he's learned to use it in a different way. Now he has honor
and pride, and he demands respect, instead of taking what comes to him.
He controls what happens around him, or at least the results of it, and
can even make his sisters clean their room. He's smart and fair; two
things the Marines only enhanced in him, as he had those qualities when
he went in. And now he has the confidence to demand respect for me,
too.

Okay, maybe joining the Marines isn't such a bad thing to do. I just
don't want him out there 'keeping peace'! But, just in case, I already
have a note written......