Culture shock
Just when you think your life is tough and you have plenty to complain about, someone comes along that makes you feel like crap for even thinking of complaining.
Enter my son's good buddy, 21 years old, who just got back from Iraq. Ramadi, to be exact, where his job was helping guard one of the entrances of the main base in Ramadi, enduring hours of sniper fire with no way to tell where it was coming from. No way to fight back. Just hoping you didn't get hit, and wishing you could fire back and do something about it. Every day. Every shift.
And I've been complaining that my 19-year-old leaves dirty clothing in a pile in the bathroom.
With four of my son's closest pals in the Marines, the abovementioned young man included, I am acutely aware of the dangers facing these guys. All war/Iraq/Afghanistan stories cause me to immediately resume actively worrying for all four of them. I pray for them, I think of them often. We send care packages and letters.
But having him stand in my own kitchen, where he used to stand and tell us what he thought of this or that teacher in high school, or what a goofball classmate did that day at school is a far cry from him telling us about his life-threatening job of the past 9 months. When the war and all its horrors are in your kitchen, it's here, it's present, it's real. Yes, we all worry about everyone's sons and daughters who serve, but somehow having one of them casually chatting in your kitchen about what he's seen in Iraq was more culture shock for me than I expected.
Call me naive. Call me clueless. They are often in my thoughts. But it's been a distant reality. Your son's buddy telling his own stories of his own experiences just brings it all home. In a big way. I'm just glad he's here to tell those stories, and that he's not another statistic.
Bring 'em all the hell home.
Comments (1)
It is a dose of reality, isn't it. Can't imagine.
Glad you and yours are well though.