[Peace-discuss] The Hard Road to becoming a fireman.

Fri Jan 5 12:39:13 CST 2007

From: http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.ListAll&friendID=18196768&MyToken=6f6aede1-cddc-4e7b-894b-7f537fe8dd1aML

  The Doorbell 
  Liz Adams

    For those with loved ones serving in Iraq, everyday life is forever changed. The uncomplicated sound of the front doorbell becomes a live-in reminder of ticking-clock dangers faced overseas. Every day that ends without its chime becomes another small victory against the grim reaper, another day without bad news, another day closer to joyful reunion. 

  Even the sound of a routine delivery or unexpected neighbor can momentarily twist an icicle into the heart of a soldier's loved ones before the quick realization that all is well - at least temporarily. 

  I learned this from my friend who just lost her twenty-one year old nephew, an Army Specialist who was killed by a roadside bomb near Baghdad. He was killed very shortly before the send-off party was scheduled for her own twenty-one year old Marine, who is shipping out to Iraq this month.

  A large group of his friends and family are gathered to wish our Marine a safe return. The awfulness of the schedule conflict that had to be worked out between the memorial service for his cousin and his own send-off party hangs thickly in the air.  

  I've known her son since he was a boy and I'm impressed with the young man he has become. Why the Marines? It's so easy to wonder.  I've learned from him (and from other young people I know who've chosen the military) that college isn't always an option, job opportunities in the food service industry don't pay enough to move out, and honestly, some of these kids just need a little bit more guidance and maturity after high school to prepare them for adult life. The military provides it. I know that his folks, my friends, weren't thrilled about the idea. They encouraged him to explore other options, but the choice was his, he made it, and they support it.

  Now a beloved cousin, nephew, and son is gone. Gone forever. He's really not coming back. My young Marine friend shows me the beautiful and heart-wrenching tattooed tribute to his Army cousin that has been inked prominently on his forearm. As he explains the meaning of the details, I can see the pain of his loss and the fear for his own future emerge a bit from behind the mask of youthful bravado. Yes, he's completed his military training, but is anyone ever really ready to go and get shot at? Or to become a killer themselves? Or both? Marine or not, he's scared. 

  Suddenly, I'm overwhelmed with the feeling that I really don't want him to go. I've known him for years and I know that what he really wants to do is become a fireman for Los Angeles Fire Department: but vets get such an overwhelming preference in the hiring process that Iraq is virtually a prerequisite. Damn it, he's only twenty-one! Why this? Why now? 

  I take a sip of my drink. He holds up his own beer and tells me he is worried that he's been drinking too much since he's been in The Corps. He wants to cut back. I wonder to myself how that is going to work out, and I ask him to explain the meaning behind his other new tattoos. He shows me a black web on his elbow and I learn that this represents the web of gang activity and crime that he feels he escaped when he chose to join the Marines. "I guess you're in the biggest gang of 'em all now, huh?" I lamely joke. He nods thoughtfully and takes a swig of beer.

   My friend returns to chat after making some social rounds at the party and we retreat to a quiet room to talk. "I feel so bad for my sister-in-law," she says barely concealing the fear in her voice. "When that doorbell rang at five-thirty in the morning, she just knew
and sure enough there they were to tell her that her son had been killed." 

  The doorbell got her in the end. 

  My friend continues, "His death made us all feel one hundred years old, you know?" 

  She searches my face for understanding. I can barely imagine what this family is going through. I can't really comprehend how her sister-in-law felt when the bell rang at 5:30AM, and I feel so sad and helpless when I look at my friend simultaneously grieving her nephew and preparing to send her own son into harm's way. 

  Before my welled-up eyes spill over, I interrupt my own thoughts by making a stupid comment. " Ahhhh
 what can you do?" It's a stupid rhetorical question, the kind I wish I could avoid making, but do anyway when I'm feeling helpless and useless in the face death. She gracefully relieves my awkwardness by answering. 

  "What I'm going to do is replace her doorbell. I'm going to take the old one and smash it with a hammer. I don't want her to ever have to hear that sound again. She shouldn't have to."

  No one should.

Before you call 9/11 conspiracy nuts crazy, explain what happened to 7 World Trade Center (WTC7) and how it was accomplished. (Never heard of WTC7 before, have you? – that’s not surprising, it’s the camel in the tent that everybody ignores.)

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