I was the reading New York Times this Sunday, and I stumbled upon the following article; it is a poem a mother wrote to her son in Iraq...interesting how keep inventory on those things we hold dear, those things we hold close to ourselves...thought I would pass it along to you--comment if you so desire.
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/02/magazine/02lives-t.html?_r=1&ref=magazine&oref=slogin
2 comments:
This poem uses material possessions as a way to define someone and give a sense of who this unknown soldier may be. It reminded me of the scene in Fight Club where the narrator is listing off all the items in his house as they slowly accumulate to fill his apartment. The narrator in Fight Club defined himself by those items, just as this mother does in this poem with her son. This poem makes me wonder how much you can actually tell about someone simply by examining their outside world. “If you wake up in a different place and a different time, could you wake up as a different person?" In other words, how much of who we are can be defined by place and objects of the outside world?
Towards the end of the list, the mother stops listing equipment and begins to list more personal possessions, the items which not every soldier would carry. The reader comes to learn the soldier’s favorite movies, music, and books. We also know that he’s superstitious (the mention of the laminated four leaf clover), that he’s a smoker, and that he has an interest in religion. I think that one of the most telling items of this man is the mention of the “dog-eared copy of Komunyakaa’s “Neon Vernacular.” This book meant enough to him that he wanted to pass it on to his mother and also underline certain phrases. It had certainly struck a chord with his inner being and affected him in some way. However, it’s not enough to understand who this man is. By the end of the poem, the possessions leave a vague idea of what this soldier may be like, but nothing more.
The underlined phrase in Neon Vernacular, “We can transplant broken hearts, but can we put goodness back into them,” deals with this idea that we can easily change our physical being, but it’s impossible to take something like “goodness” and bring it to us because it isn’t part of the tangible world. This relates to the idea of tangible-identities and defining ourselves by our surroundings. The narrator in Fight Club initially created for himself a tangible identity by defining himself through his clothes and furniture. It served as an easy way for him to define himself, when he didn't know how else to. Everywhere he looked in his apartment he was reminded of his “identity." He was so much defined by his place and possessions that if he were to leave for a different place, he would be forced to give up the tangible identity which he bought for himself. So to answer the question in Fight Club: “If you wake up in a different place and a different time, could you wake up a different person?” I think it all depends on by which world you define yourself: the inner world or outside world. If you define yourself through material possessions and place (outside world), then yes. If the list of possessions given about this soldier changed, then so would our image of him. But if you define yourself by the inside world, I would guess that a change in setting would barely have an effect. Also, I don’t really think this question is entirely black and white, because it seems like most people define themselves by a little of both worlds. hmm..well, guess I stopped talking about the poem. I should probably end now.
I'm trying to look at this poem objectively. I can't, all I see is that she doesn't get it, she doesn't know him anymore. She defines his equipment in layman's terms, she awkwardly throws around terms like P.T. and Camelbak in a way that makes me picture her standing tensely in the doorway with her toes pointed together on the concrete floor, staring as he fills his moss green bag and, asking for the name of each and every item as he drops them into the bad. She spent her moment memorizing the materials, staring at the meaningless standard issue socks, instead of looking at the one thing that identifies a soldier from any other, his face. She didn't notice his expressions, his phrases, the excited proud way he spoke of his weapon, "it's not a gun."
She strikes me as selfish, she doesn't see him, all she can see is her own loss, and her own memories. thats a blind way to see anything, especially a soldier. You might as well only look at his dog tags and wonder simply when he will die and how much it will hurt. It's a waste, think those things when he is not around, while he's there stare at his face. Treat his standard issue green socks and desert boots as small miracles simply to make him happy.
The soldiers that I know could never be represented by how they pack, not by someone else at least. Maybe their battle buddy, but no one else can look at his poncho and understand how proud he is of the tent he can make with it. No one else can see his small shovel and know that they will dig holes to sleep in back to back with legs locked so noone can take one without the other.
She's missing the details, and I can't help but feel that she is lost and blind. This may not be because of her poem, it may be because her lack of detail leaves me wanting more. It could also be the fact that I know he is not infantry, I know that he is not a private upon the front lines and lastly it says that he survived his tours. If Grant doesn't survive, and this unnamed man whose mother didn't understand his passion managed to live, I will hate her for her gloating poem.
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