“I don’t know, son.” Daniel began to move back to their pickup to retrieve a .22 rifle. “I’d like to tell you no. Thank God the Russians are taking care of those bastards in the Old World, but we’re not doing nothing about them here.” He opened a box of .22-caliber rounds. “Now watch,” Dan said as he opened the tubular magazine of a Colt rifle and began to load it. “Hell, son, the enemies of this country seem to be getting stronger every day. Not just Muslim jihadists either. A lot of native-born Americans are bad guys these days. For whatever reason they hate this country, they hate your God, they hate your freedom, they hate you. They will do whatever they can to make America weak, to make you weak.”
“Why?” Sean was truly confused by such self-hating, self-destructive Americans.
“Good question,” Dan Harris said with a sad half smile. “Some have been taught to hate themselves and to seek redemption in your destruction. Others are just born hateful people, like it’s natural for them to be evil. Others? They hate freedom because they want to control. As if they can make themselves gods if they can just control enough. In the end it don’t matter what their reason is. They’ll kill you or enslave you if they can.” He turned to his son again and smiled. “They’ll have to kill me first before I let that happen.”
Sean smiled back. “They’ll have to kill me too!” Sean felt confident. He thought no one could kill his father. He was too big, too strong, and too smart. Americans were the best people, and his father was the best American. How could they lose if they fought their best?
“That’s why today we’re teaching you to shoot. In this world, son, a man has got to know how to fight.” Daniel stopped and thought for a moment. “A man has got to know how to kill, if he’s gonna stay free.”
Sean lay in bed, unable to sleep. The clock on his nightstand read 1:49 and changed to 1:50 before his eyes. The realization that nothing could stop the morning hurt; it frightened him. Tears welled up in his eyes and he silently began to cry. Now added was the fear that he would awake his younger brother, who would see him crying and tell their father. He had not always hated school. He had been excited when he had started kindergarten just over a year ago. At the time, he felt like he was starting a great adventure. His mother had bought special school gear for him. He’d gotten new clothes, new shoes, and an official identification badge with his picture on it. His father had complained a bit about the badge, but his mother had chided him to be quiet and not ruin it for the boy.
His father complained that school had changed since he was a boy. Now the school children were required to wear shirts that were blue, white or gray, in addition to a photo ID. Boys were required to wear khaki pants and the girls, skirts. Most parents in the area applauded the new regulations. They expressed pleasure at the new “high standards.” Dan Harris had complained. He wanted to see higher standards in reading, writing, and arithmetic.
“Every year kids are learning less and less and the school wants to focus on what clothes the kids are wearing,” Sean would hear his father complain. “The kids have a right to be individuals.” What had really set his father off was when Sean, on a “student choice day” was not allowed to wear a shirt with an American Revolutionary Minuteman on it, due to the school’s no-tolerance policy towards weapons of any sort.
“What kind of horseshit is this?!” Dan Harris exclaimed when he found out.
“Hmmm hmmm!” Sharon Harris warned her husband to watch his language.
“Well, really! How the fu—foxtrot does this prevent crime?” He himself was a law enforcement officer for the Kansas Bureau of Investigation. “It’s a bunch of crap. They’re not making the kids any safer. If anything, all they’re doing, whether they realize it or not, is not letting the kids be Americans or show pride in being American.”
Overall, however, Sean liked kindergarten. It was his first-grade year when he really began to hate school.
For the very first art project during the very first week of school, Miss Crane handed out large blue sheets of construction paper.
“Listen, children. Draw a big X on one side of your paper. You will only be allowed to draw on one side of the paper. Okay?” She continued in a slow, saccharine tone, “You will not be allowed to start over. Are you all listening? You all must learn to live with your mistakes. We have to learn to live with our imperfections.
“Very good.” Miss Crane walked through the classroom, checking to see that the students followed her instructions.
“Very good. Excellent. Sean?! What is this?!” Sean had drawn a giant X on the back and then four smaller Xs in the four quadrants of the big X. “Did I tell you to draw more than one X? No!” she sternly chastised without giving him a chance to respond. The young teacher picked up his blue construction paper and ripped it in half. “Sean, until you learn to follow instructions, you will not be allowed to participate in art.”
His school year went downhill from there. He found the days long and boring. Miss Crane insisted that everyone move at the same slow rate. Sean would often find himself done with an assignment and sitting with nothing to do. He began to hide books in his desk. He read them during his downtime waiting for assignments. At least until he was discovered by Miss Crane. For the next three days he sat in the time-out corner during indoor recess.
Sean found the time of sitting and doing nothing at school painfully boring, but not as painful as the packets of homework that were sent home with him to be completed during the week. He spent at least an hour at home doing schoolwork that was not getting done at school because of Miss Crane’s insistence on a slow pace for all students. When Sean complained of this to his parents, he was fluffed off as being lazy. He would then get a speech from one of his parents on the importance of an education.
It was not until one night when his father was home to help him with his homework that Sean felt like his dad could see a bit of his point of view. Dan had become rather flustered with a math assignment that made no sense to him. Not that he wasn’t good with numbers. He was a trained pilot and was good at making calculations in his head. He kept referring to the confusing questions as asinine, which would make Sean giggle because it sounded like it might be a bad word. However, it was the social studies work that caused Dan Harris to blow his top. It started out easy enough with a short reading about Rosa Parks, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and the Civil Rights Movement of the 1950s and ’60s. Then the students were expected to answer hypothetical questions about racist white cops that stole from and murdered black people. As a KBI agent he did not care to see law enforcement represented as organized crime to his six-year-old son, whom he was trying to teach to respect the law and its officers. This led to a discussion between father and son where Mr. Harris learned that Sean had not learned one thing, in school anyway, about George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, or Benjamin Franklin. In addition to finding out how much time Sean spent doing nothing and getting in trouble for reading, it was too much for Dan Harris. The next day he demanded a meeting with the principal and teacher.
Sean was actually a little disappointed that everyone was so nice to each other at the meeting. Secretly he was hoping that his father would tear into Miss Crane. That didn’t happen, but it was clear to Sean that between the principal, Miss Crane, and his dad, his dad was the boss. Their behavior was a lot less bossy in front of his father, and they had no good answers when he asked them how they could teach the Civil Rights movement to first graders without putting it in the context of the ideas and values of our Founding Fathers.
As contrite as Miss Crane had been in front of his father, she seemed all the nastier to Sean at school. A couple of weeks after the meeting, the students were working on another art project. The art theme for the project was how people could help others. One girl had drawn a picture of people working in an animal shelter. Another had drawn a picture of someone giving money to a person with a sign on the street corner.
Sean was excited to explain his work before the class. His work, his topic, was
a source of pride for him. He’d drawn a picture of his father flying a helicopter, killing bad guys when he was an Army pilot in the Islamic Wars.
“Sean,” Miss Crane started in her nasally, self-righteous tone, “how is your father killing human beings helping people?”
“Because he’s killing the bad guys so they don’t kill good guys and before they can come here and kill us,” Sean replied with a great deal of pride.
“You know, Sean, over there they think your father is one of the bad guys.”
Sean’s six-year-old mind could not figure out how to respond. He was shocked; he was hurt that someone would imply his father could be one of the bad guys.
“That’s exactly the kind of work I expect from you, Sean.
“Alexi, tell us about your project…”
Sean sat down, deflated, angered, and humiliated. He didn’t want the tears to well up in his eyes, but he couldn’t stop them any more than he could stop Miss Crane.
“Sean, are you all right? Are you crying?” the teacher asked before the class to his greater embarrassment.
“No!” Sean answered in a very non-believable voice. He wiped his tears and wished he could disappear.
At times children could be the most vile and cruelest people on earth. Sean got a lesson on that fact during recess that day. Somehow, someway, Jordon Miller had found out that Sean had been crying in class. Jordon Miller was easily the biggest kid in the third grade. In fact, he would have been the biggest kid in the fifth grade had he been two years older. Sean’s recess time was for first through third grade, and for thirty minutes twice a day Jordon Miller was the biggest, toughest guy around. For reasons that even Jordon Miller could not have explained, he felt compelled to use his burgeoning size and strength to intimidate and demean others. It was from this that he derived his greatest joy in life. For him to find out that Sean Harris was crying in class about his daddy being a “bad guy” was a gift, a golden opportunity. He could not let it pass.
On the playground he approached the small redheaded boy playing in the sand pit. Plenty of kids were around. He couldn’t have picked a better scenario.
“Is this the red-haired pussy crying in class earlier?”
Sean hoped the voice of Jordon Miller was not talking to him, but it was. He tried to ignore it and keep playing in the sand.
“Hey! I’m talking to you!” Miller kicked sand into Sean’s face. He spat the sand out of his mouth.
“Stop it.” Sean’s fear made him sound uncharacteristically submissive.
“Why, crybaby? You gonna call your daddy and have him fly around and kill me? Like he did to other kids during the war? You a big pussy like your daddy? Huh, crybaby?” He kicked sand again.
Sean went to stand up, which was exactly what Jordan Miller expected. He’d been through this kind of scene before. Before Sean could completely stand up, Miller nailed him with a right hook, and Sean went down with a bloody nose. He had never been punched before and did not know how to respond. A part of his brain told him not to stand up again lest he get punched again.
“Fucking red-haired pussy!” Miller kicked Sean in the stomach. The air exploded out of him, and he thought he would die for the inability to breathe.
Jordan Miller truly laughed, not one of the fake laughs common with children, and strolled off triumphant and happy.
Shortly thereafter, Miss Crane, who was on recess duty, showed up and asked if Sean was all right.
“You know, you really need to be careful of what you say to others. You make them mad and you’ll get this kind of response. Go to the little boys’ room and clean the blood off your face.”
At that moment Sean’s six-year-old brain comprehended that Miss Crane and Jordon Miller were evil. They were the type of people that his father had killed in the war to keep him safe. Yet Sean was defeated by them. He was beaten. He was inferior. He did not know how to respond. He was ashamed. He did not know what to do. His father would know, but Sean was too ashamed to tell him.
Sean’s response was to pretend to be sick to avoid school for the next five days. His father was working and it was easy to pull this over on his mother. Then his father came home for the next few days. He was far more skeptical and began to ask questions. Somehow, against Sean’s will, he had spilled the beans to his father. He had never seen his father so angry.
“Get your ass out of bed!” Dan Harris shouted the next morning, waking the boy up. Instead of school that day, Dan took his son to a sporting goods store and bought some youth boxing gloves. Before dinner that night, he also had the boy enrolled in a local jiujitsu club. Thus began Sean’s training in combat. Dan Harris would not let his son grow up to be a victim.
Sean had jiujitsu class twice a week, sometimes three. When Dan had time off from work, they were down in the basement with the gloves on. Sean loved the jiujitsu classes; he hated boxing with his father. His dad was meaner than Jordan Miller. He’d hit him, call him names; he seemed merciless. When it was all over, Dan would always hug his son and tell him he loved him, but it was hell for Sean until then.
The teasing at school had not ceased. Some days were better; some days were worse. His father told him not to start trouble, but not to run from it. He had been told not to punch another kid unless he was punched. Miller hadn’t punched him since their first encounter, but he said things that made Sean feel less than human, made him feel like the lowest life on earth. Sean could never quite think of what to say back, and when he did, Jordon Miller always seem to have a reply that made Sean feel even worse. He hated school. He hated his life. He began to cry in his room in the evenings, thinking about having to go back to school the next day. One night his father saw him crying.
“Sean, what’s wrong, buddy?”
“I-I-I don’t know,” Sean stammered.
“Yeah, you do, little man. Tell me so I can help you with it.”
Sean proceeded to tell him all he had gone through at the hands of Jordan Miller over the last few months.
“Son, you mean to tell me you’re in here crying cause that big kid is still calling you names or some other silly ass shit?” Dan Harris fought to keep his temper under control.
“I think so.”
“Oh, horseshit, son! If you don’t know, who the hell does?” Sean stared silently at his father. Hating his father for not understanding. Hating himself for not having done anything about his problem.
“That boy says a goddamn word, he fucking looks at you funny, you break his goddamn nose! You understand me? Kick him in the shin first. Punch him in the sternum, just like we practiced, but you break his fucking nose. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” Sean answered, wide eyed, afraid to say anything else.
“I promise you, son, I catch you crying like this again over some piece of shit like this Jordon Miller and you’re doing nothing about it, I will whip your ass with the belt. Do you understand me? I don’t care if you win! I don’t care if you lose! You come home with your nose on the side of your face, I don’t give a damn! You stand up for yourself! You understand? I catch you crying again, I will give you something to cry about!
“You’re a good boy, Sean.” Dan Harris softened his tone. “I love you very much. You are too good of a boy to allow yourself to be bullied by that punk. You, my little man, are worth fighting for, and that is what I expect you to do for yourself.”
So young Sean lay in bed, fearful of the next day. Afraid to go to school. Afraid to stay home. Afraid to fight Jordon Miller. Afraid not to.
Jordon Miller was having a particularly bad day. It started when he had complained to his mother about there being no milk in the house for his cereal. She tore into him. Told him he was as worthless as the father he had never met. He was as worthless as the government that could not give them enough money to live on. She made it clear she thought he was worthless, but at school he was a god. Kids listened to him. Teachers coddled him. He was feared; he had power. That made him feel good, and today he needed to feel
good.
At recess he saw that little redheaded wimp Harris playing in the sand, building whatever the hell he thought he was building. It was time for Jordon Miller to feel good.
“Well, if it isn’t the little red-haired pussy crybaby. You gonna cry for me, redheaded pussy?”
Sean froze in the sand, staring at the “parking garage” he was trying to build. Even at his young age he knew this was the time to confront his fear, to face what he was scared of. His battle had arrived.
Through a sudden inspiration, he stayed on all fours and said nothing. Miller approached. Sean could hear his father’s voice in his head, telling him to fight with his mind as well as his fists. Sean figured Miller wanted to get close enough to kick sand in his face again. Sean could use that to his advantage, but he would have to act fast.
“Hey, you little shit, look at me when I talk to you!” Miller shouted, ready to kick his ass.
Sean pretended to ignore him, which he had often done for real in the past. When Miller was within about five feet, Sean jumped up with a hand full of sand and threw it in his face. The tactic was great, but the results would be short lived if Sean did nothing else. While Miller made the mistake of rubbing the sand further into his eyes with his hands, young Sean jumped up and kicked him square in the left shin. The larger boy bent over in pain and howled. His mother had slapped him plenty of times, but this was a new pain to him. Instinctively he bent over. His face was level with Sean’s, so Sean did what he had practiced with his father. He threw his hardest right punch into the bigger boy’s nose. Followed by the hardest left he had ever thrown. Followed again by an even harder right. Miller went down. Sean wanted to celebrate, but he was too scared to stop fighting. If he stopped, Miller might beat him up. Sean jumped on top of the boy. He kept punching. He aimed for the nose. He could hear the other kids around him yelling, but he did not pay attention. Sean’s focus was on Miller’s nose. Over and over again he kept punching. Sean felt better with every punch. He felt good. He felt power.
The Last Marine Page 6
