Consequence (2 page)

I give the general a speech about the future of Iraq, a speech that, by now, I've given to many detainees, about how we need honest and brave men willing to carve out a new future for Iraq. It doesn't matter why America invaded Iraq or what mistakes were made along the way; all that matters is we move forward and stay on the path. The right choices will build a strong foundation for a new Iraq. The wrong ones will have consequences.

The general is nodding in agreement, so I return to the issue of his sons. In an effort to establish common ground, I tell him I have kids, too. I don't. But when I do, this speech will haunt me.

I say that someday our sons will ask us about what we did here. We will tell them that we made the right choices, the difficult choices, and they will be proud of us.

The general is crying. Even the translator, who has three sons of her own, is beginning to tear up. I'm tempted to think I've gained the general's trust, that he's willing to provide information about his sons, and that he thinks of me as a decent man.

None of this is true. Instead, I've succeeded only in making all of us homesick.

I deliver the final part of the speech in my own broken Arabic, but the translator still repeats my words. The general hears both my heavily accented Arabic and the translator's perfect Iraqi dialect. It comes to him as an echo.

I say a new day for Iraq is here. We must seize it. We must save Iraq. We must do what is right. For our sons! For our sons!

“God willing,” he sobs. “For our sons, for our sons.”

 

1

In Pennsylvania, Bethlehem Steel is dying. I grow up watching it die. It built naval guns for World War I and Liberty ships for World War II. It built the Golden Gate Bridge and the New York City skyline. But the country eventually lost its thirst for steel. In Bethlehem, there were too many pensions, too many vice presidents, too many corner offices. In elementary school, we learn words like “pig iron,” “coke,” “limestone,” and “slag.” But we also learn words like “Kraut steel” and “Jap steel.” We watch neighbors lose their jobs. We put on a spring musical and sing a Billy Joel song.

Out in Bethlehem they're killing time

Like the fathers in the song, my grandfathers fought the Second World War. My father received a deferment for Vietnam. In my boyhood, he tells me stories about how the Army was going to train him to fly helicopters, but they passed him over because he was a public school teacher with a daughter on the way. He says it's a good thing he never flew helicopters, because at the time “they were knocking those things down with tennis balls.” The image fascinates me. I ask him to tell these stories often.

My mother is a substitute teacher. On the days she teaches, I eat breakfast at Steve Kave's house. Steve's father works at the steel mill, where he is forced to share a single job with two other steelworkers. The plant allows them to split the salary. It's the only way to keep them all employed. Mr. Kave only has one leg. He lost the other in Vietnam when they shot down his helicopter.

When I'm sick, I stay home from school at the Kaves' house. I lie on their couch and watch TV. In 1981, I watch Ronald Reagan get shot. In 1983, I watch paratroopers ride on helicopters and invade Grenada.

On Sundays, we attend the First Presbyterian Church of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. The church is large and wealthy. Eugene Grace, the CEO of Bethlehem Steel till 1945, and chairman of the board until 1957, attended services here. Employees looking to climb the ladder poured into the church pews on Sunday mornings in hopes of being seen by Mr. Grace.

As a boy, I don't know much about Presbyterians. I know we baptize babies and I know we aren't allowed to clap in church. I never see anyone carrying a Bible. But all the men wear suits and ties. A talented choir makes beautiful music. When they finish, there is silence. Occasionally someone tries to applaud. Older members, including my grandmother, shake their heads and say, “We are here to worship God, not the choir.”

My grandparents, Dorothy and Phillip Fair, are well known at First Presbyterian Church. My grandfather worked as a reporter in Altoona, Pennsylvania, after the war. Multiple sclerosis has confined him to a wheelchair. There is always someone willing to help unload him from the car on Sunday mornings, or wheel him up the ramp, or escort him into the sanctuary and help him page through the weekly bulletin. My grandmother works in the visitors' booth between services. She serves coffee and tea and holds long conversations with people she's never met before. Then she introduces us to these people and talks to them as if they are old family friends.

We visit my grandparents on Saturday mornings. I'm allowed to ride my grandfather's wheelchair down the ramps that have been installed throughout the house. The VA hospital has provided my grandfather with a remote-controlled television. It's the first one I've ever seen. The remote has two large buttons. You can only turn the channel one way, so you have to cycle through all thirteen channels to get back to the beginning. I sit and press the button and watch the channels change as my parents and grandparents sit in the other room and talk about family.

My grandmother tells stories about the MacFarlanes, Campbells, and Burds. She talks about the deep Scottish roots and how important the Presbyterian church has been to the family. There are drawers full of photo albums with black-and-white portraits of well-dressed men. Colonel Burd posing with his unit at Gettysburg in 1898 as they prepare to deploy to the Spanish-American War. A photo of William Burd standing in front of his Presbyterian church in 1902 after preaching one of his sermons. And there is a collection of letters from James MacFarlane, written during his service in the Civil War.

I grow up listening to my grandmother's tales. I grow up learning that I come from a long line of Presbyterians who valued their faith and marched off to war.

In 1983, I start sixth grade. I am small and slightly overweight. I'm not fat, but my mother buys my jeans in the husky section at the Hess's department store in Allentown. I am slow. At Nitschmann Middle School, we take the Presidential Physical Fitness Test. My father tells me it was President Eisenhower's idea. Eisenhower was unimpressed by the fitness level of World War II draftees, so he decided it would be a good idea to make sixth-graders do pull-ups. I can't do pull-ups. I just hang on the bar with my face to the wall. My fellow students sit behind me on the gym floor and laugh. There is also a shuttle run and some sort of stretching exercise. I fail to impress on those events as well.

At Nitschmann we have special activity days. Students are allowed to choose an activity that interests them. I choose a class about statistics and board games. Mostly we just play Risk. A popular girl from the majorette squad is in the class, too. We start to become friends. A few weeks later, during homeroom, Principal Kartsotis announces my name over the school's intercom. He recites other names, too. They belong to the kids who don't play sports and who buy their jeans in the husky section. Principal Kartsotis tells us that we will be removed from our special activities classes and enrolled in a fitness program. The gym teacher, Mr. Lindenmuth, makes us run laps and hang from the pull-up bar.

At home, I remember being told that I shouldn't feel embarrassed. At Nitschmann, I remember meeting the majorette in the hallway a few days later and lying to her about why I couldn't play Risk anymore. I remember spending much of that year being sent to the guidance counselor's office for crying during school.

I spend my weeks at Nitschmann Middle School looking forward to Sunday mornings at First Presbyterian Church. The chimes of a large bell in the towering white steeple greet us as we arrive. I like the sound my dress shoes make on the slate floor in the narthex. Ushers in crisp dark suits, with white shirts, escort us down the aisle and hand me a program. I am twelve years old, but they call me sir, or young man, or, on occasion, Mr. Fair. They offer a firm handshake. My family lets me sit in the aisle seat, where I have a better view of the choir and the pulpit. If an adult sits down in front of me they always turn around to ask whether I can see.

The pastor at First Presbyterian is handsome and popular. He shakes my father's hand and points at my tie: “Attaboy.” He played quarterback on his college football team and he often talks about the Pittsburgh Steelers during his sermons. There are no theatrics during the sermon. His voice is strong, but there is no yelling. He stands nearly still in the pulpit, removing his glasses to emphasize certain points. The sermons are almost always about love and the need to reach out to those in pain. I watch as the adults in the sanctuary sit nearly still. Occasionally they nod their heads, or write something down on the back of the bulletin, but they are completely silent. It is the one time during the week when I feel safe.

In 1986 I make the transition to Liberty High School. In ninth grade, we study world cultures. There is a week about Vietnam. Mr. Gentry, a history teacher at the school, comes to class and talks about his service in the Army. One day he goes drinking in Saigon. As they stumble outside, a young boy shoves his hand in Mr. Gentry's pocket. He thinks the boy is trying to rob him, so he grabs the hand and yanks it out. The boy has a grenade in his hand. Mr. Gentry's friends attempt to get control of the grenade but the boy won't let go. They overwhelm the boy and pin him to the ground. Someone kills the boy. They don't want to pry the dead fingers loose so they saw off the arm and toss it into the air. It detonates and sprays the men with shrapnel. Mr. Gentry shows us the scars. He says, “I think about that boy a lot.”

There are twenty-five hundred students at Liberty. The school consists of three main buildings, the oldest of which was built in 1918. It has marble staircases and large dark hallways. A labyrinth of overpasses and concrete walkways connects the three main buildings. Between classes, students congregate on these overpasses and walkways, creating choke points where larger students threaten smaller students. One day, in ninth grade, I accidentally step on the heel of a larger student. The student says something threatening. I try to walk away, but he approaches from behind and strikes me on the back of the head with an oversized textbook. The blow leaves me nauseated. The crowd makes room; larger students cheer while smaller ones look on in silence.

At home, I cry. My father is a history teacher at Liberty. He offers to intervene. I don't know how to survive high school, but I know I can't ask my father to protect me. I tell my father he should let me handle this on my own. He hands me a roll of quarters and shows me how to make a fist around them. He says, “Last resort.” I am terrified. The next day I am forced to navigate the crowded overpass again. My father is standing guard in the center of the crowd along with a group of students from his senior history class. My father and I have been friends ever since.

In October 1986, the Boston Red Sox lose the World Series to the New York Mets. The next day, I wear a Red Sox hat to school. A boy wearing a Mets hat beats me badly for this, while his friends stand by and laugh. I go home and cry again, but not in front of my father. My older sister takes notice and forces me to tell her what happened; then she calls some of her friends. One of them plays linebacker for the Liberty High School football team. She tells him to handle it. The next day, the Mets fan approaches me in the hallway and apologizes. His friends do the same. My sister and I have been friends ever since.

For the next two years, before my father drives me to school, I drink Pepto-Bismol with breakfast. The memory of the mint-chalk flavor lingers into adulthood. At night, I'm too afraid to concentrate. I struggle in Mr. Wetcher's honors-level algebra class. He returns our exams in order of performance, saving the best grades for last. My tests are handed back first. Eventually, Mr. Wetcher drops me into a lower-level algebra section. He announces my departure to the class, then walks me down the hall and delivers me to the new teacher. The new class is seated alphabetically. Almost everyone is forced to move to a new desk. There are loud complaints as they shuffle their belongings and drop their books. Mr. Wetcher wishes me luck.

I seek refuge at church. Don Hackett, the youth pastor at First Presbyterian, is the first adult who allows me to call him by his first name. Don takes me under his wing. In the mornings, before school, he picks me up and takes me to breakfast. He challenges me to memorize Scripture, holding me accountable to a strict weekly schedule. He asks me to help teach the sixth-graders on Wednesday nights and makes me give the weekly announcements, forcing me to face my insecurities about performing in front of large groups. He teaches me how to be properly prepared for meetings and stresses the importance of public speaking.

As I continue to struggle in school, my parents look for ways to turn me around. Grades matter most, and mine are terrible. There are long, loud arguments about trying harder and not making excuses. I tell my father that some of my other friends are struggling, too. He tells me to find smarter friends. I take my frustrations out on my parents. I start stealing money from my father's dresser drawer. When he catches me, there are more loud arguments about consequences and accountability.

My father forces me to take on a paper route as punishment for stealing the money. In the mornings, before school, I ride my bike to a neighborhood apartment complex and deliver the Bethlehem
Morning Call
. Every month, I am required to collect money from my customers. I can hear my customers through the thin walls of the apartment complex saying, “It's the paper boy, don't open the door.”

In the 1980s, Bethlehem Steel loses more than a billion dollars. There is talk about a brief return to profitability, but only after a significant portion of the workforce is laid off. Unemployment brings crime, and Bethlehem is not immune.

One morning, after finishing my route, I return to the light pole where I lock my bike. There is a large man removing my front wheel and rifling through the storage bag on the backseat where I keep my collection book. When he sees me, he begins to walk away, taking the wheel with him. I say, “That's my bike.” He turns, takes a few steps toward me, and says, “Well, you shouldn't leave it out here unattended.” I begin to walk away, but he follows. There is a fire station across the street. In a panic, I wheel what's left of my bike to the front door and ring the bell. No one answers. I ring it again, and again, and again, not knowing what the firemen can do, but hoping they'll at least let me come inside. The man with my wheel eventually leaves, but the firemen never answer.