nhboy
Ubi bene ibi patria
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"I don’t remember much about my mom. I know she wore glasses and had dark hair. My memories mostly surround my dad, even though he was deployed a lot. I remember homecomings, wearing a new dress, sitting on someone’s shoulders and waving the American flag or the hand-painted Welcome Home sign. I have memories of eating in the Officer’s Wardroom on my dad’s ship, of Marines teasing me and giving me their desserts. They called me Rabbit, thinking it was funny that I loved salad at such a young age.
When my mom left us, I was two years old. I guess she couldn’t handle being married to a Marine that was often deployed, and raising a young daughter on her own in Japan. At the time, I didn’t think she was gone for good, but I remember whispered telephone conversations late at night, hearing my dad asking the person on the other line “Where would I send her? Who would take care of her? She’s my daughter, she belongs with me. We’re doing fine.”
I remember visits from people I would later find out were psychologists and family advocacy groups; people asking if I was happy with my dad, if he ever touched me in certain places, if he fed me, what he fed me, what time I went to bed. I remember showing them my huge closet of stuffed animals and the entire set of knock-off Care Bears that my dad had gotten hand-sewn for me while deployed to Korea.
After my mother left, I had nightmares almost every night. The monsters in my nightmares were feelings of loneliness, of being abandoned, and I often woke up frightened and with tears streaming down my face. Crawling out of bed, I would set off into the darkened house to find my father, knowing instinctively that he would make the feelings go away."
"I don’t remember much about my mom. I know she wore glasses and had dark hair. My memories mostly surround my dad, even though he was deployed a lot. I remember homecomings, wearing a new dress, sitting on someone’s shoulders and waving the American flag or the hand-painted Welcome Home sign. I have memories of eating in the Officer’s Wardroom on my dad’s ship, of Marines teasing me and giving me their desserts. They called me Rabbit, thinking it was funny that I loved salad at such a young age.
When my mom left us, I was two years old. I guess she couldn’t handle being married to a Marine that was often deployed, and raising a young daughter on her own in Japan. At the time, I didn’t think she was gone for good, but I remember whispered telephone conversations late at night, hearing my dad asking the person on the other line “Where would I send her? Who would take care of her? She’s my daughter, she belongs with me. We’re doing fine.”
I remember visits from people I would later find out were psychologists and family advocacy groups; people asking if I was happy with my dad, if he ever touched me in certain places, if he fed me, what he fed me, what time I went to bed. I remember showing them my huge closet of stuffed animals and the entire set of knock-off Care Bears that my dad had gotten hand-sewn for me while deployed to Korea.
After my mother left, I had nightmares almost every night. The monsters in my nightmares were feelings of loneliness, of being abandoned, and I often woke up frightened and with tears streaming down my face. Crawling out of bed, I would set off into the darkened house to find my father, knowing instinctively that he would make the feelings go away."