The War Bike

There’s a butterfly scar on my left knee that I refer to as my war injury.  It’s the legacy of a spectacular crash into a metal telephone pole support, while riding what my sisters and I fondly called “The War Bike.” 

 

The War Bike had been my mother’s childhood transportation in the years following World War II.  The wobbly, ox-blood frame had big, fat tires (not the chic beach bike tires of today) and an ungainly basket on the handlebars.  Think of bobby-socked British school children riding along a country road in the 40’s. My legs were just a touch too short to sit down comfortably, so I spent a lot of time standing up and pumping the pedals.  Riding it felt a little like piloting an ocean liner. 

 

It’s amazing that the bike survived all those years in my grandparent’s garage to make it to our little center hall colonial in Delmar, New York.  Objects today have a half-life of a nanosecond.  We throw something out with a dent or a scrape.  People were much thriftier back then; they repurposed things, recycled and re-used.  


Photo by Shane Henderson.
Riding the War Bike somehow connected me to a glorious past as I studied American history in school; one with freedom fighting revolutionary battles, brave Clara Bartons, the storming of Normandy beaches and concentration camp liberations.  War heroes were our country’s legacy.  They became leaders and achieved greatness back at home during peacetime.  In the 1960s of my childhood, we viewed ourselves as a country on a giant uptick, the defender of liberty, the right side of the cold war, a legacy of the Greatest Generation, of Ike and Kennedy and champions of world-wide liberty.  The War Bike stood for all of that, in some weird, inchoate way. 

 

In the waning years of the War Bike’s utility and our childhood fixation with it, another war was rearing its head; and older brothers were sent from our neighborhood to Vietnam when their draft numbers came up. That war came into our living rooms on TV and in “Life” magazine images; the weary GIs in bandages, naked children running from the burning village.  It was a very different conflict than the sweeping global wars that had preceded it and citizens protested, loudly questioning its purpose.  That criticism began to rip at the seams of America. 

 

When the young men and women came back from Vietnam, our nation marginalized their service.  We muted their experience.  It had been a divisive war, with no clear sense of victory. It simply wound down, with a heart-breaking black and white death toll.  

 

With Vietnam, there had been no national pulling together, no Victory Gardens or gas rationing, no Pearl Harbor attack to rally around.  And in its wake, we somehow skipped the welcome home.  Serving your country, enlisting in the military, had gone out out of vogue.  Veterans learned to pack their uniforms away, avert their eyes and shush up if questions arose.  You talked about it only in the right company, or not at all. We let down a generation of young people who returned.  We let down their families, their wives and mothers, their siblings and children, all of whom got a front row seat to bear witness to the ugliness of untreated internal wounds.  The psychological damage.  We didn’t know how to fix what we couldn’t see.  It was more comfortable for our nation to ignore their damage, their scars and their service.


Photo by SrA Christina Brownlow.
I don’t recall what finally happened to the War Bike.  It was eclipsed one birthday by a bright orange ten-speed with ram’s horn handlebars.  After that my mother’s bike was forgotten; an unfitting, embarrassing relic for a pre-teen girl. 

 

But dredging up those memories of my old self on the War Bike leads me to wonder how my own children view the concept of war.  What is their perception of serving their country?  How will they judge the present day conflicts with the benefit of hindsight and history?  And how, in the long run, will they treat those who have come home requiring a lifetime of assistance?  

 

With an all-volunteer military today, our children don’t have to ask themselves if they are willing to lay down their lives on foreign soil in service to their country.  And when I personally ponder the question, I must admit it is a sobering sacrifice.  As a mother, I’d have to think long and hard about that.


This Memorial Day, as we honor those who have given their lives, their limbs and their mental health and well-being when their nation asked them to go, let’s all take a moment to reflect on the real meaning of this holiday.   Regardless of your politics, our veterans and their families deserve our nation’s respect and gratitude.  We owe them the best chance to re-take the stage of their lives when they return home from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.  Take a moment of silence on Monday to remember them, and to remind your children and neighbors just what that means.  And then do something.  Take action.  It’s the best part of what it means to be an American.  Give time, give dollars, learn more, discover what families have served in your town, investigate what organizations are helping vets at the grassroots level. Volunteer.  Give back.  It doesn’t take a huge investment to show a veteran that their sacrifices count.


Photo taken by Stefan Radtke at Stand Up For Heroes, 2012, Remind.org. 

One place to start is www.bobwoodrufffoundation.org.

 

                                                

www.leewoodruff.com   facebook.com/leemwoodruff   twitter@LeeMWoodruff 

 

  

The Real Meaning of Memorial Day

I’ll start with a question. If someone risked his or her life for you, would you give him or her a dollar? That is what we are asking every American to do this Memorial Day in honor of the 1.65 million troops who have served in Iraq and Afghanistan. Memorial Day is supposed to be a time to reflect, to pay tribute to the troops, to step back and honor those who have served their country, so many of which have given their lives. But for most of us, we see it as a long-awaited three-day weekend, a kickoff to summer—a chance to sleep in, fire up the grill, open up the pool for the season, relax with friends. But for the Iraq and Afghanistan war veterans who have come back to the U.S., each day is pretty much just like the next, which bleeds into the next. An unfathomable number of our service members have been injured in these wars, both with nearly 35,000 physically injured and even more with the signature “hidden injuries”. A recent study conducted by RAND Corporation estimates that more than 320,000 of these service members have returned home with traumatic brain injury, and 300,000 have combat stress such as post traumatic stress disorder, depression and anxiety. That is nearly one in five who have deployed. While the rest of the nation frets about real estate values and job security, stock portfolios and even what the weather will bring for this weekend’s backyard BBQ, these men and women have their lives to worry about, on top of their livelihoods. The country they thought would surely welcome them back with open arms—unlike the rocks, spittle and jeers that met the soldiers of Vietnam—has proven to be yet another disappointment. It’s a quiet, subtle insult—the silent treatment rather than a slap to the face. Let’s take politics out of it for a second. It doesn’t matter whether you’re for or against these wars or the policies that put us there. We must separate the war from the warrior. We have to support those who have volunteered to be there and have come home changed. Because these men and women chose to enlist, my 17-year-old son, and your children, are granted the choice of whether or not to do the same. But when it’s time to come home, the system often fails these people. Especially those with long-term disabilities such as the brain injured. While there are four Veterans Affairs Centers of Excellence for Traumatic Brain Injury around the country, wounded vets and their families must make choices about where to go for rehab. This often means a wife or mom and dad giving up his or her job and income to be by their loved one’s side during treatment. Or a family forced to find a way to keep the kids in school and cared for while Mom is 500 miles away from home participating in the care and watching her husband undergo painful rehabilitation. In both Operation Iraqi Freedom and Operation Enduring Freedom, we seem to be present as a country on the surface, but not really in it for the long haul. We shake a soldier’s hand or smile when we spot one in uniform at the airport. And then we go back to our lives, our schedules, our jobs and our homes, while scattered throughout our own country are the living, breathing casualties of these wars. “Some of us went to war and the rest of America went shopping,” René Bardorf, Executive Director of the Bob Woodruff Foundation, said to me once, and her words have stayed with me. René’s husband is a Marine Major and has been deployed to Iraq three times. While she parents their kids in Virginia, he lives on a remote base in California as what military families call, a “geographical bachelor”. It is unclear when they will be together again as a family. I think about other Marines I know, like Colin, who was shot in the head two years ago on a rooftop in Iraq. He was 19. Colin’s dad spends each day with him as he undergoes therapy for a debilitating brain injury. And while he is making great strides, his life is circumscribed in so many ways. Like many Americans, I’ll be planting flowers and grilling burgers this Memorial Day weekend, while someone else’s daughter, husband or son is on patrol a half a world away, braced for the possibility that at any minute he or she could be hit by a sniper or a cleverly concealed IED (improvised explosive device, like the one that hit my husband). And I am so grateful to that person. The Obama administration and the new First Lady have pledged that our wounded military and their families are a priority. As I watched President Obama recite his oath, I felt a surge of hope that perhaps our country might finally put its patriotism into action where our heroes are concerned. End the rhetoric. Pony up dollars and sweat instead of words. Yes, there is so much more the government can do, but we all, individually and as communities, can also come together to heal these families. Hire a veteran. Seek out reservists and ask how they are getting by. Does a military family need a hand with child care? Or a meal on the dinner table? And if you don’t know someone personally who has served—there’s still a way you can help. Which brings me back to my initial question. Would you give a dollar to someone who risked his or her life for you? The Bob Woodruff Foundation is hoping you will help us make this cause viral and ask Americans to donate at www.ReMind.org because the plight of our injured warriors affects all of us. We aim to prove that small individual donations ($1, $5, $25) can join together to build something really big. The money goes directly to localized resources and support services that assist in recovery from the physical and psychological wounds of war. “Support our troops” is no longer just a slogan; it’s an action.

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On the Road A Little More

OK-- so the long part of the trek is over.  Three weeks for the book and it was fun, exhilarating and exhausting.  I missed my family.  Headed for another few days for the book here on the east coast and then over Memorial Day I will have the time to read your comments and answer them.  I'm so pleased at all you have written and how much you like the book.  I feel a little like Sally Field at the Oscars when she blurted out something like "You like me, you really like me! So bear with me a little longer.  Have patience.  I try to personally answer my "comments" and not have someone do it for me-- so it takes a little longer.  But Im so thrilled to have a spot where you can all share your thoughts about the book.   Ill be doing a reading tomorrow in Boston at Brookline Booksmith at &:00 if you know any Bostoners who might want to come out and say hello.  In the meantime-- Happy Memorial Day-- and remember to sign up to twitter and donate a dollar-- or more to our wounded troops. Go to http://tweettoremind.org and sign up to tweet........ If you aren't a twitterer-- you can just go to Remind.org (this website home page will take you there) and donate on line. If someone risked their life for you-- would you give them a dollar?  I would!

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