I quickly glance at the car clock, 4:59 p.m., and I know it’s coming. My father, dressed in uniform, sits beside me as we drive down English Avenue. There’s the boom of the cannon. Slowly I pull the car to the side of the road. My father exits the car and stands facing headquarters and salutes as “retreat” blares from the speakers mounted on the buildings of Fort Meade, Maryland. Like every other high schooler, I am mortified that I will be seen with my father.
These days I often head over to Devens to go for a jog. The well-planned streets and sidewalks feel familiar, as does every military base I have visited. It’s easy to tell which were the officers’, enlisted soldiers’, and bachelors’ housing. I know where the old post exchange was, and I frequently run by the former Cutler Army Hospital, now the Federal Medical Center that once housed marathon bomber Dzhokhar Tsarnaev. It is also the hospital where, 30 years ago, a maxillofacial surgeon, a colonel and family friend, removed my wisdom teeth. Occasionally I even run past my father’s old office building on Buena Vista, overlooking a playing field.
I chose a more predictable civilian life for my family. While I admire the commitment and bravery of the soldiers I have known, I chose to avoid the nomadic lifestyle. I have never felt truly comfortable with the prospect of war that looms over the lives of all military families. It’s an action I can rarely support. But that said, my exposure to a military lifestyle allowed me to recognize the safety and security the military provides all U.S. citizens.
What is in a noise?
When Harvard residents hear gunfire from the South Post of Fort Devens, for many, their first response is annoyance; for me it’s something different. The noises are familiar and actually make me feel safe: The soldiers’ extensive training ensures that our country can’t be overrun by terrorists or despotic foreign countries. Do I like the noises? No. But they remind me that there are many places in the world where the rattling windows or nearby bomb bursts reflect real battles and danger and true terror for the unfortunate families who have no protection. And in our little town where the military rarely intrudes, it is a reminder of the high price paid by other parts of our country.
I also think about what I learned from all of those years my father was in the military and we moved around the country. Of all the attributes I gained from my father’s chosen field, the ones that have stayed with me longest are persistence and resiliency. It was not easy to be the new student in yet another school. Having to make new friends every year or two was wearing. Stepping into a new school building, figuring out who the cool kids were, what the smart kids did for fun, and how to avoid the druggies made me a quick adapter to any environment. And I realized that sticking with things that weren’t easy gave me the ability to delay gratification and attain long-term goals.
More than one type of duty
With my father’s work ethic, I rise at 5 a.m. most days to spend an hour working out. I don’t do it for the love of it, but to stave off illness—especially the Alzheimer’s that took my mother. And speaking of Alzheimer’s, my father’s devotion to my mother even after she was institutionalized taught me even more about honor and duty than the military. Every Wednesday for 17 years he would leave his art and frame shop and head to the Dorothy Frances Home to spend the afternoon with my mother. Sometimes he took her out for ice cream or to visit her sister. By the end, she could no longer speak and he more often took her out for a short stroll in the small yard behind the facility to enjoy the gardens.
I do not fly a flag at my house. I do not Facebook about patriotism. I am not a nationalist. But I feel I can’t judge those who do. To even pretend that I share others’ level of patriotism would be false and insulting. Yet I love my country, too, in my own way. And I cherish the gifts that a military upbringing bestowed upon me.
When I’m covering this Memorial Day as a photographer for the Harvard Press, there will be a moment where I will be totally torn. It’s during the laying of the wreaths when a trumpeter blows taps. My job is to capture the day in photos for history’s sake. But as I’m photographing, every muscle in my body will be shouting at me to stand still. Have respect. Face the flag. I have to remind myself that there’s more than one way to show respect, and I’ll keep shooting.
Lisa Aciukewicz is a photographer and a co-owner of the Harvard Press.
