I took the Michigan 57 highway across the state; it was a pretty straight shot almost all the way to Muskegon. Not much in the way of natural splendor or attractions but then I wasn’t in the sightseeing mood either. I was about fifteen miles north of Flint when I looked to my left and saw the flag at the State Police barracks was lowered to half staff. I wasn’t sure why so I pulled in and leaned the Liberty against a rail and went to find out.
“Hello, may I help you?” The woman at the counter asked.
“Yeah, hi. Hey I saw the flag is at half staff, can you tell me why?” I hadn’t read anything in the papers and I was curious to see if I had missed something.
“We lost a soldier in Iraq last week. A local boy.” She told me with a solemn face.
She went on to tell me he was from a small town called Swartz Creek. They didn’t know much of the details, only that this statistic was far more than another number. It brought home the irony of my day. I was experiencing the utmost freedom by riding my bike. I could go wherever my wheels and spirit took me and was under no obligation to seek permission from anyone. It was a gift I often overlooked and the flag I stared at and saluted as I left the barracks was a true reminder of the fragility of those very freedoms. A reminder that the country was still at war.
I was lost in these thoughts when I noticed my tire had gone flat between my arriving at the barracks and my departure from them. It wasn’t evident if the event was connected in some way but I couldn’t feel distressed about my station at that point. I changed the tire with a fluid ease that may have been some kind of subconscious acknowledgement of my respect for the young American who had given his life in the name of freedom.
It was sad though and while his death was one that followed many and would certainly precede many more I felt despite my never knowing the man’s name I still shared something with him.
He gave his life but I doubt he gave it willingly or with too much reflection on the enormity of his sacrifice. Surely he was aware of the foundation for the fight he was in but I strongly doubt he would have thought his life was an even trade for much of the apathy and selfishness that had plagued our nation in the last years. I do not think he would have graciously laid his body in the path of fragmented steel and hurled bullets for the jealous jockeying of car horns honking at rush hour or the corporate greed and political dishonesty we had grown so accustomed to it no longer succeeded in raising our eyebrows.
As I rode I wondered then, if he had been asked, what did he give his life for? What put him in that place of danger rather than him staying in the sandbagged safety of the company bunker? It was pure speculation but I thought maybe he did it for the things he felt strongly about and that probably meant the people he was with when he died. He may not have felt a strong unity with the country as a whole but I would venture he did feel a solidarity with those who shared the sand and sun with him on a daily basis and it was for those Americans for whom he died. The flag means different things to different people. I see it and I’m reminded of our national history and future potential. But I also see it and it stirs memories of sunny 4th of Julys with friends and fireworks. Beaches, mountains, baseball and the rest of the stereotypes. But most importantly the flag symbolizes good things to me, the red, the white and the blue conjure memories of friends and family and how when the chips are down those resources can be relied on for support and inspiration.
He was one more soldier in the long line of names and the flags were only lowered around his home town. A private grieving that the country saw as one more statistic and one the town could absorb and move from a few weeks after the burial procession. But the family and the friends of this one more American Hero would not be healed so quickly. Each name carries the weight of the world with it. My lacrosse coach from Kansas State was killed on the last day of the first Gulf War and that moment never left my heart. I knew the family of this most recent casualty would never see war in the same light again and that each holiday the empty seat at the table would only seem more obvious.
There is no such thing as ‘light casualties’ to those who have to bury them.
I lost myself in the miles and the thinking as I rode away from there. The flags eventually returned to full staff and the conversations with the people I met didn’t speak of the war but it weighed on me. Later that night after I’d bowed out to a thunderstorm and took a room at a motel I was reminded of the differences between where I was and where the war was. It wasn’t on the news, it didn’t fill the paper and had I not seen the half staff flag I wouldn’t have noticed it either.
I watched the Red Sox and Mets play baseball that night on ESPN.
