This essay takes great advantage of literary license. Any implication that my son was ever less than perfect in any way is a blatant fabrication based on my inability to tell a good story that is also true.
I have travelled a long way to get here. Private DJ graduates from the United States Army Basic Training at Fort Jackson, in South Carolina, this morning. Parents and wives fill the stands with chins high and chests puffed out. We feel proud as peacocks today—our sons, daughters and husbands survived boot camp, arguably the toughest fitness camp in the country. I feel especially proud: my son and I both survived his childhood and adolescence.
DJ and I met a few hours after he was born. He slept soundly, his tiny head squashed into a cone from a difficult birth. He did not belong to me, but he grabbed my heart when he grabbed my necklace. Even in his sleep, he had an iron grip indicative of an iron will, also known as a stubborn streak a mile wide. Four years later, DJ became mine, and his iron will had grown teeth.
An early childhood spent hungry and tired, hiding from an angry stepfather or locked in his bedroom, created a nasty temper based on fear and uncertainty. Losing his dysfunctional birth family made him afraid of being thrown out again. Nothing seems secure to a kid who knows Mom may not always be Mom. All those developmental years of neglect and abuse left him immature and angry. I took custody of this sad four-year-old and started the process of making him feel loved and secure in a scary world.
I remember seeing signs he felt secure. One day I asked him to do something, and he sassed back. I do not remember what I asked or what he said, but I remember cheering at his smart mouth. If he felt secure enough to be sassy, he felt secure that I would love him even if he made mistakes. Just before his sixth birthday we went to court to finalize his adoption. The judge asked him if he had any questions, and DJ said, “Yeah, can I bang your judge hammer?” He sat comfortably in my lap, and he only wanted to bang things—so typical for little boys. Hooray! He belonged to us and we belonged to him, no matter what.
DJ learned anger management by watching his stepdad beat up his birth mom. As he got older and bigger and stronger, his temper got proportionately bigger and stronger. He had to learn to control his temper before he got too big for me to keep him from hurting himself or anyone else. He learned to sit in a chair, gripping the edges of the seat until his knuckles turned white. He kicked and screamed and swore, but he sat in the chair, controlling his body by the strength of his fists hooked under the seat. More than one chair frame cracked or crumbled under his teenage strength while he learned emotional control.
Prone to impulsive decisions and snap judgments, DJ sometimes found himself committed to things he had no intention of doing. He came home one afternoon and said, “Mom, I’ve joined the Army.” I did not believe him at first, but I looked into his eager, earnest, young face and knew he meant what he said. My newly eighteen-year-old son legally signed a contract for the first time. It may have been impulsive, but it bound him to military service. My little boy would be all he could be.
Basic training lasts twelve long weeks. Soldiers do not call or email their families, and mine did not write real letters, either. No one muttered obscenities or broke chairs for three months at my house. A gallon of milk actually had time to sour in the refrigerator. Swept floors stayed swept, and dishes stayed in the kitchen. I missed my son, but I sure loved the peace!
A military brass band marches onto the parade ground, and the crowd stills instantly. We all crane our necks, watching for our own soldiers. From around the corner, one thousand soldiers march together, wearing dress uniforms, stepping to the music in perfect time. I have been to countless high school and college graduations, but no one does pomp and circumstance like the military. DJ marches in Company D, second row, third from the left. He never breaks formation, but I see a tiny grin in one corner of his mouth as he passes my seat. I want to shout from the rooftops, do back handsprings along the parade route, and dance all the way back home. My sad, scared, angry boy became this confident, happy young man.
Epilogue
DJ left for Iraq just after basic training. He served his country honorably, and came home at the end of his tour, safe and sound. He told me he planned to go to New York, alone, for his twenty-first birthday. I object, “You can’t go to New York by yourself!” “Mom,” he laughed, “I went to Iraq and came home safe.” Well, true, but he took a whole army with him to Iraq.
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