Hanoi Me? Couldn’t Be!

I found myself in the Philadelphia Int’l airport last week, at the most ungodly hour of the morning – for a 6AM flight with my two little girlies in tow. In true busted mom form, we decided to go to the diner next door to the hotel at 11PM the night before. My justification? It’s only 9P in Denver…. Oh don’t worry, I gave them the option “girls, are you hungry now, or do you just want to sleep and then wake up really early and get breakfast?” – I was starving myself – I had just finished up the last of several shows while back East, and could really have used a bite, but would have been just as happy (and likely better off without that midnight cheese steak – but hey, it was my last night in Philly – who knew if I’d have another one all year?!?). The response first from my eldest, a Food Channel junkie “I’m fine to go mom, I’m not even tired”…and the younger, ever the over pleasing little sister, “I want to do whatever Sophie wants to do”…and so it was that we found ourselves, my 8 and 5 year olds and I, sitting in the 24 hour American Diner – complete with freedom fries at midnight. It was too perfect – too amazing – a transplanted southern fried waitress who called everyone “bay-bee” – the huge glass case filled with cakes, Italian cookies and the de rigueur cannolis. My younger remarked, “mommy, you didn’t tell us we were coming to cake world!”.

The joy of the night before was starkly contrasted with the tired, dragging ugliness of the next morning. It felt as though we hadn’t slept at all when the morning wake up call came at 4AM. Ugh. Mommy wants to call out. Mommy can’t wake up. Mommy is panicked, “wake up girls, we can’t miss our flight!!!” – we moved at a snail’s pace, got dressed and took the shuttle to the airport. I was cranky. The van had filled front to back with airline personnel, meaning that I had to climb around them with children in tow to the very back of the cramped van. I felt like saying in the most dripping-with-sarcasm voice I could conjure (it’s felled many strong minded victims before) “more than most, I would guess that you would understand the importance of back to front filling of the van, but I guess being a flying waitress doesn’t really mean you have to be smart or understanding, hope your hands don’t get messy collecting fully loaded barf bags, have fun on your flight”…but I held back. I’m flight phobic to begin with, and can’t put any negative Karma out there before I had to fly….I kept my mouth shut, and responded to the plaintive, “mommy, I’m squished” with a kind, “it’s only for a minute honey, the airport’s right there”.

Then, at precisely 5:13AM we were standing in line at the counter, waiting for our turn to check in…even though we’d printed our boarding passes in the hotel business center, we still had to wait in line with the other weary travelers all with the same early morning bewilderment, “why exactly did I think that a 6AM flight on a Monday morning was a good idea?!?” – the standard foreign Euro trash group of 20 somethings all piled together at the counter trying to communicate in somewhat British English, then breaking into their home language to explain to the rest of the group that they needed to get their passports out…come ON…idiots. Who travels to a foreign country and doesn’t know that. One by one started drudging through their messenger bags and finally got themselves sorted. Finally.

It was a long wait, and by happenstance I noticed the “firearm security area” to my left – about 20 yards away. It was loaded with classic camouflage duffel bags, seemed like hundreds of them. I dismissed that as weird, and then the commotion of at least 50 uniformed soldiers then caught my attention. They were talking unusually loud (or it was 5:30AM, and a whisper was loud to my ears); I watched them for minute. Here’s where it gets really odd. I realized that they were young, really young and the immediate thought that I had like a flash of lightning was this, “I wonder how many innocent civilians they’ll kill, or have killed, I wonder how many children have melted faces because of the bombs they dropped, I wonder how many orphans they created…how dare they look happy?” – I was enraged for a minute sitting on my political high horse – are they not paying attention? Of course they aren’t they just take orders from the idiot that is their “Chief” – but why? Why do they just blindly follow orders that have been factually proven to be unjust?

I saw their commanding officers, two of them together, one was obviously older, with graying temples, the other a lean tall dark-haired man. They stood close together, apart from the rest of the outfit, carefully watching the handling of their secure firearms. I hated them in that minute. I wasn’t sure what had come over me. I know the war is wrong. I didn’t vote for it. I don’t believe in the President at all. I would never in a million years follow his lead into battle. I wouldn’t even follow his lead at a Disneyland car ride with tracks that don’t allow any off course movement. My disgust boiled over. It wasn’t their fault, it was his. All his fault. The country is divided, and like the Viet Nam years, we have no where else to put this anger. I voted my conscience, it didn’t make a difference, I protested the sending of my fellow American citizens to an unjust war. It didn’t make a difference. Upon seeing the actual men and women who were on the front lines pulling triggers and killing people – I lost it for a minute.

In that moment, I realized something – the Viet Nam war lasted far longer, for years and years, and with thousands dead on both sides of the line, with soldiers trapped by their own limitations, some cracked and committed heinous acts against perceived enemies. How many times had I seen “Full Metal Jacket” (curse you SpikeTV)? I understood in that brief moment what my parents’ generation was collectively feeling when they spit on those war veterans returning from battle in a no win situation. The country was split, torn, our collective psyche told us that we had to hate the trigger-pullers, the politicians that we hated were untouchable – they wrote the policies, but the soldiers who had free will, they dropped the bombs, they committed the war crimes and they walked around as free men that the public could touch and see. There was no place else for the anger to go…it went to them.

While they were unassuming in their return – battle weary, hungry for a home-cooked meal, thoughts of sleeping in a real bed – they were greeted instead by that wall of rage that the public had built up over years of turmoil. The recoil of those hurtful shots – a spit in the face, boos that greeted them on the tarmac, the looks on the faces of parents, loved ones, even potential employers – those were the things that devastated the returning troops.

I looked down at my shoes for a minute, tears welled up in my eyes. I had to get it together; maybe I’m just really really tired right now. Then the tug at my pants, “mo-om, it’s our turn” – yes it is our turn. It’s our turn as a generation to do something, before this gets even more out of hand…I’m so frustrated, I am paralyzed, I can’t even think about what needs to be done…support the troops, not the war? Vote and vote and vote, for what? I’m sad for those boys and girls, without an education, without money or privilege who are forced by a social structure to enlist as the best option to an hourly wage at the local plant. All the while believing that this is a heroic thing that they are doing. 

I walked to the counter and checked in. One bag, 50.5 pounds. The counter gentleman took pity upon my weary face, “close enough” – thank goodness I didn’t need to stand there like a schmuck moving a pair of jeans from one bag to another, angering the people in line behind me who were losing their patience as much as I had. I gave him the best smile I could, “thank you. Thank you so much”. I felt better, and I knew that I needed to correct the bad Karma that I was brewing. I walked by a group of them, mixed genders, a little lopsided toward the boys. Without the bags, I was holding hands with each of my precious girls. I spoke as I approached them, “Are you guys coming or going?” and the chipper response from a short-haired light brunette female troop, “we’re going home” she said with a relieved looking smile. “Well, welcome back, we’re glad you made it home safely”.

The ever astute 8 year old on my right looked at me, puzzled and said, “why did you talk to that lady?” – “well, she’s coming back from the war, and I wanted her to know that I was happy she didn’t get hurt” “but, mommy, why do you care about her? You don’t even know her, and plus, mommy, you hate the war, right?” and in the most non-busted mommy way I knew how, I told her, “you’re right, I hate the war, but that girl had to go, she only went there because she had to, and because we live here in America, we are Americans. I told her I was happy not because I like the war or any of that, I just wanted her to feel happy that she was home. She probably didn’t get to see her mom yet, and I just wanted to be a happy person that she saw on her way home, in case she was still sad about being in the war”. “Oh, then you were being nice because she might be sad and misses her mommy?” “You got it, sweetheart”. “Then I will be nice too mommy”. And as we went up the escalator, she looked down and waved at those soldiers. They waved and smiled back. I cried some more. “Let’s go find our plane. I want to go home too”.