Faces in the Crowd

Most people who meet my brother have little knowledge of where he has been or what he has seen. The fact that he was in the Air Force is probably an after thought to those know how great of a friend that he is to them. He doesn't look like one of those crusty Veterans that you may encounter on the street with their service careers summed up on a mesh baseball cap and stories worn on their sleeves. He goes about his day quietly without anyone ever knowing the Warrior that is within.

My brother is a Veteran of Desert Storm, Iraqi Freedom and Enduring Freedom. In those wars he spent holidays, birthdays and anniversaries away from his family and loved ones. When I was at basketball practice in elementary school learning the mechanics of a lay-up my brother was busy controlling the skies while coordinating an assault on Saddam. Years later, while safely studying in my dorm room, I'd get an email from him halfway around the world and the one thing he wanted to know was, "How are the Red Sox doing?"

For the people who walk past my brother on a daily basis, they may never know that he had 5,716 flying hours aboard the E-3 AWACS or that 1,000 of those were in Combat. Even if they did, they probably wouldn't know what that meant.

What that meant is that my brother was the "eye in the sky," that ensured air superiority for two decades. It meant that while we were celebrating New Year's or eating our Turkey dinner and watching football, he was watching over us (literally). As an Airman, I know exactly what my brother has done and what it meant to our National security. As someone who lives and works in the Air Force and has seen the mediocre more so than the extraordinary, I feel more than comfortable calling my brother a hero. If you understood the things that he has done, he'd be your hero too.

If you spoke with my brother he probably wouldn't tell you about all of his time in the sandbox. He wouldn't mention that he is qualified on the .50 cal or that he did a ground deployment with the Army looking for IEDs. He would even skip the stories of when his aircraft was painted by a MIG-25 while patrolling the skies. Furthermore, he won't tell you about the lives he saved or the medals he was awarded for his actions in combat. Instead, he'd probably ask how your day was going and carry on about his.

On 29 October 2009, MSgt Michael Carroll retired from active duty to a life away from the deployments and time away from home. To a Warrior, a Hero and most importantly my Brother, I salute him and thank him for everything that he has sacrificed.

This Veteran's Day we will walk past many homes with American flags displayed prominently in front yards. Some communities may hold parades w/ Veterans marching proudly down the street. In the crowd will be Veterans like my brother who won't be wearing a uniform and may appear to be just another face in the crowd. If you get the chance and recognize someone smiling a little more than those around them or standing a bit taller during the National Anthem, reach out and say "thanks," our lives wouldn't be the same without them.

A Dark History

There is little that we ever really know about our founding fathers. This ignorance is by choice, since when we take away the blinders we are consumed by evidence of wrong doing that we would just assume not know. A look into our first and most important founding father, George Washington brings the man who is considered our greatest President to life. The great battles of the Revolutionary War, the Farewell Address all pale in comparison to the hypocrisy within the man that we allow ourselves to overlook. If we think about what we thought we knew about him, we find out that the best stories are just myths. The Cherry Tree? A story made up by one of his biographers. Wooden teeth? More like teeth taken from his animals, even slaves. We may never be satisfied or find a balance in what we thought we knew and what we actually do. There are too many stories untold and Washington may have just wanted to keep it that way.

Put any great leader under the microscope of scrutiny and flaws are bound to be revealed. Heroes would never live up to our standards if we did this to everyone of them. If we did, we'd just walk away disappointed. Historians have shown us repeatedly that with every great hero, there is a tragedy in all of them that cannot be ignored. As much as we'd like to see past these character deficiencies and see these great leaders as having an immortality about them, we come to find out that they like us are; all too human. For every great accomplishment that our Presidents have had, there has been a shadow that hangs over their glory. For every Declaration of Independence, Civil Rights legislation of economic boom there was a Sally Hemmings, Marilyn Monroe and Monica Lewinsky behind the scenes. This tradition isn't one from modern history. It starts with our first President whose life while noble and deserving of praise will be considered one filled with contradiction.

As I walked the grounds of Mt. Vernon on a beautiful fall afternoon with the Potomac set in the background and foliage lining the dirt paths, I couldn't help but notice the young school children walking past me. The fact that they were school children did not strike me since we can all learn a lot from Mt Vernon. The irony was that they were black school children, possibly descendants of slaves at some point and now were roaming free to honor a site that our Nation's first President called home.

At the time of his death George Washington had over 300 slaves working the five farms of his 8,000 acre plantation at Mt Vernon. The main mansion which was he inherited from his older step brother was Washington's most cherished possession. It should come as no surprise that he employed slaves. He was raised in an era when this was acceptable and many of the neighboring farmers were slave owners too. His happiness came from his property and his property was made possible by slave labor. These slaves, half of whom were women were given a ration of corn meal for their daily supplement and one working outfit and pair of shoes for the entire year. They worked six days a week from sun up to sun down. Meanwhile, at the top of the bowling green sat the Washington family as they wined and dined hundreds of guests annually. This was the man that is scattered throughout every history book about our country and whose name adorns hundreds of school buildings. For a leader and pioneer one would think he would have been above the fray.

Washington is a tragic figure in my opinion. He was revered so much that he was pulled out of retirement and voted unanimously as our first President. As General and hero of the revolutionary war, he was considered a National hero and rightfully so. Despite his influence he did nothing to stop the act of slavery. Historians can continue to debate whether a Civil War may have been prevented if Mr. Washington would have put an end to it. Instead, he quietly freed his slaves in his will but never saw what their freedom looked like. And so the contradiction of a man who fought for the freedom and liberty of Americans also owned human beings.

It's difficult for me to embrace Washington entirely. On the one hand, I see him as THE founder of our country who rallied 13 separate colonies and brought them together. On the other hand, I can't forgive how his conscience could accept slavery in the same way that I cannot forgive how FDR could imprison US citizens during WWII. These actions while justified through those who want to preserve their legacies cannot be softened by describing a bigger cause for which they served. The big issues were slavery and false imprisonment. Those are issues that thousands of Americans gave their lives for. Ask Martin Luther King, Robert Kennedy or the 70,000 Americans who died in the Civil War.

Slaves enabled history to tell the story of Washington. They ran his farm, cooked his food, washed his laundry, entertained his guests and made Mt Vernon what it is today. Over 200 years later we see the tables have turned. As I looked at the young school children walking past me, perhaps unaware of the Mt Vernon that I saw, I wondered who told their ancestors stories? Were they buried somewhere on the property, scattered about without acknowledgement of their existence? They weren't in history books. I never recall reading a book from one of his servants.

It's 2009, we have a new President. He is African-American and holds a position that I don't know that Washington would have ever imagined a black man would hold one day. President Obama set out to change history for his own reasons and finally white people are writing his story down too.

There is much that connects Washington to myself. He died December 14th, 1799 a day before my birthday. The steamboat that my grandfather owned on Lake Winnipesauke was named after him. Despite a few coincidental similarities and the admiration I have for the President and General, I do not forgive the "Man" who for all I know freed his slaves in the end to protect his legacy.

Nobody goes to Mt Vernon to see slavery's awful history. They go to see Washington. People ought to reconsider though and look past the man who owned a well managed estate and remember the people who made it possible for it to exist and made it possible for this country to do so as well. I'll concede that we may not have been a country without Washington, there's little to dispute that. He was a great military officer who commanded men who were risking their lives for the cause of liberty. This liberty though was not for all Americans and we ought not fool ourselves into thinking so. Women, blacks, poor? Liberty wasn't for them. It was for people who looked more like George Washington and lived in places more like Mt Vernon than the slave quarters that surrounded him.

Before I left the compound, I walked past landscapers who were installing along the path by one of Washington's farms. As I looked to see what else they were doing, I noticed that half of the workers were Mexican.

Native Americans were at Mt. Vernon first. They hunted in the forests and navigated the Potomac for fish. We know this because archaeologist have uncovered numerous artifacts dating before Mt. Vernon was built. African Americans moved in next with Washington and ran the entire operation. Today I saw a handful of Mexican Americans (who were getting compensated) working the same land. The tradition of labor in our country is one marked by a legacy of diversity. Although Washington may have been the one crossing the Delaware and riding the horse up front, these men were the backbone. This along with who the real George Washington was, we should never forget.

Numbers

58,195.

That number never really meant much to me until I went to visit “The Wall.” At 26, the wall has revitalized my patriotism and my sense of belonging to this country. It has a newer meaning filled with more importance and a greater impact on me than it did when I visited it tens years earlier. This time I walked past the wall, not on a mandatory field trip or an obligatory stop with my family, but as a service member who knows exactly what losing a friend to war feels like.

At 26 I have already lived longer than the average age of all those who died in Vietnam.. Their names are plentiful and chances are, many of us don’t know a thing about any of them. As I approached the first apex of the Memorial, I was overcome by emotion. First I was greeted at the dimly lit entrance way by a Vietnam Veteran who had served two tours there and who unselfishly acted as the unofficial gatekeeper. As he took several steps with me and passed on his knowledge, the only fact that stuck in my head was 58,195. With each step, I passed hundreds of names. I couldn’t even fathom how many there were. 58,195.

“When is this going to stop?” I kept asking myself. On paper 58,195 doesn’t seem incredibly high. Typing it on the keyboard requires 2 seconds of my time. The fact is that these men didn’t die on paper. They died on a real battlefield, they left real families behind and now they are forever etched in real granite. Their names live on at The Wall.

I made it a point to stop and stare at one name. Lawrence T. Borden. The name had never been significant to me before. Although to some family, this is a name brought up at the dinner table still. They honor him on Memorial Day, Veterans Day and all other holidays that remind them of him. I stopped and remembered his name because I didn’t know a single one of the 58,195 names that I had walked past. I thought I owed it to Mr. Borden and all of those who made the ultimate sacrifice to at least remember his. As I returned home I looked him up online. I found that he was SP4 Lawrence T. Borden, US Army from Charleston MA. He was killed on 13 Sep 1966 by hostile fire. For those who don’t know a single name on that wall...well now you do.

As I walked from monument to monument, I almost missed the Vietnam Memorial. Truth be told, it didn’t even cross my mind until a vendor recommended it to me. Even when I did look for it at night, I still almost missed it. The Memorial was dimly lit, there weren’t even whispers from the other tourists walking through. I didn’t dare take a picture of The Wall like I did the only Memorials. I didn’t feel right about making it about “my trip,” and the things “I saw.” Instead, I chose to write about how it made me feel and why those names are so worth remembering.

We have just closed in on the 8th year anniversary of the war in Afghanistan. Just like Vietnam, I have countless friends who don’t know a single name of someone who had died from that war. They carry on not because they are ignorant or naive, but because they are so able due to the sacrifice of so few. Her name is Roslyn Schulte. And now you know.

More Daisies

Ever since I moved into my house I have found myself mowing the lawn every week, usually on the weekends. Where I once used to think about my evening plans on a Friday afternoon, this past month my mind has been more consumed with mulch, weed killer and what I can buy next at Lowe's. How quickly my priorities in life have changed.

As I look down my street, I see that my neighbors have also cut their grass. There we all are, perfectly trimmed and manicured homes in a row. In a small sense I feel more grown up as I see how I am fitting in around the neighborhood. It’s funny how personal responsibility tends to make us more anal about things.

When I was a kid I never had dreams of wanting to maintain a house, a career or anything of the sort. My ambitions were to do great things, set my own path and be original. Instead, I’ve caved in, sold out, drank too much of the kool-aid and have become one of “them.” And for what? Is it absolutely necessary that I maintain my yard week after week only to look at it from afar on ocassion from my kitchen window? It’s not like I’m out there running around, playing catch on it or anything. Like most things that we adults have...it’s for show.

I think back to the naive kid I once was and how complicated my grand ideas were. I try to retrace my steps to when I was 10, 14, 18 and I remember the passion I had for the things I loved. There are few interests outside of writing (such as this) that I continue to hold from childhood. Fast forward to today and I see how simple my mind works. I suppose, most of the things that I do are for selfish reasons. I want my carpet to be spotless, my truck filled with gas, my clothes pressed and my yard mowed. Is it worth anything in the end? Am I wasting precious moments of my life? Why Am I so worried and caught up in the minor details that society has deemed as necessary?

I don't hold the answer to those questions. Just as soon as I think I have made a turn in my life and that I am on track to do the right things, my past throws me a curveball and makes me step back and reevaluate what's most important. As I do that, I laugh at the man I see in the mirror now who views the world through a small scope and how everything affects "him," rather than how I can affect the world. As we grow older, I sometimes think we lose more than we gain.

If I had to do it all over again, I’d pick less grass and more daisies :)

If I had my life to live over again, I'd try to
make more mistakes next time. I would relax. I would
limber up. I would be sillier than I have been this
trip. I know of very few things I would take
seriously. I would take more trips. I would climb
more mountains, swim more rivers and watch more
sunsets. I would do more walking and looking. I would
eat more ice-cream and less beans. I would have more
actual troubles and fewer imaginary ones. You see, I
am one of those people who lives prophylactically and
sensibly and sanely hour after hour, day after day.
Oh, I've had my moments; and if I had to do it over
again, I'd have more of them. In fact, I'd try to
have nothing else. Just moments, one after another
instead of living so many years ahead each day. I
have been one of those people who never go anywhere
without a thermometer, a hot water bottle, a gargle,
a raincoat, aspirin and a parachute. If I had it to
do over again, I would go places, do things and
travel lighter than I have.
If I had my life to live over, I would start
barefooted earlier in the spring and stay that way
later in the fall. I would play hookey more, I
wouldn't make much good grades except by accident. I
would ride on more merry-go-rounds. I'd pick more
daisies. -- Don Herald.