Student Essay

If Only I Could Ask

A grandson seeks connection with his war-veteran grandfather

Growing up, I didn’t spend much time thinking about war. I would, however, play “battle” with my cousin, Peter, in the basement and shoot Nerf guns in my friend Joey’s backyard. Sometimes I’d sneak into my dad’s office and stare at the glass case on his bookshelf that contained replicas of ancient generals and soldiers. As I got older, I became fascinated with “American Sniper,” “Lone Survivor,” and other war movies.

Despite the appeal of watching men push themselves to their extremes, I’m under no illusion that war is entertainment. I don’t have to look any further than my Pa to understand this truth. Even though he fought in Vietnam, there’s an unspoken rule in my family not to ask about his experience. Sometimes I imagine what he felt during his tour of duty.

I wonder if he ever lay awake at night, scared he wouldn’t make it to the morning …

My scariest moment came on a grass field. Freshman year, I decided to give football a try, but quickly broke my hand during practice and watched the season from the bench. The next year, two linemen knocked our starting quarterback unconscious midseason. To my surprise, Coach Lang sent me in as a backup. I stood shaking in the huddle picturing myself being trampled by players taller and double my weight. I failed to find the open receivers, and eight snaps later, Coach pulled me. I walked to the sideline feeling a mixture of disappointment and relief. Beyond getting hurt, I didn’t want to let my teammates down. Fear isn’t only about protecting myself but getting through tough times for the people around me.

I wonder if he experienced remorse …

When my childhood best friend moved to Florida, I was devastated. Josef and I were inseparable through middle school. We always found each other at 3:30 p.m. to walk home from school together. We used to stop in town, treat ourselves to Arnold Palmers and Doritos, and waste time hanging out with other friends at the Village Green. When Josef moved, we texted for the first year but then lost touch. Last spring, I found out he was in the ICU after a terrible car crash. Facebook postings about a fundraiser included images of his bandaged body hooked to machines. I was filled with regret. Why didn’t I reach out more? I should’ve been a better friend. While regret is inevitable, letting people I care about know how much they mean to me is something I will remember to do.

I wonder if he felt proud of his actions …

I’ve always been a math-oriented student. I treat problems like puzzles and usually understand a process to solve them. The same cannot be said for English. Throughout middle school, commas confused me, and I dreaded Friday vocab quizzes. When I got to high school, I never knew how to start an essay and tended to bounce from topic to topic. Freshman year, while it would have been fun to take electives like computer gaming, I decided to enroll in a writing program. Finally, I learned to organize my thoughts and “remember the reader.” By junior year, I noticed a major improvement in how I express myself. While I won’t become a professional writer, I’ll always be proud of my papers about the Space Race, “Brokeback Mountain,” and “Into the Wild.” Pride is the most satisfying when I accept my weaknesses and work hard to overcome them.

I wish I could sit beside my Pa and ask about Vietnam. I wish I could know what made it so horrific that we can’t even talk about it. I wish he could tell me if he was scared, wanted to come home, or felt proud to serve his country. I’d listen to his story — and then tell him about all the times I’ve felt fear, regret, and pride, too. n