To My Brother in Kabul
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July 5
Dear Frank,
Today I took a walk with Mandy, a colleague also attending the Summer Writing Institute. Mandy lives here in Plymouth and offered to show me some of the historical sites near campus. She said she hates driving along Route 3 because it’s hard to divert her sons’ attention from the howitzer on the front lawn of the Plymouth National Guard Armory. She doesn’t want them to become fascinated with weapons and the military. I thought about you and how Mami and I didn’t distract you from things like that. Right beside the cannon, a sign says that Plymouth State University now has ROTC; that people can call to sign up. I remembered you in your Air Force JROTC uniform in high school, how you loved that uniform, loved marching. You wanted to fit in, belong to something, and maybe you wanted order, structure, something to save you from the craziness at home.
I remember the fireman’s helmet Mami bought for you at a yard sale when you were in kindergarten—it made a siren sound. She hoped you’d become a firefighter, so much that she asked people what you’d earn. Now I realize she’s hoped for our help ever since we were little.
You wanted money too. Remember the party we had in Mami’s apartment when you returned from boot camp? You bragged to your friends about having cash; you weren’t broke like them. With so many people over, we had to move the kitchen chairs into the living room and put sofa cushions on the floor. We formed a circle around you to listen to your survival stories, your jokes. You made fun of yourself in those dorky glasses you were forced to wear. I loved that part of you—so different than that scared, quiet, little boy who went to bed with his Snoopy doll after Papi left us. I imagine holding Snoopy gave you a sense of security when you had to stay at home by yourself after Melissa and I went to school and Mami went to work. You were only four. Maybe joining JROTC in high school built up your courage. But seeing you in uniform scared me. I was afraid you’d end up in the military, and you did.
I’m your big sister, but I didn’t know how to keep you from that, not like Mandy knows to drive down some other road.
Mandy and I ended our sightseeing at Asquamchumauke Rock, a memorial to the Pemigewasset Indians. It was hard to locate. We expected a boulder or at least a sign like the one for the Armory. Behind a checkerberry bush, we found a bronze plaque bolted to a hunk of low-lying granite. According to the engraving, Asquamchumauke was the Pemigewasset name of the Baker River. It means “Crooked Water from High Places.” The Indians cultivated corn and stored furs along the riverbanks until March of 1712 when Lieutenant Thomas Baker and thirty scouts destroyed the village killing even the chief, Waternummus.
The colonists renamed the river after a man who led the destruction of a village, the killing of a people. Two hundred and twenty-eight years later the Daughters of the American Revolution, descendants of soldiers who fought for independence, gave the river’s name to a rock. It makes me ask, how can we trust the history we read if the people who win wars rename places?
I wondered about the names of the villagers who died that day. We only have one—Waternummus. The Asquamchumaukee rock seemed like a tombstone instead of a memorial. The entire field between the Armory and the river should be covered in tombstones.
I worry about you Frank, not just because you’re in Afghanistan, at war, but because I can’t imagine what you’re doing as a Marine, and I’m afraid of how all of this will affect you inside.
I wonder what you do to feel safe now that you’re a man, unable to cling to something like your Snoopy doll. I wonder if that happy side of you will still be there when you return.
I miss you Frank.
Love,
Erika
July 5
Dear Frank,
Today I took a walk with Mandy, a colleague also attending the Summer Writing Institute. Mandy lives here in Plymouth and offered to show me some of the historical sites near campus. She said she hates driving along Route 3 because it’s hard to divert her sons’ attention from the howitzer on the front lawn of the Plymouth National Guard Armory. She doesn’t want them to become fascinated with weapons and the military. I thought about you and how Mami and I didn’t distract you from things like that. Right beside the cannon, a sign says that Plymouth State University now has ROTC; that people can call to sign up. I remembered you in your Air Force JROTC uniform in high school, how you loved that uniform, loved marching. You wanted to fit in, belong to something, and maybe you wanted order, structure, something to save you from the craziness at home.
I remember the fireman’s helmet Mami bought for you at a yard sale when you were in kindergarten—it made a siren sound. She hoped you’d become a firefighter, so much that she asked people what you’d earn. Now I realize she’s hoped for our help ever since we were little.
You wanted money too. Remember the party we had in Mami’s apartment when you returned from boot camp? You bragged to your friends about having cash; you weren’t broke like them. With so many people over, we had to move the kitchen chairs into the living room and put sofa cushions on the floor. We formed a circle around you to listen to your survival stories, your jokes. You made fun of yourself in those dorky glasses you were forced to wear. I loved that part of you—so different than that scared, quiet, little boy who went to bed with his Snoopy doll after Papi left us. I imagine holding Snoopy gave you a sense of security when you had to stay at home by yourself after Melissa and I went to school and Mami went to work. You were only four. Maybe joining JROTC in high school built up your courage. But seeing you in uniform scared me. I was afraid you’d end up in the military, and you did.
I’m your big sister, but I didn’t know how to keep you from that, not like Mandy knows to drive down some other road.
Mandy and I ended our sightseeing at Asquamchumauke Rock, a memorial to the Pemigewasset Indians. It was hard to locate. We expected a boulder or at least a sign like the one for the Armory. Behind a checkerberry bush, we found a bronze plaque bolted to a hunk of low-lying granite. According to the engraving, Asquamchumauke was the Pemigewasset name of the Baker River. It means “Crooked Water from High Places.” The Indians cultivated corn and stored furs along the riverbanks until March of 1712 when Lieutenant Thomas Baker and thirty scouts destroyed the village killing even the chief, Waternummus.
The colonists renamed the river after a man who led the destruction of a village, the killing of a people. Two hundred and twenty-eight years later the Daughters of the American Revolution, descendants of soldiers who fought for independence, gave the river’s name to a rock. It makes me ask, how can we trust the history we read if the people who win wars rename places?
I wondered about the names of the villagers who died that day. We only have one—Waternummus. The Asquamchumaukee rock seemed like a tombstone instead of a memorial. The entire field between the Armory and the river should be covered in tombstones.
I worry about you Frank, not just because you’re in Afghanistan, at war, but because I can’t imagine what you’re doing as a Marine, and I’m afraid of how all of this will affect you inside.
I wonder what you do to feel safe now that you’re a man, unable to cling to something like your Snoopy doll. I wonder if that happy side of you will still be there when you return.
I miss you Frank.
Love,
Erika