Bred to Arms - IP

Sir,

I’ve never heard you say my name, not to me, anyway.  Son this, son that.  I’ve never heard you call me Thad or Jack or TJ.  Son.  I’ve been designated.  Designated and trained to call you Sir.  Never father or dad.  Sir.  Yet sissy calls you Daddy.  I get it, really, she’s your daughter, little girl, your baby girl.  If I had a daughter she would get away with anything.  So I get it.  

We’ve had good times.  Most of these times were at a shooting range.  We talk football and guns.  Vehicle repair and military maneuvers.  I wasn’t allowed to get my driver’s license until I could change brake pads, oil, tire, battery humma humma.  Sissy wasn’t required to do shit.  I get it.  She’s your darling girl.  Married a commissioned officer who was given the charge of the VP’s plane.  A full bird colonel.  Now he’s going to work a hot shot job at the Pentagon.  That’s your son-in-law.  

Your son wasn’t commissioned for shit.  Enlisted.  Never got higher than an NCO.  I’ve never told you but I follow the reading list of the Army War College and read every requirement on it.  I field strip a rifle better than I make love to a woman.  You never told me much about women.  Never told me much about anything but maneuvers and articles and commissions and weapons and falling in line and the line of scrimmage and aerial assaults and tackles and working with my body my strength my physical dominance, well, guess that’s one way you talked to me about women.  Dominate them.  Physically.  Always remember that I am stronger and strength is the end all be all.  

So I stay strong.  Do PT every morning and after work.  Everything I do is physical.  Routine maintenance on my car, basic plumbing, lawn care, building shelters for stray cats and squirrels, building my own bookshelves.  I’m a physical man, sir, much obliged.  But I also like taking care of my babies.  I won’t ever call them my babies to you.  I like it when kids smile at me.  I like it when I see some lady in a skirt and high heels rescuing a turtle trying to cross a street.  

And I like using my brain.  Full frontal engagement, sir.  I remember in high school when I had to read Wuthering Heights I did it privately.  Couldn’t have you seeing me reading a Victorian romance novel.  That’s why I didn’t do so good at school.  Skipped classes to read in the library because I sure as shit couldn’t risk bringing home novels.  Grades were just good enough to graduate and enlist.  But that’s not what you ever wanted, was it, sir?  A just good enough son who had to enlist, wasn’t good enough to be commissioned.  

I am strong and physical and my dumb enlisted ass served three tours in Iraq, each tour being 15 months with 2 weeks furlough in between.  Ain’t that good enough?  Aint’ I proved I’m strong enough?  What do I have to do for you to call me by my name?  What do I have to do for you to allow me to call you dad?  You never hit me, well, spankings don’t count, I mean you weren’t abusive.  Alright, hear me out, I think therapy is bullshit.  But  . . . okay, just hear me out, when I was injured your first contact with me was a phone call and you advised me to remember what I did that put myself in a position to be injured and not repeat it.  To give you credit you also said you’re pleased that I’m going to survive my injuries.  Also, more credit, you always defended me against mama and sissy.  Guess that’s always been your way of saying That’s my son and he’s being a strong man.

I’m grateful to you, sir, for making me strong keeping me strong forcing me strong.  I just want to call you Dad and you to call me Thad or Jack or TJ.  Give me an identity, something more than a designation.  Still.  I’m glad I’m your son.  Just, once in a while, hug me, pat me on the back, something other than shake my hand as a greeting.  You and mama never visit me.  I’m the one who drives to visit you but you drive all the way from GA to VA to visit sissy regularly.  I’m not asking that you stay overnight.  I admit it:  can’t accommodate you.  But can’t you just drive down and meet me at a restaurant or a park or on the river bank or hell at the fucking zoo who cares?  You told me not to meet you at the airport when you and mama went on vacation and your flight took off from JIA.  I offered to have you come to my place, leave your car, let me drive you to the airport and pick you up and bring you back humma humma and you said no.  Point Blank No.  

I’ll never tell you but . . . I’ll never tell you.