A Uniform Christmas

Christmas 1971 was homemade macaroni and cheese served without the cheese.  This particular holiday was different; the noodles…yes, most of the noodles were lumped together except we were missing an important element.  My brother Tom wasn’t with us that year and we did our best to carry on, but it wasn’t the same.  He had been drafted and was on a tour of duty in Vietnam. 

I was barely tall enough to reach things on the kitchen countertop and yet my level of understanding was elevated.  Even though I was young, I knew what was happening for my father never missed the evening news.  I stood in shock as Walter Cronkite spoke of the grim reality facing our troops.  There was plenty of footage too, as the camera panned in on the unimaginable.  He reported more bombs, more death, more destruction, more troops sent in…more, more, more…gaining us less and less.    

I prayed and prayed hard for my brother.  Flame throwers, bullets that drew actual blood, air strikes, mines…and the sea of many bodies.  It was a frightening reality…and then there was Tom’s empty place at our dinner table. 

Christmas 1971, we carried on, but it wasn’t the same…we were one person shy and the green my brother was wearing was not that of an elf, but instead a young man who had been drafted into the army. 

Drafted…  As I was walking along the street one day, a truck approached, cruising slowly and this huge mechanical arm plucked me out of the crowd and tossed me into the fold.  There were others there, others who seemed equally as confused and worried as I was.  That truck transported me to a holding bin.  I was assigned a uniform and was taught to march in a straight line.  They shaved away all common sense as they placed a gun in my hand and demanded I fight…I was taught to follow a leader with blind abandon…don’t think, just shoot… become a robot on demand…charge!

Drafted.  No choice, no dinner at home, no warmth or song or cheer…drafted and my brother was gone…he was scooped up and simply disappeared from our lives.

What he experienced was real.  Yes at such a young age I had seen a few war movies and believed the distorted perception that what I was fed.  On film, the bullets never ran out, the main characters were spared and there was always a heroic song.  “When Johnny comes marching home again…” Even still that tune echoes through my mind. 

I imagined my brother as a war hero, climbing the towers to repair communications as snipers took aim at him.  His time there was dangerous; to live or die was a coin toss every single day…and then I faced the harsh reality of the evening news.  It became obvious; this was not a WWII movie, this was my brother…over there.

There was much uncertainty and worry and fear and yes, the air was thick.  Drafted…a horrible word for families, a methodical choice for those who sat behind a desk drawing straws so as to decide who should stay and who should go.   Mousetrap.

Christmas 1971, I was handed a package.  There was nothing fancy about the brown wrapping.  I peered about as my family watched with curiosity as I unlaced the string and opened the paper.  Green, there was a lot of green.  A miniature uniform for me to wear, compliments of my brother Tom from Vietnam.  I was drafted…drafted to be a sister waiting at home for my brother’s safe return, for his safe return from the place that Walter spoke of regarding the unimaginable horrors our troops faced.  He mentioned this frightening reality each and every night, as he became our very own agent of orange spreading the herbicide of truth to the American people.

There was a green baseball hat, my size.  An adjustable belt with a metal buckle, miniature pants and a jacket, with U.S. Army on one pocket, my last name on the other and it was identical to what my brother was wearing.  I had seen a picture of Tom in uniform.  I immediately changed my clothes.  I imagined myself with my brother…guarding him, keeping him safe.  The distance was bridged and that far away land was suddenly within reach.  Tom would return home safely, I would see to it…I had an edge now; I had been drafted to protect him.

I know that my imagination took over and I refused to take off that uniform.  My mother literally had to throw it in the washer at the same time I was taking my evening bath.  I lived in that uniform, I was at war and the enemy was everywhere.

I’d crawl through our back yard, tucked low so as to keep imaginary bullets from ripping me apart.  I’d spy on our neighbors.  I just knew they were sending messages to a foreign government and I had to be one step ahead.  Except I only observed them doing everyday things.  Washing the car, lighting charcoal on the grill, mowing their lawns, feeding their dogs…and then they’d see me and wave.  I’d smile and return pleasantries.  That crazy Archer girl!

Mom bought me red sneakers for kindergarten.  I’d never had canvas sneakers before.  They pinched my toes a little but they were bright and cheerful.  I was excited about school as I was to begin in the second semester.  I wanted to sport my military uniform but that’s where my mother drew a firm line. 

“No.”  She simply said.  “Wear this.”  A dress?  Are you kidding me?  You want me to go from army fatigues to wearing a girly-fru-fru dress?  Didn’t my mom realize that I had been drafted? 

Despite argument, I wore the dress that mom set out.  My legs were cold against the wooden chair.  How could a person ever be comfortable with so much air hitting them in such a way?  I just knew I should have worn army green.  I could have used that opportunity to report on the teacher and learn the secrets of the school.  Interrogation.  Why were we there anyway?  Was there some plot surrounding the mind control of innocent children?

Oh the paperwork.  Shapes to be identified, things to be colored…and there were easels with odorous paint lined up in small containers.  My mother sent an old shirt for me to use as a smock.  It was a dress shirt that had once belonged to my dad.  The thing was huge! 

What the heck was I supposed to paint?  Red and blue were the only real options for green and yellow had dried out.  There were no bristles left on the paint brush.  No one could possibly create art under such primitive conditions.  There was always finger painting except the teacher instructed us not to.

There was a thin girl with ginger hair that sat behind me.  I believe she was starving.   I noticed early on that she had a penchant for eating paste.  Did she believe it was vanilla ice cream?  I turned around as she was chomping away.  Imagine my shock many years into the future to turn about on the first day of algebra class and there she was once again, minus the white paste.

It’s strange how life works.  The lines drawn between then and now…looping back, shifting forward and then we land many years ahead only to remember.

I made it through kindergarten except I didn’t do very well in school.  I didn’t want to be there.  In fact, I would have preferred to be anywhere but school.  Outside.  I loved the sun on my face, the feel of earth beneath my feet.  I would climb trees, heck I would climb onto the roof…I’d dangle from the ledge and then I’d release my grip.  In that moment between up and down, I was free.  I’d hit the ground and roll only surviving to do it all over again.  School in a dress, school to where I had to march in sequence with those around me…to conform, to become educated in the same way as everyone there…why?  I guess because I’d been drafted.  The large truck pulled up and scooped me away just the same as they did when they took my brother Tom. 

“Your daughter is deliberate,” my kindergarten teacher explained to my mom.  It took me a few years to understand exactly what the fancy term “deliberate” meant.  Slow.  I wasn’t slow; I just didn’t want to be there.  There was adventure at home.  There were neighbors to spy on and roofs to conquer.  I needed to have my brother Tom’s back.  He was in danger, didn’t my kindergarten teacher understand?  I was his only hope.  I had the uniform after all and I was supposed to protect him.

Summer school for kindergarten, was that even possible?  Yes, it was.  I know because I had to attend.  While my sister’s Katie and Mary were sound asleep, mom walked with me to the end of the street to meet the school bus. 

The driver reeked of sour…he was drinking something out of a paper bag and it wasn’t coffee.  This was during a time that no one realized the many pitfalls of drunk driving.  It’s amazing that all of us who rode that bus lived to tell about it…about the swerving and the abrupt stops.  Even though I learned to brace myself, my head was often pounded into the seat before me.  We’d scream and he’d yell.     

I was shipped to a school in the city.  We marched in.  I’m not sure exactly what a child is supposed to learn in summer school for kindergarten.  We sang songs; we played games as the other kids were friendly.  The heat was rather unpleasant though, the windows were open but there was no breeze.  The classroom was an oven mirroring the temperature outside.  It was summer after all, summer in school.

After, the bus driver dumped us in the parking lot of a local school so our mothers could pick us up.  I guess it was too much of an inconvenience for the driver to return us to our streets…or maybe by the afternoon, he was too inebriated to find them.  My mom was there that day and many days after…until my sister Lydia’s Camaro was parked in the lot.  I was thrilled that sis was in town for a surprise visit.  As I stepped off the bus, she was no where to be seen.  I was certain I’d soon be entertained by her antics for her car was there, the yellow car with a black racing stripe, a muscle car.

I felt the air escape my lungs…it wasn’t Lydia standing there waiting for me, it was Tom and he was home!   Tears…happiness, joy, gratitude…relief.  I don’t believe I’ve ever hugged anyone tighter in my life.  My big brother had made it through…he was home safe; he had his life back…his life with us.  It was Christmas in June and there would never be a greater present ever.

I didn’t wear my uniform much after that.  There was no point.  My tour of duty was over.  If only I could have said the same about school.  That was one draft I couldn’t dodge and there were many, many challenges ahead.  Drill sergeants who were disguised as nuns and mess halls that should have been closed because of unsanitary conditions, but those stories I’ll save for another time.

Christmas 1971;  the year I found myself surrounded by a war I knew nothing about…a war that led me to the greatest gift ever…when my brother Tommy came marching home again.