Generation Gasp
March 22, 2003 | 12:00am
War imminent. Watch CNN." The text from my friend in the US read. I received it at my country home early in the afternoon. I was totally alone. My maid had taken her days off. Something in my bones said this would be a different kind of war. It would affect us more profoundly than Desert Storm did but I didn’t know how. I reviewed my week’s schedule. Tuesday, lunch with my adult children. Saturday, open a new writing class. In between, drum up interest for the writing class.
The rest of the afternoon was unsettling. News of another war had opened my Pandora’s box of memories, my war chest. There was the big one, World War II, that took all the men in our family and changed our lives forever. Then I saw myself, a little girl sitting on a low stool near a window, reading El Debate, a Spanish newspaper, to my grandmother. It said that war had been declared on Korea. My grandmother was having a late merienda of milk with a dash of coffee and galletas, hard cookies that she would dunk into her drink the way the children in that commercial dunk Oreos into their milk.
Then there was – what was his name? He was an American soldier on rest and recreation leave. My friends teased that he followed me around like a faithful puppy. The party was at a friend’s Olongapo beach house and we had been invited to help entertain the troops taking a break from the Vietnam War. I see myself still, so painfully young, wearing a black and white silk muumuu. That sounds so silly, such a silly costume to characterize such a significant era. The Vietnam War was what caused my generation to rebel against The Establishment, to burn draft cards and bras as symbols of our refusal to fight. Make Love Not War! That was the battlecry that changed the world. And now The Establishment is back with a vengeance.
Desert Storm was declared by George Bush’s father. It was the first totally televised war, probably gave birth to Reality TV. Now George Bush has made good his ultimatum to Saddam Hussein and his sons. Is this generational conflict a generational issue? No pun intended.
The writer in me wants to remember this war’s eve, senses that life will be changed forever and wants to remember details. I mixed myself a scotch and soda and sat on the bridge over my pond commiting to memory the sight of my pond at sunset, the way the fading light hit the water, the tune the tree frogs chirped. Later the night sky was clear and starlit and the moon was almost full. The world was quiet, so quiet, holding its breath, waiting for George Bush’s speech in the morning.
Perhaps the children and I should have a serious talk tomorrow, I thought. We should discuss what to do through the war. We should surface questions, spin scenarios. There will be no answers but we might arrive at some interesting insights, maybe a common philosophy. Families should come together in times of crisis, should talk themselves into some form of preparedness...
It took two hours to get from my home to my daughter’s. What, I wonder, propelled us to live so far from each other? I am not aware that this was a conscious choice on either side. "Bush just issued a 48-hour ultimatum to Saddam Hussein. In 48 hours, there will be war," I said, just reporting because I knew they were out of the news stream.
"I have so many things on my mind now that if I think about war, I’ll have a breakdown," one daughter said. Okay, let’s not go there, better a war than a breakdown.
"My husband says unless airports are being bombed we’re leaving as scheduled. Besides, I believe Americans are so much better at this war thing than anyone else so I feel safer there," the other daughter said. My son was caught in traffic somewhere. So much for families coming together in times of war. That illusion died before lunch.
Later I try again. "Thought I’d just let you know that my house is there and it’s open to anyone who might need it..."
"Your house is not on their radar screen?" my daughter teases with a tense naughty smile. Do I imagine an edge lurking somewhere? I feel I have strayed into a minefield and if I don’t want to get maimed, I better just stick to my brewed decaf.
Back home, restless, listless, and yes, lonely, I open my e-mail and find this:
The Images of Mother:
4 Years Of Age – My Mommy can do anything!
8 Years Of Age – My Mom knows a lot! A whole lot!
12 Years Of Age – My Mother doesn’t really know quite everything.
14 Years Of Age – Naturally, Mother doesn’t know that, either.
16 Years Of Age – Mother? She’s hopelessly old-fashioned.
18 Years Of Age – That old woman? She’s way out of date!
25 Years Of Age – Well, she might know a little bit about it.
35 Years Of Age – Before we decide, let’s get Mom’s opinion.
45 Years Of Age – Wonder what Mom would have thought about it?
65 Years Of Age – Wish I could talk it over with Mom.
Hmm, we must all be younger than we think. There is some good news.
"War imminent. Watch CNN." That’s what the text from my friend in the US read. I turn on the TV. Okay, I might as well get informed. Looks like I’m going through this war alone.
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