I missed Halloween with my kids this year because I was sick in bed. I missed the whole shebang – sprinkling glitter on my princess’ hair, tightening my pirate’s sash and tying a bandana around my cowboy’s neck.
I missed the chicken shish kabobs grilled in a friend’s driveway, and the Tecate offered to the parents congregated in lawn chairs. And obviously I missed trick-or-treating.
Before heading out the door, my oldest son looked upset. He said he really wanted me to go. In 10 years of parenthood I had never missed this annual night on the town. But this year I queasily explained that sometimes life conspires against families, forcing them to be apart on special occasions. I kissed the top of his hat and sent him on his way, realizing the magnitude of my understatement.
Earlier I had spoken with my brother Mike in Iraq. He said a new sergeant had recently arrived from the States to command his vehicle on convoy security missions. This sergeant didn’t deploy with the rest of the unit last June because she was pregnant. She’s since delivered her baby and is now back on the job, joining her husband who is also deployed in Iraq.
These parents are missing more than their baby’s first Halloween; they’re missing the entire first year of their baby’s life. Years ago the Selective Service Board granted Dick Cheney a “hardship” exemption from serving in Vietnam – his hardship being that he was a new father. Policies are no longer so kind to children.
Recently a friend described a scene he observed at the airport. He noticed a commotion surrounding a soldier departing for war. A frantic mother wrestled to unpeel her screaming son who was clenching the soldier’s legs and begging, “Daddy, don’t go!” As soon as the mother ripped the child free, instead of spending the full amount of every last second embracing his family, the soldier had to quickly disappear to avoid more painful drama. My friend said it was the saddest scene he’d ever witnessed, yet it illuminates the grief children feel not just on departure day, but more subtly all deployment long.
People ask me if I think Mike should be in Iraq. It’s a loaded question, one that I can answer in a variety ways. I can start with the invasion and rant about how the president exaggerated threats, how most of the Congress ignored the data that told the truth, how the media did little to demand accountability and how the majority of the citizenry was (and still is) apathetic (elected officials report that very few constituents ever call or write to comment on the war).
Or I could just cut to my answer: Yes! The military is short staffed. To compensate, this year the Defense Department extended the length of deployments to 15 months, longer than any tour in Vietnam. Congress just failed to pass a bill to ensure that soldiers returning from war spend an equal amount of time at home before being redeployed. Soldiers are overscheduled.
So unequivocally yes. Mike should be in Iraq because our military is fighting there, he volunteered to serve, and in doing so he’s replacing a soldier who deserves a turn at home, a place where regular civilian clothes might feel like a costume, and to some child his or her presence is better than candy.
Missy Martin is an 11-year Ahwatukee Foothills resident, mother of three and editor of Bombshells: War Stories and Poems by Women on the Homefront. Her brother, U.S. Army Specialist Michael Dunn, attended Arizona State University and graduated from the University of Montana with a degree in accounting and now provides security on convoys in and out of Iraq. He can be contacted at Spec. Mike Dunn 7th Chem – APO AE09366.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Oops!
I guess letting you all know I started a little blog would be better if I actually added the link! Sorry about that!
http://lettersjapan.blogspot.com
http://lettersjapan.blogspot.com
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Our Letters From Japan
Well I am finally in Japan with my husband once more. We are only together for 30 days before he leaves again, but we are making the best of it, waiting for housing and trying to keep our spirits up!
I have started a blog as kind of an uplifting thing to keep my family and friends updated on our progress here in Japan. Its a new and scary road for us but we are making the best of it. Feel free to take a peek at what we are up to, it may not be action packed, but its our military life!
I have started a blog as kind of an uplifting thing to keep my family and friends updated on our progress here in Japan. Its a new and scary road for us but we are making the best of it. Feel free to take a peek at what we are up to, it may not be action packed, but its our military life!
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Mike At War!
Mike at War is a new blog to follow Mike, Missy's brother, through the sandbox. I feel privilaged to know men and women who have served, men and women who have returned, young men that have lost their lives, and brave families who understand the concept of "Serving Their Country." Although I haven't served formally, I pay honor to the families who have served and who are serving. Also, I honor this day.
Recently, I received a lovely thank you from Soldier's Angels for donations. Also, I recieved a lovely letter from Diane Feinstein in regard to saving the Los Angeles V.A. and helping Veteran's. Anyway, check out the new blog.
Groovy- J
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
"Bombshell contributor Ann Iverson has released a new collection of war poems called "Definite Space" available from Holy Cow Press
"Bombshell contributor Ann Iverson has released a new collection of war poems called "Definite Space" available from Holy Cow Press! Please support this book! Click the title to go to Holy Cow Press!
Congratulations Ann!
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Homefront: Wireless Connection from the Ahwatukee Foothills News
August 9, 2007 - 12:17PM
HOME FRONT: Wireless Connection
Commentary by Missy Martin
I’m on my cell phone, wearing one of those posh white bathrobes I found hanging in the closet, at noon, leaning over the third floor balcony of my room in a New Hampshire hotel trying to get good reception, talking to my brother Mike who is calling from “Mortaritaville” in Iraq. Spread out below me is a sea of green, perfectly manicured grass and trees without the single stain of a brown blade of grass or a yellow leaf. Beyond the grounds lies a bay, where sailboats and small fishing boats drift back and forth past the mammoth colonial houses that line the granite coast. It’s an idyllic scene, which is why the gift shop downstairs is brimming with things like note cards, trivets and ornaments depicting it.
Mike has flown into Mortaritaville, officially named Camp Anaconda, in the volatile Sunni Triangle north of Baghdad, from his duty station in Kuwait. His convoy security crew was recently assigned a new vehicle, called an armored security vehicle or ASV, to replace their humvee. They’re at Mortaritaville to learn how to operate it. I know nothing about an ASV to feel either good or bad about it.
I ask Mike what he thinks of Mortaritaville. He answers that it’s the first place where he’s seen a tree since he arrived in the Middle East a month ago (I choose not to brag about my view). I ask him if the camp is aptly nicknamed, and he tells me that sirens and loud-speaker announcements warn of mortar fire about three times a day, but admits that the camp is so large that he’s actually never heard the rounds explode or seen where any have hit. In fact when the last warning sounded, he was eating lunch in the dining facility, and without missing a beat, kept on eating.
I know from experience that our conversation will last about 30 minutes, the length of time it takes a 300-minute calling card to expire (the bulk of minutes are supposedly expended just making the connection) or the point at which the next soldier waiting in line for the phone will urge him to hang up.
When I hang up, I’ll get dressed and my family will drive in our rented car to Boston where we’ll meet my other brother Bill for seafood on Newbury Street. Bill is in town from Missoula, Mont., to learn about his new employer, Textron. Over clams and Sam Adams Summer Ale, I’ll repeat the conversation I had with Mike – the tree, the mortar fire, the ASV. We’ll compare the contents of care packages we’ve each sent. After dinner I’ll lobby Bill to join us again, but he’ll decline, apologizing that his week is booked with Textron business.
The next morning, while training in some Boston conference room, Bill will send this text message: “Textron makes the ASV.” The threads connecting my family to this war will pull tighter.
From my laptop on the desk, next to a bottle of sunscreen and a map to York Beach, I’ll learn that the Armored Security Vehicle is bigger and better than a humvee; that it promises “battle-proven protection” against small arms fire and roadside bombs. I’ll read specs on the vehicle’s survivability, mobility and firepower – a lot of technical jargon that means, in layman’s terms, it’s designed to ensure that soldiers come home.
When I return home, I won’t credit my week of spa treatments, restaurants, beaches, boats and sleeping in late for reducing my stress. It’ll be the armored steel hull and the ceramic composite expandable armor on Mike’s new ASV that does the trick.
Missy Martin is an 11-year Ahwatukee Foothills resident, mother of three and editor of Bombshells: War Stories and Poems by Women on the Homefront. Her brother, U.S. Army Specialist Michael Dunn, attended Arizona State University and graduated from the University of Montana with a degree in accounting and now provides security on convoys in and out of Iraq. He can be contacted at Spec. Mike Dunn 7th Chem – APO AE09327.
HOME FRONT: Wireless Connection
Commentary by Missy Martin
I’m on my cell phone, wearing one of those posh white bathrobes I found hanging in the closet, at noon, leaning over the third floor balcony of my room in a New Hampshire hotel trying to get good reception, talking to my brother Mike who is calling from “Mortaritaville” in Iraq. Spread out below me is a sea of green, perfectly manicured grass and trees without the single stain of a brown blade of grass or a yellow leaf. Beyond the grounds lies a bay, where sailboats and small fishing boats drift back and forth past the mammoth colonial houses that line the granite coast. It’s an idyllic scene, which is why the gift shop downstairs is brimming with things like note cards, trivets and ornaments depicting it.
Mike has flown into Mortaritaville, officially named Camp Anaconda, in the volatile Sunni Triangle north of Baghdad, from his duty station in Kuwait. His convoy security crew was recently assigned a new vehicle, called an armored security vehicle or ASV, to replace their humvee. They’re at Mortaritaville to learn how to operate it. I know nothing about an ASV to feel either good or bad about it.
I ask Mike what he thinks of Mortaritaville. He answers that it’s the first place where he’s seen a tree since he arrived in the Middle East a month ago (I choose not to brag about my view). I ask him if the camp is aptly nicknamed, and he tells me that sirens and loud-speaker announcements warn of mortar fire about three times a day, but admits that the camp is so large that he’s actually never heard the rounds explode or seen where any have hit. In fact when the last warning sounded, he was eating lunch in the dining facility, and without missing a beat, kept on eating.
I know from experience that our conversation will last about 30 minutes, the length of time it takes a 300-minute calling card to expire (the bulk of minutes are supposedly expended just making the connection) or the point at which the next soldier waiting in line for the phone will urge him to hang up.
When I hang up, I’ll get dressed and my family will drive in our rented car to Boston where we’ll meet my other brother Bill for seafood on Newbury Street. Bill is in town from Missoula, Mont., to learn about his new employer, Textron. Over clams and Sam Adams Summer Ale, I’ll repeat the conversation I had with Mike – the tree, the mortar fire, the ASV. We’ll compare the contents of care packages we’ve each sent. After dinner I’ll lobby Bill to join us again, but he’ll decline, apologizing that his week is booked with Textron business.
The next morning, while training in some Boston conference room, Bill will send this text message: “Textron makes the ASV.” The threads connecting my family to this war will pull tighter.
From my laptop on the desk, next to a bottle of sunscreen and a map to York Beach, I’ll learn that the Armored Security Vehicle is bigger and better than a humvee; that it promises “battle-proven protection” against small arms fire and roadside bombs. I’ll read specs on the vehicle’s survivability, mobility and firepower – a lot of technical jargon that means, in layman’s terms, it’s designed to ensure that soldiers come home.
When I return home, I won’t credit my week of spa treatments, restaurants, beaches, boats and sleeping in late for reducing my stress. It’ll be the armored steel hull and the ceramic composite expandable armor on Mike’s new ASV that does the trick.
Missy Martin is an 11-year Ahwatukee Foothills resident, mother of three and editor of Bombshells: War Stories and Poems by Women on the Homefront. Her brother, U.S. Army Specialist Michael Dunn, attended Arizona State University and graduated from the University of Montana with a degree in accounting and now provides security on convoys in and out of Iraq. He can be contacted at Spec. Mike Dunn 7th Chem – APO AE09327.
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