Confessions by a Soldier's Sister

"There’s just something about a man in a uniform."

Is there now? What is it about a man in a uniform? How does a simple uniform change a person? Why not say there’s something about a man in a fedora? But that’s just me. The truth is, as cliché and ambiguous as the phrase is, it’s also so darn true. There is something about a man in a uniform. On Friday night, for me, it was a slap in the face.

I don’t dislike men in uniform. I think a uniform makes a man look respectable and well put together. I come from a family of men in uniform. They are proud, strong, and dependable. I love men in uniform. So of all people, I was the last person expecting my reaction.

Friday was the night of the awards dinner to honor our veteran soldiers. I knew from the previous year that there would be wounded veterans present. I knew exactly what to expect. I knew until I stepped off the bus and caught my first flash of blue.

I think it was shock that kept the tears from falling. I hadn’t realized just how much I missed my brother. It’s amazing how one uniform can take a person and turn them 180 degrees.

I felt silly for getting choked up and angrily stuffed the tears back where they belonged. I busied myself with the task of avoiding all uniforms the rest of the night, and managed nicely, right up until one of the coordinators stuffed a medal in my hand. I was supposed to hand it off to a veteran. I nearly melted into the floor, but managed to squeak out some form of refusal.  Rather than taking the medal to someone else, she clapped me on the shoulder and professed her confidence in me. I could do it.

I shoved the distasteful medal into my purse, and spent the rest of the dinner distracting myself from what was coming. When the veterans stood to be introduced, my eyes wandered over their figures. I clapped politely as horror pooled in my stomach. These veterans weren’t old; they were young, early twenties tops.

Then, it was my turn. I made a beeline for the oldest looking veteran out there. At least, I tried—which means I wove around the circular tables, dodging chairs as quickly as I could without looking like I was sprinting. By the time I made it to the center of the room, I found myself standing in front of no one, with one veteran slowly moving towards me. His crutches caused him to slump forward.  Even so, I could see his face. It was proud and determined and young.

I lost it. I knew that face. I’d seen it before in so many young men. I’d seen it in my brother. For one terrible moment, all I could see was my twin struggling toward me. It was as if my nightmares had come to life. Then, my brother was gone and it was just the wounded veteran and I.

When he came to a stop in front of me, his comrade pulled out a chair for him to sit in. He looked at it in anger and frustration. I may not have recognized that there were others in the room anymore, but he certainly did. He was aware of every gaze, every pitying thought. He knew what he looked like dragging his feet after him.  

I wanted to reach out and tell him it would be ok. This injury didn’t define him. But I couldn’t because all of this took only seconds, half of a shaky breath before the look turned to acceptance. His face relaxed. He politely declined it.

By the time he turned forward, I am pretty sure no amount of makeup could have redeemed me. I hated myself for crying, but He looked at me with kindness. He was full of strength and peace. He wasn’t angry or frustrated anymore. He would be ok. His eyes said all of that.

I know it’s hard to believe. I am a skeptic, after all. So maybe I saw what I wanted to see. But that’s what the smile in the corners of his eyes told me, and so that’s what I believed.

I wanted to smile back and tell him how much I respected him for his strength. I didn’t want him to think my tears were for the sorry state he was in. I didn’t want him to think I pitied him. I didn’t. He was a soldier. He had chosen this life. We both knew that. But I couldn’t stop crying.

“I’m sorry.” I told him, and he knew I was referring to the tears. “I’m sorry, it’s just, you remind me of my brother.” I managed.

He smiled up at me, and in that moment I felt as if he were the kindest person I’d ever met. “It’s ok.” He answered. His voice filled with compassion, and I couldn’t help but believe him. He understood everything.

I put the medal over his head. My fingers shook, brushing his cropped hair. Not waiting for permission, I hugged him tightly. I think we were supposed to shake hands. If it had been my brother, he’d have been upset with me.

I left not long after that. I needed to pull myself together. I was supposed to be strong. But I realized, all I was at the moment was scared. That’s why I was crying. I was terrified inside and out and had been since my brother had sworn his oath.

When my friends asked me about it later, I wanted to be able to say “he looked like my brother,” and have that explain everything. Only, it doesn’t. I realized if people were going to understand, I was going to have to stop pretending.  

So, here is my confession. I get angry, a lot. I’m angry more than I am sad. I wonder why people think family have to be proud, happy, and strong all the time. I didn’t get to make the choice, my soldier did, but I have to live with it every day. And he didn’t ask me if I was ok with it.

When I’m not angry, I’m terrified. My days and nights are filled with "what ifs." People always ask if I support our soldiers. What do you think? How could I not?

When people make fun of my soldier’s job or his branch, I want to yell at them. What do they know? Instead, I hold my tongue and pick my chin up a little higher. I want to scream at the wives of soldiers who express their loneliness and terror. They aren’t the only ones who feel that way, but what is a sister’s love next to a wife’s? So I lock it away.

When people ask where my soldier is stationed and the answer is not Afghanistan, Iran, or Iraq I feel guilty for being afraid. I pretend like none of this bothers me, but I think about my soldier all the time. I wear his old shirts and read his letters over and over. All I want is to see him again, but I hate telling people how much I miss him. I don’t want people to think I’m being silly. I already think that myself.

So, the truth is, no, I don’t want to thank a wounded veteran for his sacrifice. All I can think is that one-day my brother may become him, and that thought scares me to death. But as scared as I am, I am proud of my brother. I am happy that he is doing something he loves. He looks good in that uniform. There’s just something about it. But sometimes, when I see a uniform and it’s not him, it’s like a slap in the face.