Page 30 of Molly
Dad may have gotten to wear the uniform, but Mom served her country with the same amount of dedication as an Ombudsman. She worked as a liaison between the families of servicemen and women and the command leadership; a point of contact for both the commanding officer and the families regarding morale, welfare, and a myriad of other minute details. She was practically a GPS for navigating resources and coordinating services during deployments. And all without pay or complaint.
Both she and dad had tried to wrangle me into their rodeo. Pictures of me as a tyke dressed in little sailor outfits littered the mantel, along with a few of me in formal wear standing beside Dad in his Dinner Dress Blues at Navy birthday balls. But no matter how often they dressed me for the part, I just couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for following in their footsteps. Not that I wasn’t proud of both of my parents—I was. And I was deeply grateful for the sacrifice so many give to our country. But at the end of the day, the uniform wasn’t for me. Strange as it sounds, that concept had been harder for Mom to accept than Dad.
“What about you? How’s school? Work?” She tilted her head, and the wispy bangs that curled over her forehead leaned to the side with her movement.
“Both are good. Keeping me busy.”
“Have you gotten your student teaching placement all lined up?”
My focus lay more with finishing up the last big papers I had and studying for finals. “Not yet.”
“Say the word and I’ll talk to Sondra for you.”
Sondra worked for the DoDEA, Department of Defense Education Activity, the schools on bases that “educated, engaged, and empowered military-connected students to succeed in a dynamic world.” (Yes, I could still recite their mission statement from a position piece I did my sophomore year.) She and Mom were good friends.
I wasn’t against working for the DoDEA. In fact, there were a lot of positives to the idea. The first being, because I was a military brat myself, I could relate to others of my kind and be in a unique position to influence and offer support. But I hadn’t decided if that was the route I wanted to take.
For the first time in what felt like forever, roots had begun to grow under my feet. Dig-into-the-soil-and-hold-on, honest-to-goodness roots. That had never been able to happen when the military moved my family every two to three years. But now I had a home with a roommate and friends that I didn’t want to say goodbye to. I didn’t want to start over again for the millionth time.
My smile wobbled as I looked across the table to Mom. “I’ll let you know.”
“Of course.”
A phone rang behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder to see a woman in NWUs, affectionately called guacamoles by the navy personnel who wear them, answer. She sat facing the opposite direction, so I took a moment to admire her glossy black hair pulled into a low sock bun before I turned back around. Her happy chatter in Spanish with a laugh dispersed here and there made pleasant background noise.
“How are your Bible studies coming along?” Last time we’d gotten together Mom had told me about helping the chaplain’s wife with a study group for spouses.
Mom’s eyes brightened. “Great. I can’t believe the turnout we’ve gotten.”
“What are you studying?”
Her lips curved in a mischievous smile. “Deborah.”
I nearly choked on soup but washed the bite down with a swallow of lemonade. “Of course you are.” The prophetess who led an army. “I’m going to wager a guess and say that was your idea?”
She feigned innocence but didn’t do anything to keep her smile from widening.
“Adios.” The woman on the phone behind me pushed back her chair.
Mom’s body stiffened, her gaze tracking over my shoulder.What’s up with that?I cocked my hip and leaned an arm over the back of my chair.
A woman in her late fifties wearing a purple paisley shirt and long earrings stood erect at the head of the table behind me. Her thin lips pursed as if she’d sucked on a sour lemon and had found the experience not at all to her liking. She glared at the servicemember who’d taken the call. Sourface’s stance widened, and she shifted slightly to block the Latina woman’s exit.
My gut tightened. I glanced up and noticed the name tag on the uniform. Rivera. The American flag patch on her arm moved as she pushed her shoulders back and lifted her chin, as if preparing herself for an unwanted barrage from a bully.
Sourface took a small step forward, sneering. “You are a disgrace.” She pointed her finger at Rivera’s chest but didn’t touch her. “I don’t know how you can wear that uniform while speaking a language that is not American. It’s offensive and everything that’s wrong with our country.”
Rivera flinched, her nostrils flaring. Her chin notched higher. “I wear this uniform with honor and pride, ma’am.” Her voice remained even and controlled. “To defend my country and everyone”—she looked Sourface up and down—“in it.”
“Yourcountry?” Sourface scoffed. “You should go back to Mexico.”
Mom bolted out of her seat, the chair legs scraping noisily across the floor. “Excuse me, but that is quite enough.” She turned to Rivera., her face softening. “I, for one, would like to thank you for your service. You deserve our gratitude, not a small-minded person’s slander. And you”—she pinned Sourface with a narrow-eyed look—“are you Native American?”
Her head jolted back, surprise written across her face that someone had interrupted her little tirade. “No.”
“No. I thought not, but I don’t like to assume. But since you’re not Native, then you’re a descendant of an immigrant as pretty muchall Americansare. But I’m not going to tell you to go back to England, even though your ancestors could be from Eastern Europe. Why? Because you’re American. Just like I am American. Just like Miss Rivera hereisAmerican.”
The woman opened her mouth, but Mom sliced her hand through the air. “In case you weren’t informed, the United States has no official language, so you were correct. Miss Rivera here wasn’t speaking American. But then, none of us are, are we? Diversity is one of the things that makes this country beautiful. That makes it great. Don’t try to white-wash history or current events to fit your misconceptions.”
