Kudzu Queen

By Tamara Ducote

I was watching another newscast about the interminable war in Iraq. Another grieving family, this one from Prichard. Seems like an awful lot of the grieving families on the news are from the poorer demographic areas.

This gave me a brilliant idea.

Let’s re-institute the draft. Effective immediately. But we won’t use lottery type numbers, like for the Vietnam fiasco. Here’s how it will go:

1. Any and all sons/daughters of elected officials, from city councilman right up to president, will go first. They will be infantry. None of this dodging the war due to serving in the Texas Air Guard and etc. Hell, no. These children will be on the front lines. They’ll be walking point, dammit.

2. Second tier, and right behind the point soldiers, will be children of multimillionaires who have contributed significantly to the campaigns of pro-war legislators.

3. Third tier will be every single extended family member of senators and congressmen and president(s) themselves who vote for war. Ya’ll think it’s such a grand idea? Yee-haw! Brang the fambly!

Make no mistake, death is not real to our elected officials, unless it touches them directly. A citizen’s death merits a form letter of condolence. Wonder how many officials who sent our youth off to die can even remember the names of the war dead one week later.

I’m on Cindy Sheehan’s side.

Yo, Prez. If the war is such a great idea, why aren’t your twin daughters wearing desert camo and toting M-16s? Oh, I forgot. Iraq does not allow alcohol. So the twins couldn’t hang with that.

Yo, Cheney. Why aren’t your daughter and her charming partner toting squad machine guns?

If this war is such a grand idea, why aren’t our leaders leading us into it? The word “leading” infers that you go first. If you’re too old, send your progeny.

Steve Earle was right on the money when he wrote, “I’m a poor man fighting a rich man’s war.” The recruiters have been calling here, wanting to speak to my daughter.

“Oh, Veronica?” I say, and then I make my voice quiver. “She’s dead. You didn’t know?”

Other times, I tell them, “Sure, Veronica would love to talk to you about career and college opportunities. And I am so very glad that our military does not discriminate against deaf-mute paraplegics. Is there a TDD number where she can call you back, once her assistance dog comes back in from laying a big turd?”

Veronica has scholarship offers to sift through. She is sought-after, because she is bright and has worked like a big dog. It is her time to make choices. But there is one choice that is not hers to make. That is joining the U.S. military.

“You can’t stop me, Mom,” she says, testing me. “I’m old enough to do whatever I want. If I wanted to join up, I could.”

Yes, and I could puncture both your eardrums while you slept, to disqualify you from active duty, my dear. Do you think I’m playing? Do you really want to put it to the test?

This war has mangled up too many of our youth in its senseless maw already. It won’t get mine.

Don’t let it get yours.

It’s been five years, people. And the war region is just as messed-up as it ever was. The U.S. keeps sending lives over there, and for what?

I wish Bradley Faircloth were still here. I wish he were going to college and playing Frisbee golf on the weekends and cruising Dauphin Street looking to hook up with a cute girl. I wish he were driving home a little bit drunk, and maybe even vandalizing a rival fraternity house. I wish he were causing mischief and mayhem. I wish his family’s only worries about him were that he had stayed out too late or overdrawn his bank account.

I wish he were here for his family to fuss at and hug and love.

I see the memorial statue of the panther on Murphy’s campus and I am proud of Bradley and his family. My heart weeps for the sacrifices they have made. But I bet they’d trade that statue for a living, breathing Bradley.

These young people mean well, no doubt. They are all fired-up about honor and glory and defending our freedom. But young people are notoriously full of fervor and shy of wisdom. It falls to us older folks, us cynics, to temper their passion with reality. We who remember Vietnam need to call upon those memories and take action now to save our youth.

“I’ll break every limb you have,” I told Veronica, “And I’ll sit in jail happy. But you won’t go into that military meat-grinder. You will not be charnel material for Bush’s insanity. Not as long as I’ve got breath.”

“Calm down, Mom,” my daughter said. “I’m going to college, OK? Calm down. Put down the sledgehammer. Just put it down and back away from it, OK?”

I put down the sledgehammer. And the ice pick. I made a deal with my daughter. I suggest you make the same deal with your young:

On the very same day that Bush’s daughters join the military, my child has permission to do so.

In the meantime, I’m keeping that ice pick and sledgehammer handy. Because I ain’t trading my kid’s life for a form letter signed by higher-ups who can’t remember her name three days later.

Wonder where Bush’s twins were, and what they were doing, while Bradley Faircloth bled out his life on the sand.

Stop the insanity. Big things happen one person at a time. Let the insanity stop with you.

Contact Tamara Ducote at TDDucote6@aol.com.

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