Jason

My little brother left for boot camp today. I guess he’s not so little anymore. I’m so proud of him, and nervous for him, and scared for him. It’s not something I would ever choose, but Jason has dreamed of being a Marine since he was young, and it’s not my choice to make. And so I’m happy for him, even if I cry.

Jason has always had zeal for the military. His room has been plastered with Marine Corps posters since his early teens. He’s been known to create entire power-point presentations about the Marine Corps just for fun. His I-pod shuffle includes a number of military cadences, which, like Country music and 50 cent, he actually enjoys listening to. Once on a road trip together, he slipped one of his cadence CDs into the CD player. One chant in and I nixed his selection.
“What?” he’d said looking hurt, “You said you wanted some mood music.”
“Yeah, but not the kind that will put me in a bad mood,” I’d replied, “I tolerated Hilary Duff, but dude, here I draw the line.” We never did see eye to eye on music.

Over the summer, I recruited Jason to help my friend and I dispose of a couch. I told him it was a covert operation in need of some leadership. That was all he needed to hear. He disappeared into his room, blasted some cadences and emerged 30 minutes later in full camouflage. “Operation Couch,” he assured me, would be a success.

Jason insisted upon driving to my friend Josh’s apartment. Apparently his black truck “would blend into the night” should we need to make a hasty retreat. He parked down the block from the apartment complex and did a full sweep of the premises “to get an idea of what we [were] up against.” Once inside, he drew up a floor plan of the building, noting exits, alleyways and high traffic areas. While he was writing the objectives of our mission, he made Josh and I change into sweat suits and beanies. Then the two of us, sweating like pigs, stood “in formation” while Jason barked out commands.

The mission, if you could even call it that, was simple: ditch the couch across the street without any witnesses. It certainly could have been accomplished without the pomp and circumstance of a full-scale military operation, but it was rather amusing to see Jason so in his element. He was dead serious as he deftly shimmied along the walls, ducked behind bushes, and gave silent orders with hand motions and head nods. “Sheryl,” he told me later as we drove home, “that was so much fun.”

“I’m proud of you,” I told him yesterday on the phone. And I am; I’m exceedingly proud of him for following his dream, for choosing his path, for climbing his mountain. I really wanted to give some sisterly advice, but I found myself at a loss for what to say. Perhaps there’s nothing to say, when people we love chase down their dreams. So I told him I loved him, and that I would pray for him, and that when I start to think my life is rough, I’ll remember him being belittled at boot camp.

We can’t choose the paths that other people take any more than we can choose the paths that strike our own fancy, that compel us to leave behind the person we are in search of the person we will become. If I could choose, Jason wouldn’t be in the military, he would be climbing a safer mountain, one where the possibility of being shipped off to war wasn’t lurking in the valley below. But it’s not my choice to make, and so I’m happy for him, because I know how happy he is in his element.