VOICES

Reflections

Sorrow and scarlet leaf,

Sad thoughts and sunny weather.

Ah me, this glory and this grief

Agree not well together!

Thomas Parsons, ‘A Song For September’, 1880

It is a month I will remember for the best and the worst. Terrorists tried to crush the spirit of America. Five years later, I felt the pulse of our great nation. Then I came face to face with our country’s soul. In the early hours of September 11th the world was scarred. On the wings of September 12th and 15th my spirits soared.

I was not told until days before what to expect. An invitation to visit the Pentagon was exciting enough, but then came the announcement. On September 12th, I would have a private audience with our Congressman, a Brigadier General, and the Deputy Secretary of Defense; then I would hold a press conference. Me? Wait, there has been a mistake. I just celebrated my seventeenth birthday last week. Could this privilege really be mine?

It was, and I will remember every moment of that day for the rest of my life. Deputy Secretary England and his guests were keenly interested in the Mile-Long Yellow Ribbon Project as well as what I had learned talking with youth across America. While we chatted, the Deputy Secretary encouraged me to consider Annapolis or West Point. The cameras flashed as he signed the ribbon; I presented his office a copy of my soon-to-be-released ballad then said goodbye with stars in my eyes. They whisked me into the very room where Secretary of Defense Rumsfeld addresses the press; the camera rolled, and I answered questions while my brain screamed, “You’re dreaming. This isn’t real. Wait, yes, it is. Breathe in. Breathe out. Just act natural.” Natural? An Honor Guard was introduced as our personal escort. He is a qualified sentinel for the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Only 400 have qualified for Tomb Guard Badges in the last 50 years. He escorted my family on a journey through miles of corridors past offices of power to rooms of honor and of sanctuary; to walls engraved with Medal of Honor and Purple Heart recipients who died in battle, and to walls engraved with the names of those who died in the ashes of the Pentagon itself. We learned more history over lunch. When we said goodbye, he told us we could keep our yellow plastic badges and we were grateful. I glimpsed again the silver medal on his shirt, and I was humbled.

Days later after delivering a speech at Gettysburg National Military Park, I roamed the battlefield museum for a few hours studying photos of youth who fought in the Civil War. Civil seems such an inappropriate word. No war is civil, and no one is ever old enough to fight. Images of these young faces returned to me when, the next day, I walked through the doors of Bethesda Naval Medical Center and Walter Reed Hospital. The patients I met could have been my high school buddies. Those at Bethesda were the most recently wounded in Iraq: Ghastly injuries from shrapnel left them mutilated from head to foot. They gave the Mile-Long Yellow Ribbon a thumbs up, promising to let their buddies in Iraq know that it would soon be on its way. Those who could sit up wanted to see my magic. It made them chuckle and snort, some even choke with laughter, but they wanted more. The staff told me to keep it brief. I stayed as long as they would let me before heading to Walter Reed.

We parked near the entrance. Sitting on a bench was a weary man whose bloodshot eyes were swollen with fatigue. In a wheelchair sideways next to him, a young man slumped forward, catching his head in his hands. As I approached, the patient lifted his chin and managed a partial smile before his head dropped again. He had trouble focusing. Struggling, he pushed up his cheek and mumbled, “I’m sorry. They’ve got me jacked up on enough pain killers to make a crackhead jealous.” When he turned his wheels to face me, my heart missed a beat. His legs were gone; both of them, just below the knees. The older man recognized the flicker in my eyes and gestured me to sit down. I introduced myself. “This is my son, Patrick,” he said. “He’s been waiting a long time for his new chair.” His son added hopefully, “Should be lighter and easier to get around.” In his murmur I recognized my father’s Boston accent. Patrick’s next words nearly stopped my heart. “Titanium wheels, man. This is the best day of my life.” Suddenly it became hard for me to breathe. I wanted to scream. Instead I said goodbye, moved to the entrance and through the doors.

Neil was the first to roll by me. His was a motorized chair. He had lost one leg and an arm; the other arm was paralyzed and useless, but he was proud of the fact that he could talk again, which doctors said might never happen after his stroke. I introduced myself. He was doing great, he said; even planned to teach again some day. His real concern was for his friend, Ken, who had lost both legs, one arm, and because of an infection was going to lose the other arm. Then I met Joe. Joe’s face was gone; blown off. In six surgeries the doctors had fashioned him eye sockets, cheeks and a bulb for a nose; but he had no mouth, just a hole with skin stretched over it. He was happy, he said, because his wife still looked at him with love in her eyes.

I spent the afternoon and evening talking with these and other amputees. Hungry for distraction, they devoured my magic. It made them laugh. We spent hours discussing coin and card tricks. They wanted to know my secrets and pretended to be upset when I refused to tell them. They kept laughing; I kept fighting back tears. They wanted to know where I go to school and what I want to be some day. I asked them what was the hardest part of it all for them. Individually they all answered the same thing: leaving their buddies behind on the battlefield. Jason assured me that as soon as he got his new leg, he was going back to take care of his unit because they were just a bunch of babies. Jason was 21.

Before leaving, I asked these men what, if any message, I could take back home to my friends and other young people at schools I might visit. Ben closed his eyes for just a second. When he opened them again I saw the glint of steel. “Tell them we are making a difference and they must be strong. The war on terror won’t be over anytime soon.” He turned away and wheeled toward the door, but not before I detected the mist in his eyes. “Oh, and tell them thank you for keeping us in their hearts.” Then he was gone.

by  Matthew Cook

© October 1,2006