The child I imagined raising is a hippie. This dream child wears tie-dyed T-shirts and Crocs, and accompanies me to peace marches in my Prius, after which we take organic produce harvested from the community garden to the homeless. He listens to U-2, plays acoustic guitar and goes on mission trips to serve the poor. He likes Brussels sprouts.
The child to whom I actually gave birth, however, is a tiny package of testosterone, muscle and pop culture. He plays every sport possible. He’s broken several bones, sprained a few things, and been stitched up in his enthusiasm for activity. He knows the word to every hip-hop song to which he’s allowed to listen, and probably a few prohibited ones as well. He learned the alphabet using brand names as a guide: “That’s the N for Nike. That’s the F for Fila.” He would subsist on Hot Cheetos if I let him.
Every parent confronts the moment when her child’s values stand in direct opposition to her own. I’m a peacenik, raised in the shadow of the Vietnam War, who marched for nuclear disarmament and protested against both Iraq wars.
My first car was plastered with bumper stickers quoting Gandhi or Einstein, and exhorting bake sales to fund bombers because the government is too busy funding schools.
So when my son told me he wanted to join the Young Marines, I was conflicted. How could I support him in this venture, so clearly against everything in which I believed?
Because much of parenting is raising the child you actually have rather than the child you dreamed you’d have, I took a deep breath and signed him up. The initial commitment was only nine Saturdays of boot camp before graduation as a Young Marine. Frankly, the idea of boot camp was attractive. What mom of a pre-teen boy doesn’t secretly dream of drill instructors shouting her child’s more aggravating characteristics into submission? Certainly acquiring more respect and discipline would do him good. If nothing else, training would put a dent in his seemingly endless fount of energy.
Boot camp was difficult. Every Friday night he’d beg me not to make him go, and every Saturday morning I’d drop him off at MCAS Miramar, and cry all the way home.
I couldn’t help wondering if I was doing the right thing, forcing him to do something he hated, something against my values. Every weekend I’d remind my angry little recruit that I’d be a lousy parent if I let him quit. “Marriage is hard. Raising kids is hard. Jobs are hard. I can’t teach you that it’s acceptable to quit when things get hard.”
Slowly, I began to see changes. He’d occasionally slip and answer me, “Yes, ma’am,” instead of, “OK, OK.” He took pains to keep his hair short and tidy, and would straighten up and smile proudly whenever anyone complimented him on looking “squared away.”
No adult passed by him without receiving a greeting, “Good morning,” because he’d been taught that on base. He was physically and mentally stronger and more confident. He listened intently to the advice his Marine mentors gave him: work hard, push yourself toward excellence, and do well in school.
The night before graduating from boot camp, he starched and ironed his camouflage uniform and polished his boots and I had to admit that I was proud of my little-boy-turned-little-man.
Even so, I had mixed feelings. One Saturday afternoon, after picking my son up from Miramar, I stopped at Big Lots. Entering, we passed a homeless man. Bearded, dirty with a vacant stare, he looked no different from any of his companions sprawled on the concrete in front of the store, except for the grimy Vietnam Veteran baseball cap he wore.
My son, still in uniform, stopped, met the man’s eyes, and lifted his hand smartly in a salute. “Thank you for your service, Sir.”
The man gaped, surprised. His eyes filled with tears. It was clear that it had been years since anyone called him “Sir” or thanked him for anything. With difficulty, he stood and saluted in return. Standing at attention, they held their each other’s gaze for a long moment until the man answered him, “Thank you for your service, son.”
“Future service, Sir.”
I still don’t know that future military service is something I’d want for my son, despite being a fan of the discipline, the structure, the camaraderie and the push toward greatness.
I can’t help but dream of a hippie peacenik son growing up in a world in which peace reigns. Nonetheless, he and the Young Marines taught me a new and unexpected gratitude for our active duty soldiers and veterans, and especially those who give their Saturdays to our children, tough-loving them into excellence.
Thank you for your service.
