Unfamiliarity Can Breed Contempt

The husband of my dearest childhood friend is serving in Afghanistan. Holding down the fort are his wife and two children. Holding him in their hearts are his family and friends. And holding him in contempt are some people who call themselves Americans.

While my friend is frequently moved by the acts of kindness and shows of support by many complete strangers who learn of her husband's deployment, negative comments have come my way when I bring up the topic of my friend's husband.

"Well, he made the choice to sign up," I've heard. "I feel bad for them; I could never leave my family like that."

For these people, pity or judgment stand in place of respect and appreciation. To them, there is little distinction between, say, a person who smokes and develops lung cancer, and a person who signs up to protect our country and loses his life.

Many of them, I'm left to think, lack direct contact with service members. Their one-dimensional view is built on what they see as the rebuttable presumption that the military is composed of robotic killing machines and malleable kids who enlist because they're too stupid to hack it in the real world. Unfamiliarity can sometimes breed contempt.

Perhaps such folks will never understand the thousands who feel a call to service for any number of reasons. But the optimist in me wonders if maybe these people can see beyond their inch-deep perspectives and lip-service patriotism. For them, I write this open letter to the poetry-loving, history junkie, master's-degree-bearing, Naval Academy-graduate, humanitarian Marine lieutenant colonel commander who is my friend's husband. Dear Tim:

I talk to your wife every day, and want to tell you that she and the kids are OK. They miss you terribly but are doing well. She relayed to me that your pay stub now bears the words, "imminent danger pay." The wording momentarily startled me, but she didn't dwell.

"This has become our 'normal,'" she said, and went right back to the business of running a household without a partner.

This would be the point in the letter where I might be inclined to ask, "And how are you doing?" But quite frankly, I think I already know. You're a glass-is-half-full guy and have never have been a martyr, so I don't expect to hear complaints about lack of sleep, sweltering heat, blinding sandstorms, showerless weeks, bomb-strapped teenage Jihadists or fears of IEDs underfoot. This has become your "normal."

So I won't ask you how you are. Instead, I'll just tell you several things I got to do this week: Dwight and I dined at a lovely little spot, and no one stoned me to death for showing my bare arms; our boys played baseball with their team, which includes females; I wrote whatever came to mind on my blog without a moment's thought that the government might shut me down; and I got to watch my brother accept a diploma in Harvard Yard (where military recruiters have often been met by protests) with no threat of tanks rolling in.

On the Fourth of July, and every day between now and then and until you return, I will think of you in your unwashed cammies and hot boots when I look in my closet for an outfit; I will silently salute you when deciding whether to have a scone with my coffee or when I'm annoyed we can't go to the beach because it's raining. I'll picture the terrain you're traveling in your Light Armored Vehicle as I turn on the AC in my car.

And when we drive by the folks who are standing at the side of the road in the bitter 72-degree weather (with a light and salty ocean breeze) holding a "PEACE" sign in one hand and a frothy $4.50 iced double mocha latte in the other, I will tell my kids that those people are able to stand there because people like you are willing to walk down the road in the 120-degree heat (with a thick and dusty wind) holding an M4 in one hand and a dirty canteen in the other.

From the bottom of my heart, Tim, and on behalf of those who pity you or perhaps simply never stop to think about the men and women like you, I thank you.With love, Lena