numbers
It was suggested by an Evil Cat that I write about politics . . .
One of my fondest childhood memories is taking a bus from Philadelphia and meeting my dad and his ship, the USS Kitty Hawk, in Norfolk, Viriginia, then steaming up the Atlantic coast back to Philadelphia. Of course, I didn't get to see much of the coast; most of my time was spent exploring the grey bowels of the immense aircraft carrier. I ate like a sailor, slept like a sailor, and pissed like a sailor for three days. A twelve-year-old Navy brat couldn't have been happier. I loved it. I loved the Navy. I loved the United States Amed Forces.
My father served nearly twenty years in the Navy, most of it as the World's Greatest BMET. The whole of my young life was spent around sailors, marines, and soldiers. They were my friends' parents, my little league coach, dear family friends, and, well, my father. They were people.
I remember sitting at a company lunch in early 2003 and expressing confidence that there would be no war. I reasoned that a) it was implausible that, after a decade of sanctions and continuous bombing, Saddam was as heavily armed as was feared, and b) if he had anything, there was no way he would risk total destruction to hold on to a few SCUDS with mustard gas payloads. As it turns out, I was right on point a.
Since March 2003, more than 2,700 Americans have been killed in Iraq, and more than 20,000 have been wounded in a war with shifting rationale and an unclear mission. They are young men and women no different from the young men and women I grew up around. Except they had the misfortune of being in the military at the wrong time. Now they are numbers.
Of course, to their mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, spouses, children, and friends, they are memories.
I still love the Navy. I'm still proud of my father. I'm ashamed of my leadership. End the war. Bring them home. Please.
On the bright side, Pete Skilling got 24 years. Rot in hell, asshole.
One of my fondest childhood memories is taking a bus from Philadelphia and meeting my dad and his ship, the USS Kitty Hawk, in Norfolk, Viriginia, then steaming up the Atlantic coast back to Philadelphia. Of course, I didn't get to see much of the coast; most of my time was spent exploring the grey bowels of the immense aircraft carrier. I ate like a sailor, slept like a sailor, and pissed like a sailor for three days. A twelve-year-old Navy brat couldn't have been happier. I loved it. I loved the Navy. I loved the United States Amed Forces.
My father served nearly twenty years in the Navy, most of it as the World's Greatest BMET. The whole of my young life was spent around sailors, marines, and soldiers. They were my friends' parents, my little league coach, dear family friends, and, well, my father. They were people.
I remember sitting at a company lunch in early 2003 and expressing confidence that there would be no war. I reasoned that a) it was implausible that, after a decade of sanctions and continuous bombing, Saddam was as heavily armed as was feared, and b) if he had anything, there was no way he would risk total destruction to hold on to a few SCUDS with mustard gas payloads. As it turns out, I was right on point a.
Since March 2003, more than 2,700 Americans have been killed in Iraq, and more than 20,000 have been wounded in a war with shifting rationale and an unclear mission. They are young men and women no different from the young men and women I grew up around. Except they had the misfortune of being in the military at the wrong time. Now they are numbers.
Of course, to their mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, spouses, children, and friends, they are memories.
I still love the Navy. I'm still proud of my father. I'm ashamed of my leadership. End the war. Bring them home. Please.
On the bright side, Pete Skilling got 24 years. Rot in hell, asshole.
posted by poverty at 9:10 AM
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