“These Feet Once Marched To The Cadence Of A Drill Sergeant. ... They Now Have Blisters From Pounding The Streets Of LA And New York Protesting The War”
By April Fitzsimmons [Sgt. USAF 1985-1989], May 18th, 2007, Madashellclub.net. April Fitzsimmons welcomes your comments. You can email her at [email protected].
These feet once marched to the cadence of a Drill Sergeant. They now have blisters from pounding the streets of LA and New York protesting the war. These feet have not danced since the invasion of Iraq.
But I still do have feet. And all ten toes. Some Marines do not.
These knees bent alongside others, to plant thousands of crosses in the ground for Arlington West, a memorial for the fallen soldiers of the Iraq War. They kneeled next to Stefanie Pelkey as she adorned a cross with memories of her husband Michael, who shot himself on their couch after returning from Iraq. These knees no longer bend for this president, priests or prophets.
But I do have knees. Some soldiers do not.
This chest, my heart’s suitcase, once filled with pride of country, now rises and falls with the body count.
This chest, once laden with Meritorious Service medals, is heavy with shame and remorse. Soldiers emptied their suitcases into the desert, filled the cavity with sand and returned home. It is hard to breathe with this chest.
These arms held an M-16, an anti-war sign and Schnitzer, a Korean War vet, wobbly with cancer.
These hands dealt seven-card stud, clutched a grease pencil to track Soviet Aircraft and flipped the bird to a driver that cut me off.
They reach out to shake the hand of returning soldiers unless they misplaced their hand in Iraq. If that’s the case, the case of the soldier’s misplaced hand, my arm grabs the opposite, before our eyes meet.
These hands that used to fire off snappy salutes, now dial my representatives and scribble madly, the muddled stories of our troops, our outrage and our occupation. They are cramping now, these hands. They are tired.
But I still have ten fingers and two arms. Some Iraqi children do not.
This mouth. This voice.
Always loud, once sang songs in boot camp and recited the pledge. This voice said yes sir, no sir, I do and good-bye sir.
It whispered urgent prayers to god and ghosts.
This voice, contractually suppressed for ten years, questions faulty intelligence.
This voice tells her story of being attacked by a fellow service member, so she can unleash the silenced voices of thousands of women waiting to know that it’s now safe to speak.
This voice sounds out the names of the thousands of Iraqi’s who have died.
This voice calls out to those still serving: Please come home.
But I do still have a voice. Those wives, husbands and children, who have cried themselves to sleep with loneliness, do not.
These ears once had time to listen to Francois Hardy, David Gray and Gustav Holst. Now they must listen to public radio to deter the cacophony of deception.
These ears heard the second plane hit and the call to war. They heard the Texan, the puppet master, and the skirt, mining for morsels of fractions of crumbs of intelligence to pull focus to their Project for the New American Century.
They heard the doctors spin W.M.D.’s, Saddam, Al Qaeda, Iraq, patriotism, yellow cake, fear, winning, terrorists, smoking guns and mushroom clouds.
These ears listened to troops, sick with guilt, unable to serve a fourth tour.
These ears heard how an R.P.G. can slice a man in two.
But I did hear these stories because I still have ears.
Some Marines, the ones that stood next to the heavy artillery, can no longer hear music or their son’s laughter or the call for the next war.
These eyes don’t see terrorists, they see scared people.
They don’t see Senators, they see scared suits.
They don’t see a president, they see a scared man bound for hell.
These eyes brim with tears as mother after mother cradles a folded flag to her chest and falls to her knees.
These eyes look away as a soldier with a burned face and a robotic leg buys a soda at the Circle K where the front-page story is about 8 Marines killed from a roadside bomb.
He plunks down $75 for a tank of gas.
These eyes have begged to go dark, to end what they are seeing. These eyes have fought to wake up from the nightmare.
But I do have both eyes, unlike the man with the purple-hearted eye patch.
This mind. What mind can reconcile this war? Not mine. Not Yours.
This heart. What heart can share this pain? Mine. Yours.
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