Memorial Day 1988: My First Concussion

My dad spent 20 years in the field and there were years when he wasn't home for Memorial Day and hadn't been home in months. We always got a letter from him the Saturday of (I had a sneaking suspicion that the postmaster held those letters and purposely delivered them on Saturday just so we'd have something to read) but mum wouldn't read it until Monday during lunch. And though she'd always assure us that he was alive and well, there were times when I didn't quite believe her and I doubt she believed herself. Luckily, no harm ever befell him - well, nothing that killed him. But I remember the first Memorial Day we spent with my father. May 30, 1988. I was 6 years old. It was also the day I got my Pup Knife.

As is now tradition, all the members of my dad's team and their families get together for an afternoon cookout. Though it's now held at my house, when we lived on base, it was next door. As was typical, the kids ate a lot, the adults drank a lot, and I found myself bound and gagged near a tree [when you're the youngest and smallest in a group of children raised by these types of men, being the hostage in playtime situations comes with the territory]. At some point that afternoon, I patted my dad's side and asked him to take me to the pool. When he winced, I noticed a trio of healing bullet wounds in his side. They went straight through, from back to front. I turned to Ripper, one of my dad's teammates, and asked what happened. "Well, if I tell ya, your old man will havta kill ya. Do you want that?" I shook my head. "Then I can't tell you." Ripper, a madcap missing half of his right ear and grossly scarred by a Teddy Atlas-like slash down the side of his face, had a way with children. Sometime later, my parents disappeared and I returned to Ripper for information. He took out his knife and said, "I told your mom where the bullets came from." Concluding that my mom was in danger, I set off to investigate.

I found their door locked, strange sounds emanating from within.. sounds of pain and sorrow and joy and everything in between.. growing ever-louder.. and faster. I banged on the door numerous times with inquiry but only received a strange grunt in response. Frantic, I tracked down Raphael, my sage and older brother: "Little sister, they are having sexual intercourse." "What's that?" "It's when daddy attacks her and she screams about it." I was horrified. "And he will attack her as long as he wants until God makes him stop." "God will make him stop?" "She calls out to Him and eventually He helps." "When?" "When she stops screaming. (he said it in such a "duh" way) Let's get a hot dog." I don't recall my physical reaction but knowing myself, I probably looked off at the grass and blinked a lot, my coke bottle lenses making my eyelashes look like lily white flies preparing for winged flight. I imagine a bevy of thoughts ran through my mind - the first being why and how my brother knew about these continued attacks and did nothing to stop them. After eating, Raphy concluded that given the bullet situation, our mother was in danger. "There is protocol of derring-do. It's a goatscrew and we have to ring the bell and call the MPs." I'm not sure he knew what any of that meant but it sounded right to me. We went back to the house and banged on the door. "WEE ONE, GO OUTSIDE." My father sounded somewhat strained. I told him to stop hurting her but was met by silence. I told Raphy that it was no use. Mom was dying. He called the MPs while I fetched a ladder, took it to their window, and peered in. Immediately paralyzed by fear and horror, all went black.

They say I fell off the ladder, stiff as a board. I remember coming to at the hospital, my family surrounding me, a gift at my side. I opened it.. a Pup Knife - a gift from Ripper to comfort me in my hour of concussed need... the gift shop must have been closed. From then on, my dad's buddies renamed me "Little 911," and eventually, "Lil Niner." That was 17 years ago and much to my chagrin, I've not been able to shake it - until now. Yesterday afternoon, Ripper asked for the knife back, claiming my dad forced him to give it to me as penalty for freaking me out all those years ago. I refused, so he challenged me to a duel of endurance challenges: 1 mile run, 100 yard swim, 100 yard sprint, 100 pullups, pushups, handstand pushups, situps, and an obstacle course all for time with no breaks. We'd concluded our trials a 3-point shooting contest.

I smoked his dumb ass and kept my knife. But then I got cocky and while using it to eat a piece of pie, I sliced my lip. Not only did my mother confiscate it (until I learn how to behave :-() but the teammates have started calling me Lips. I assure you, there aren't many things out there in the course of dealings in a parent-child relationship more humiliating than being called Lips by your father's oldest friends.

I plan to rectify this happening and I'm creating my plans now...

I trust that the rest of you, had a safe, pleasant Memorial Day and if any of you endured a humiliating event on Monday, it's time to get on the case and make some changes. Memorial Day 2006 won't know what hit it.