I spent the morning driving down HWY 190 through central Texas. It’s a beautiful road but more so it’s a beautiful country. You can tell the people living here care about it because they feel a sense of ownership. Miles are adopted and, even in the hot July sun, citizens are out in orange vests and Camelbacks doing their part. They love Jesus, there’s a church every two blocks. They have a youth center, even if it’s only for a handful of kids. Not everyone grew up around here, but I’m sure a whole lot did. That’s not to say that I frown on moving around and digging up adventure, coming home from Asia is the reason for this letter, but there’s something good and honest about people who want to grow old where they grew up. You might not become a millionaire taking over the family hardware store, but it’s also a long shot that the guy sitting on the pew next to you every Sunday is going to rip you off like Albert Madoff.
Shortly after I got home I spoke with my Grandma Ruth on the phone. We talked about this, that, and the other for a while and then she mentioned a letter I had written a few months prior describing Afghanistan. She said, “Robert, that sure is a sad country over there.” To which I could only reply, “Grandma, it sure is a sad country over here.” It’s funny, but when the internet cracked the world wide open, and millionaires were made overnight in stock and real estate markets, I bet the folks along HWY 190 didn’t see much of a change in their day to day lives. Now the bubble has burst, the Big Three and Fanny Mae have folded, and divorce is at an all time high. The people along 190 might have felt it, but I doubt it’s hit too hard. They’ve got more to live for than Big Macs and American Idols. They have their families, whole families, they have their jobs, good, honest jobs, and they have their communities. And while you might not be able to get there using MapQuest, they’ll still be there.
I spent five months in Afghanistan. That is not a long time compared with the guys wearing tan berets who are always deploying, or redeploying or my brothers, the real American grunts, who literally spend half their lives “over there.” Everyone asks me if I’m glad to be home, and I am. But I am also eager to go back. There is more fighting to be done, more bad guys to kill, and more lives to change. Shauna hates that I’m ready to leave again, but it is also why she married me. It is not out of self-pride that I say I joined the Army specifically to put myself in harms way. More specifically, I joined to stop my family from ever being in harms way. I don’t know anyone personally killed on 9/11, and no one in my immediate world was particularly affected on that tragic day. In the days since we are all affected though and most of it I can handle. I understand the longer lines for security if it stops some idiot from blowing up a plane. I’m ok with a judge allowing wiretaps on suspected terrorists if the only thing the taps are used for is to stop them from killing any one and not to harass them. What I absolutely could not handle would be for terrorists to bring the battle to our shores again. To have to watch as more innocent people leap from windows to escape the flames, as more first responders rush into a crumbling building to try to save another life. I will go where I must for as long as is needed so that babies don’t have to grow up without their daddies because we weren’t strong enough.
Which brings me back to our sad country. Babies are already growing up without their daddies because we aren’t strong enough. We aren’t strong enough a country to even be present. Not strong enough to work on a relationship, or put down a pipe, or a bottle, or any number of selfless acts that would have kept absent fathers where they belong, at the head of the household. It’s too hard to do the right thing anymore, too hard to say what needs to be said. Fine, I’ll do it. Go to church, pray, get a job, be responsible to the family you created, whether you meant to or not. Don’t do drugs, don’t cheat, on anything, quit degrading women. All too often we pat ourselves on the back when we judge murders, rapists, or drug pushers, because we are not like them. But what we all fail to recognize is that we are like them. In our small transgressions against one another we accumulate far more of a debt to society than we realize. It’s ok to steal the stapler from the office because they’ll just buy more. It’s ok to look at internet porn because it isn’t technically cheating. It’s ok to cheat on your taxes because everyone does it. It’s ok to look the other way when a child goes undisciplined because it isn’t my problem. It’s ok to get fat because it really only affects me.
Guess what? It isn’t your stapler, put it back! Those taxes go to our roads, our police, our Soldiers, cough it up! Porn is just as degrading as actually cheating; she just doesn’t want to tell you. That kid that isn’t being spanked is the same one who is going to steal your car! Being fat affects everyone and not just the terrorist who can’t light his shoe bomb because your fat ass sat next to him. Your diabetes meds have to be paid for, your five heart attacks and subsequent medical bills have to be paid for, that stupid scooter they sell on TBS has to be paid for, and since you probably take extra long lunches I doubt you’ll pay for all of it out of pocket. But it’s ok we have federally funded health care now!
…Wait where did the taxes for my roads go? It’s ok, I’m sure HWY 190 will still look nice without any of our help.
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