Today we said farewell to our son.
He stood in a room with eight other young men and women, at attention, hands clasped behind their backs, as a man in head to toe camouflage led them in an oath:
I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to the regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice.
And just like that, he’s a Marine.
I had tried to talk him out of it. Well, actually I simply asked him if he was really sure it had to be the Marines. I knew he was bored, not being challenged by any of the things he’d done since graduating high school: a semester at Oregon State, the EMT program at Shasta College, night manager at Tops Market and shift supervisor at Five Guys Burgers in Eugene. I knew he thought going into the service would give him a chance to see the world and hopefully provide some marketable skills. I said that if he really wanted to serve his country, protect our borders and be a hero to Americans every day, that the Coast Guard was an excellent choice.
But no. He had made up his mind. It was the Marines. And he wasn’t doing it alone. He and his best friend Kurt were signing up at the same time, guaranteed to be partnered up together during boot camp in a buddy program. But after that, all bets would be off.
His dad drove up to Oregon last week to help Jesse clear out his apartment and bring his belongings – and Jesse – back home to spend his last few days of freedom with family. He’d already visited his grandparents and his other mom (his real mom, Krissy, who gave him his eyes and beautiful hair) in Bend before heading down to California.
Then the three of us headed back across the border again, to the Military Processing Center in Portland. It’s located right under the path of jets taking off and landing at the nearby airport, where Jesse and his fellow recruits would head to immediately after taking their oath. Next stop: basic training in San Diego.
We drove to Portland in almost total silence. What do you say to a young man who’s signing over control of his every move, perhaps even his life for the next four years? How do you tell someone you’ve watched grow from a child to a man that you’re pretty certain the president who’s orders he is pledging to obey has more concern about the size of his nuclear button than my son’s life?
You don’t say anything, that’s what.
Then suddenly, we arrived. It was hours after he was supposed to be there, and there was barely a hug before he was gone, disappearing into the hotel. All he had was his backpack. He even left his coat in the car, knowing he wouldn’t need it anymore.
It was hard not to cry right then. But his dad held it together. I held it together. We would see him again the next morning at his swearing in ceremony. But now the clock was ticking down its last few minutes.
When it got really real for me was about five in the morning, in the pre-dawn hours when all my fears magnify and hold sleep hostage. I stared at the ceiling, thinking about how it would go. Would we get to hug him goodbye again? Would I get the chance to express my hopes for his future and my fear for his safety, two violently strong emotions battling a war in my brain? What exactly were those feelings, and how could I possibly tell him how I felt without coming across as inappropriate in a room full of future Devil Dogs?
That’s when I cried silent tears for a son that I hadn’t conceived. The son I didn’t even meet until he was twelve. I won the lottery ten years ago when I started getting to spend summers and holidays with the kid who later became my stepson. He’s smart, he’s handsome, he loves to cook, loves to read dystopian youth novels. He watches The Walking Dead with me. He thinks Emma Stone is a babe. When a situation arises, he is always patient, never quick to react. He’s even-keeled, never loses his cool. He’s a rock-solid natural born leader, and has always stepped in to pick up the slack without whining or even balking. If I ask him for his honest opinion though, he won’t hold back. And he’s never mean. He trusts me, I trust him, and he’s made smart choices 95% of the time. I know exactly how lucky I was to have this relationship with my stepson, and I don’t want to lose this prize. I want to keep him safe forever just the way he is. A healthy, whole, handsome, well-adjusted young man with everything ahead of him. And how would I say any of this without crying big ugly tears in the processing center? Might as well get them out of the way now.
At 9:15 we arrived at the military processing station, which swears in recruits for all branches of service together before shipping them off to bootcamp. After going through an inspection process that gives airport security a run for its money, we were finally allowed in. I got the extra pat down because my shirt set off the metal detector and Eddie was told to take his toy P-38 Space Modulator Death Ray Laser Gun off of his key chain and deposit it in the garbage can outside. We traded our drivers licenses for badges, and that’s where we met up again with Jesse and his mom Krissy.
The P-38 Space Modulator. We plucked it back out of the garbage can on the way out.
We ended up sitting in a room with a few dozen fidgety young recruits and their families for several hours – long enough to watch Lake Placid vs. Anaconda on a muted TV screen. Bad as it was, at least it got the entire room laughing in unison more than once. The recruits – who looked younger and younger the longer they sat with
their families – were finally summoned out of the room, and another hour
later we were summoned to join them.
There they stood, the nine of them, waiting to take their oath.
Moments later, it was over. We were given a few minutes to pose for photos with our babies, our future soldiers, before they all disappeared into a side room again for another half hour before Jesse came out with all of his remaining personal possessions except for the clothing he had on. His cellphone, wallet, all of his money, even his toothbrush was handed over. He told me he was only allowed to keep his ID and social security card. Even the clothing he had on was disposable, because as soon as he got to San Diego, even that would disappear. Everything from here on out would be standard government issue (which is where the word G.I. comes from).
He told us to expect a phone call in the middle of the night. He told his dad to answer the phone with Hello, and say nothing else. He told us that he would be yelling. That it would be alarming. But this was standard protocol. He would yell something at us, and then he would hang up, and that way we would know that he had made it to bootcamp (where I assume there will be a lot more yelling, just like the meme below).
Indeed, that night the phone rang at 11:49pm, from an unknown number in San Diego. The call lasted fourteen seconds, and we barely recognized the voice on the other end, because I’ve never heard Jesse shout. In fact, we couldn’t really understand anything he was shouting at us (so I looked it up). Apparently he was telling screaming at us that he had made it to San Diego, and that we shouldn’t send him any packages of food. What we did hear was that we wouldn’t get another phone call from him but to “EXPECT TO RECEIVE A LETTER IN TWO TO THREE WEEKS! GOODBYE!” And then the call was disconnected.
So that’s it. Our baby, the young man that Krissy, Eddie and I all share is going through a life changing endurance test for the next 13 weeks, and all we can do is imagine what it has to be like for him. And that’s not easy.
As Eddie, Krissy and I stood with Jesse, hugging him tight and telling him we loved him, I remembered back to early in the morning, when I hoped I’d have one last moment to talk to him, to tell him how important he is to me. And I realized that this was that moment. He was giving me everything but the clothing on his back. He was becoming the property of the USMC and flying off to San Diego, and I only had one more minute to speak my piece. So I grabbed onto him, and blurted it out.
“Jesse, I’ve been thinking hard about what I want to say to you; what I wish for you to get out of this experience. Obviously I want you to come out of it alive. And I want you to come back whole. But what I really want is for you to remain the amazing person that you’ve grown up to be already. What I want most of all is for you to come back the same person as before.”
Krissy’s head was bobbing up and down, and she said, “This is exactly what I’ve been thinking too! Jesse, I want you to come back just the same or better. Don’t let them change you, promise me. You’re perfect just the way you are.”
And of course, we said this knowing that he will go through incredible changes. Not just in the next 13 weeks. I think for him, bootcamp will be a breeze. He comes across as totally unflappable. I hope he really is. What Krissy and I were really saying is that what we both are hoping for the son we share is that over the course of the next four years he can keep the demons at bay. That he can handle whatever’s to come without suffering psychological damage that haunts him for the rest of his life and takes away his happiness and the light in his eyes. We want him to stay sane. To stay emotionally even-keeled, and stay grounded.
I hugged him one last time, kissed him on the cheek, and said, “Jesse, just stay YOU.”
And then he was gone.
Stay You. That’s today’s curated playlist. And although the playlist and the column are titled “Stay You,” the songs are all about saying goodbye. You’ve probably got a lot more to add, so bring it on. My heart’s not quite in it this week. I know you’ll understand.
