What is a Marine

How can it be spring of my son’s kindergarten year already? Since I teach in my children’s school, I’ve encouraged their teachers to ignore me and pretend I’m just another staff member. Despite that, Alex’s wonderful teacher, Mrs. McCloy, has come to me in the hallway suppressing laughter on multiple occasions. He’s a talker. Has been since he was just a baby, surprising his doctor with full sentences.

Fortunately, he hasn’t told too many family secrets in class. The worst was when someone brought in a badminton racquet for show-and-tell, and Alex excitedly explained they were used to shoo bats out of our farm buildings.

I see her coming toward me in the hallway now. I am relieved. She doesn’t look like she has anything shocking to share. Alex had a special request yesterday, and I hope she’s coming to tell me all went well.

You see, my brother is a Naval Aviator. For most of his career, I heard stories from faraway places—Kosovo, Djibouti—distant names where he provided humanitarian relief. But these past months were different.

His squadron was pulled from the Mediterranean and sent into Operation Iraqi Freedom—assault support, casualty evacuation—a far heavier assignment. Each report of a downed helicopter sent me searching for news, my breath caught waiting to learn details, praying it would not be his CH-53E Super Stallion. It never was. Despite my relief I felt the weight of sorrow for someone else.

I’m sure my children sensed the emotional turbulence revealed in our daily prayers. When news came that Uncle Andy would be among the first to return, the mood of the house lifted with me.        

Hopeful expectation led to planting red, white, and blue vincas in the flower boxes, matching a fresh unfurling of “Old Glory” from our front porch.

The night he came home, we made his favorites: lasagna and cheesecake. I found myself watching him constantly, making sure he was real, whole, and home. Then, after dinner, when Alex asked, “Uncle Andy, can you be my show-and-tell?” I beamed a glow of tender pride.

This morning we printed out pictures of my brother’s helicopter lifting a Humvee through a mountain pass, another of a string of Navy SEALs hanging off a tether from the belly of his beastly bird. We sent him off, an Uncle in a flight suit, to meet 20 six-year-olds.

I try to imagine what kindergarten children know of the Iraqi War. Some of Alex’s classmates might have family stationed at McGuire AFB or Fort Dix. Some might have seen coverage on the news. Their families might have stayed up all night watching the “shock and awe” first wave and praying for the safety of our military. I wonder if they will have some of the same questions I had. Would they ask about the great big gun on the back of his aircraft? About transporting casualties? About being in battle?

Mrs. McCloy’s line of cuties passes by me into the art room. I wave at their friendly greetings as they go by. She turns to me after closing the door.

“How was the visit?” I ask. I admit I was a little worried.

“It was really wonderful. Alex said, ‘My show-and-tell is a Marine,’ and the first question was, ‘What is a Marine?’”

 “That’s a good starting point.”

  “And your brother explained, ‘Do you know what a soldier is?’ and the kids all nodded. ‘A Marine is a soldier of the sea,’ ” she quotes him dramatically. “And they understood perfectly.”

 I thank her for making this happen. If any of these six-year-olds wind up at Quantico someday, may they have a proud nephew who wants to show them off. I give a quiet Oorah for all those, “Soldiers of the Sea,” few and proud indeed.