Armed Forces

A few months ago, I was in an airport making my way to the gate. The waiting area was completely packed, so I stood. My mother did tell me not to stare. I can't say, "taught" because there is very little my mother literally taught me. Her's were micro lessons in code that I literally didn't get until I was 31. But, she did tell me that it was rude to stare, so I try not to be obvious in my rudeness. I was facing the busy area, watching everyone, entertaining myself with stories about them, watching them, taking mental note, filing them away. I turned around because I heard a baby. Very close to me. A young mom had her baby in a sling. She was also trying to manage three bags. A slinged baby! All but my oldest babies I wore in a sling. They loved it and I loved it because strangers who did (and perhaps did not) strange things with their hands kept their digits off my children if they were in a sling. I think it was because with the baby wrapped against me, it seemed to invade my private space. And they were right, whatever their reasons were, to not touch. A smile was enough, if they felt compelled to communicate anything. So, I sat down next to her on the floor. I told her all that I just told you. She was pleasant but seemed tired and managed quietly spoken, easy answers. I focused on my coffee to relieve her polite disinterest. The baby was quiet and watched me with gray eyes. The flight attendant called for boarding and the woman struggled to stand up and collect her things. I helped her stand up and then helped her adjust all the bags onto her extended arms. She leaned over to adjust the baby and a pair of dog tags slipped out of her collar, camouflaged behind the shirt, the sling, the baby.

"Is your husband or the baby's dad in the military?" I asked brightly. I knew military.
"Yes. He was in the Marine Corps. He died last week. We're headed back to his funeral now."
"Ohmygoodness. I'm so...I'm so sorry." My eyes immediately flooded with tears. Hers had the exhausted non-wet expression. How many times had she said this? How many people had chatted on with her only to see what I saw or some other marker connecting her to him and asked? The crowd of impatient travelers pushed her down the line. I wanted to shout, "Give her a first class seat, goddamnit! She lost her husband. She lost…"
I could feel the tears coming and new I wouldn't be able to stop them. I moved quickly to the nearest bathroom and locked myself in a stall. I leaned against the door and sobbed loudly. I then fell into weeping loudly. A lady tapped on the door and asked me if I was O.K. "Y-E-S," I choked out. I was in that stall for a good four and a half minutes. Time that starting...now. That's a long time to hide in a public bathroom stall in an airport, bawling. I knew immediately why I was so upset. It's one thing to read the news, to listen to NPR, to hear the politicians tug on the elbows of the armed forces, it's another to see that look of exhausted grief in another human being's face, to see a child knowing that that child will never see her father. I thought about all of George Bush's pontifications on family and the importance of dads being around and people taking responsibility for their families, as he cut aid to families with dependent children and sent more and more people to Afghanistan and Iraq. I realized that his decisions have caused many children to be without the comfort of two parents, and parents to be without the comfort of a partner. A generation of disarmed, unarmed forces. Even after I quit crying in the stall, I stood there. Blank. Tired myself, now. I blew my nose, stepped out, washed my hands, and got on my plane.

Two days later, I walked into a voting booth and I remembered my experience, prayed for hers, and punched the card.