My Memorial Day

I spent today avoiding everyone I know, ruminating over the meaning of a father who joined the Marines during Vietnam - just to get away from responsibility, my mother, and possibly other things I've never been told of. Since my life is far from perfect, it makes me wonder in which ways I've incorporated this I'd-rather-die-than-stay example into my life.

I remember when my mom picked me up from day care or summer school, whichever it was, and telling he he died. He didn't die in war - he died in a hospital due to some combination of bad luck and bad genes. She was crying & I don't know what I did. I probably cried out of empathy & fear.

I can't say that I've ever met my dad. I have one vague memory of seeing him in a hospital bed, tubes sticking out everywhere. I don't remember any interaction. It feels like either a pre-verbal memory or a dream. My mom has some pictures of him holding me, but that's pretty much that.

What that war and all wars before and since have symbolized for me is an utter and complete breakdown of both sense and bravery. The wars themselves make no sense unless the meaning of "sense" is "money". And it would have been much braver to withstand peer pressure and the powers that be and refuse to have gone.

All of these war movies are written in such a way that every main character gets a chance to be noble about something. To be noble about doing stupid things, contributing to essentially meaningless causes. There was no honor, except for the people that came back or never went. The mothers & grandparents and extended families that take care of the business of life while soldiers go pretend to protect their country on the other side of the world, creating solid profits for military industry and all their parasite organizations, and solidifying a misplaced sense of patriotism.

I want my dad back, and I don't want this day to make me wonder how I'm like him.