Honoring The Other Warriors

This weekend, along with the barbecues, pool openings and parades, our country takes time to remember our soldiers and veterans who gave so much to ensure our freedoms and our right to speak our hearts and minds and live without fear.  Of course, I honor them and have immense appreciation and respect for the sacrifices they’ve made.

I can’t even begin to imagine what it takes to be a soldier.   The commitment itself is heroic. I know nothing of guns, fighting, or war – nor do I care to.  But I do know a bit about the OTHER heroes.  The Other Warriors.  Those who stare directly into the face of the terrifying unknown and kick its ass!

These Other Warriors rarely don a uniform.  They don’t receive medals for their actions.  They just get up every day and fight the human fight and do the best they can.  You may not even recognize their battle scars, but they are among us and deserve – perhaps not a parade but – our love and thanks for their own service.

My father tried hard to be a soldier.  He was on the tarmac ready to go to Bay Of Pigs when my brother was born and he was pulled at the last moment.  Since being a fearless soldier didn’t work, he tried to serve at home as a police officer.  But he couldn’t make weight and it wasn’t to be.  His life was not heroic.  He was handed a never ending series of crushed dreams and devastating disappointments and fought battles with demons every day to just get by.  But he finally found his place, got his uniform and was able to save the day for many in his volunteer fire department.  When he died, he was Chief and at his funeral, we learned just how respected he was by his community and his crew of young men who looked to him as an inspiration.  He maybe couldn’t be that for us, or in the way he wanted, but on his passing, his station flew the flag at half mast and his community mourned the loss.  While he wasn't the soldier he wanted to be, he was definitely an Other Warrior.

My uncle was a boisterous, fun loving, loud-laughing truck driver with a wife and many children at home when he nearly lost his life in a terrible accident.  Given the time and the circumstances, he should not have survived.  He lost a leg and suffered severe burns that required enormous skin grafts (he was the first donor recipient in our family!).  I was a wee child but have family lore to tell of the agonizing treatments he had to endure.  When doctors seemed astonished that he made it, he said “Nobody told me I was gonna die!”

He got back in the semi.  A modified beast that he could drive.  And he took that truck and built it into a successful trucking company.  Over the years, he was dealt huge blows – medical hardships as a result of that accident, business disappointments, relationship challenges.  But he also danced, swam (in circles, he said!), told tall tales and laughed.  Loudly and often.  No matter how sick he was or how much pain he was in, he got up every day and lived with gusto.  He made friends wherever he went and mentored a group of immigrants, teaching them how to drive, how to build a business doing so, and how to pay it forward.  He was not a perfect man (who is, really?) but I have never faced a hardship in my life without holding him up as my motivation and my reminder that with the right frame of mind, a person can survive anything.  His laugh and his stories (probably mostly fiction) live with me daily.  He was not a soldier.  He never got his purple heart.  But he was a Powerful Other Warrior.

My grandmother-in-law was raised in luxury in Cuba.  Her own grandfather was an adored and prominent figure in politics. When she married and began her family, she was accustomed to the good life.  Then a man named Fidel began to rise and things changed.  Fear permeated the world around her.  She knew something had to be done.  So in 1959, this lovely peaceful woman had to make a decision that most mothers couldn’t fathom.  She had to place her 9 and 11 year old sons on a plane, alone, to another country*,  without truly knowing if she’d ever see them again but believing in her heart that it was the right choice for them.  She had to trust that they were safe, that they were well cared for, and that they would one day be reunited.  She fought every day.  To believe.  To trust.  To get back to her children.  She succeeded and had to forge a brand new life in a strange land, where she didn’t speak the language, and where life was not as grand as it used to be.  Today, she smiles and shares her love and light with all around her but she doesn’t speak much about those days - much like a veteran with PTSD avoids discussion of life in the trenches.  She never got a uniform.  She does not have a medal of valor.  But she is a Strong Other Warrior.

My friend was a child in Africa when Idi Amin was committing horrific and unspeakable acts upon his people.  So his family left everything they knew, escaping under cloak of darkness, in search of safety and freedom.  They were separated for a time and finally came back together to begin a new life for their family.  Now, in the US, my friend’s parents are beloved and respected as pillars of their community and continually lift others and share opportunities with anyone in need.  I’ve benefitted from their kindness and generosity as have countless others.  They may not be a uniformed platoon, but they are an army of Peaceful Other Warriors.

Another friend’s daughter was born into a bit of chaos and then labeled as autistic.  She listened to what the “experts” had to say and then proved to them that her way may not be their way, but they were just going to have to adapt.  She has marched forward with tenacity and power and forged her own way, proving them wrong at every step.  Today, she wakes every day and fights the fight for causes that matter to her and has devoted her future to protecting misunderstood creatures and is a Fierce Other Warrior.

These soldiers are not made on typical battlefields.  They fight their wars here among us and we often don’t even see it.  Some of these battles are of their own making.  Some are brought to their lands in a sneak-attack when they’re not at all prepared.  They walk out of the smoke and the rubble, battered, dirty and scarred.  But they walk.  They keep going, they keep fighting, and therefore, they are victorious.

This weekend, absolutely honor and appreciate the soldiers we see, the veterans we can no longer see, and everyone who gave of themselves to keep us safe and free.  And then, if only quietly in your heart, take a moment to salute The Other Warriors who also fought to make our lives so good.

Happy Memorial Day.

 

*My father in law and his brother were part of a generation of Cuban Americans called Operation Pedro Pan, which you can read about here, if so interested.