And now, a short story:
Generally speaking, Dale James avoided the PX the day after payday. Fighting the crowds, the baby carriages and the wayward carts was a mistake most army wives only made once. But with FRG co-leadership thrust into her hands just days before, Dale had no choice but to brave the post-paycheck multitude to pick up some necessities for the next meeting.
She was poring over printer ink prices when she heard the sharp, hushed tones that signaled the beginnings of a public argument. Turning slightly, she was surprised to see Specialist Forrest, one of her husband’s soldiers. As a lieutenant’s wife, Dale made an effort to learn the faces and names of everyone in Charlie Troop. Forrest’s cart butted up against that of a woman Dale didn’t know, pinning her into the office supply aisle.
The stranger was covered from head to toe in swaths of some kind of silky fabric patterned with red and gold flowers. Her red headscarf was pulled low on her forehead, almost to her eyebrows, so that not a hair peeked under its hem. Her eyes darted from the tired tile floor to Forrest’s face, whose breathless voice was starting to become loud enough to hear from where Dale stood.
“…that you’d even show yourself anywhere on post with that, that thing, on your head! I'm so tired of this shit. How dare you? How dare you come into our store, into our country, looking just like the fuckers that are trying to blow us up?”
Clenching her jaw, Dale pushed her own cart toward the fray and interrupted brightly, “Mr. Forrest, how are you?”
Whirling, Forrest scrutinized the intruder, “Oh, Mrs. James. Hi.”
“Now, I know that wasn’t you I heard using such foul language in a place crawling with kids. It must have been someone in the next aisle.”
Forrest colored slightly at being addressed so by the platoon leader’s wife. “I was just…I was…”
Dale interrupted, “No, of course it wasn’t you. You’ve got two young kids of your own, right? And I know you wouldn’t use words like that in front of someone else’s little ones. Speaking of, I’m sure you need to get right back to them. I’ll see you at the FRG meeting on Friday evening, won’t I?”
With a fierce look to the woman in the headscarf, Forrest mumbled a reply and shoved his cart quickly away. Her mouth set in a firm line, Dale watched the fuming young man disappear behind a display.
“I’m sorry about that.”
The stranger turned to Dale. “It’s the same almost every time we PCS. People call us traitors, call us spies. My son gets pushed down on the playground. My daughter cries about the time she will have to cover her hair. My husband and I were born here. We are Americans. And we are Muslim. It appears we can’t truly be both at once.”
Tilting her head slightly, she continued, “But you apologize for words that were spewed all over me by someone else. Why?”
“Do you hate the people who take your faith in God and twist it into a weapon for their own ends?” Dale replied.
“Yes,” the woman said, “It’s one of the reasons my husband enlisted.”
“I hate those who take my skin color and stretch it like a mask over the face of bigotry, claiming to represent an America that I wouldn’t want my husband defending.”
“What is your name?” the woman asked.
“Dale.”
“I’m Selah.”
“Hello, Selah.”
“Hello, Dale. And so, both of us seek to atone for the sins of strangers. We feel guilty for their thoughts and responsible for their actions. How strange.”
Dale looked into Selah’s eyes and said quietly, “We are women, after all.”
I think I have a good idea for a TV show.
I've really benefited from attending regular counselling sessions since I married my soldier...talking to someone helps deal with the realities of his job. I know that, percentage wise, being in the army is not the most dangerous occupation in the United States (even in wartime). It's commercial fishing.
So sometimes I think about how family members of those Alaskan King Crab fishermen they show on the Discovery Channel would benefit from therapy, too.
So my pitch is this: a twenty-something woman has just completed her doctorate in psychology or therapy or whatever. She returns from the big city to the teeny fishing village in the tundra where she grew up to set up a counselling practice. Except no one wants to go see her because A) they feel betrayed she left to go to the city for schooling and B) grief counselling is considered a weakness and people think they'll be ostracized for attending her sessions. I think I'll call her...Simone. Dr. Simone Dylan.
Of course we'll need her family...her rough-and-tumble sea captain dad (who's torn between pride and embarassment about her behavior), an older brother who's his spitting image, a mother who keeps the peace at a great cost to her self and a little sister married to a fisherman who's angry our protagonist has dared to make a different life for herself. Add in an old high school boyfriend who continues to call her by some slightly annoying pet name and maybe a few folks from a film crew that follows the fisherman around for a cable show and I think it's got potential.
So if you work for a cable network and you're skimming the Internet for new material to impress your bosses with...have your people call my people.
When My Husband is about to leave for extended periods of time I get slightly psycho about cleaning. I never really understood why...I assumed it's about controlling something to make me feel better about the fact I can't control his time away from home.
This morning I figured out the real reason.
My Husband is gone for the next few days...overnight in the field doing training exercises. He left this morning about 4:30am, kissing me goodbye in the dark of our bedroom while I was still half asleep.
When I came home from my shift at the shelter a few hours later, the first thing I saw walking through the door were his running shoes...tossed at the base of the couch where he left them yesterday after returning from his track workout.
I can't really put into words the feeling of seeing something he touched a few hours ago and knowing he won't touch it again for days. It's just this huge reminder that he's gone and he won't be back for awhile.
This, of course, makes me think about how I would feel seeing those running shoes and knowing he'll never touch them again because he's dead.
Do all soldier's wives have death in the forefront of their minds like I do, or does my depression predispose me to dark thoughts like these?
So before he leaves I clean like a maniac so that everything is in its proper place...and most importantly, anything that belongs to My Husband is tucked safely out of sight until he returns and has some use for it. I stow away the physical reminders of his absence the way I ignore the truth of the dangerous nature of his job. Until I have a weak moment and those dismal thoughts, always hovering somewhere just out of consciousness, strike home.
I think I'll go to the gym and tire myself out so much that I can't think anymore.
In my internet travels this weekend I came across an organization dedicated to "connecting the civilian and military worlds." In the days of pop stars' plea deals and political posturing making headlines instead of our men and women overseas, it's nice to discover websites like this one. They sponsor billboards and television ads to remind civilians there are two conflicts going on and soldiers and their families are still sacrificing.
Don't get me wrong, I like the Entertainment Section as much as the next person. Probably more so since I'm so into the movie/television/theater scene. But it's difficult to comprehend that in 2006, almost one third of American students polled couldn't find the STATE OF LOUISIANA on a map of the United States...half couldn't find Mississippi (I don't even want to think about the brain hemorrhaging caused by looking for Iraq or Afghanistan). But I guarantee you 100% of those kids could name the four main characters in Sex & the City.
And I know the whole point of My Husband's service is so that little Iraqi girls and boys have the opportunity to learn about geography or which Jimmy Choo sandals go with which one night stand, but one would think the approximately 5,000 hours kids spend in schools each year would ensure something scholastic stuck in their little brains.
Anyway, special thanks to Operation Never Forgotten for this photo and all the good work they're doing for military members and their loved ones.
