Fourth of July, Optimus Prime, and Family

“I know this message sounds crazy and out of the blue, but I love you and miss you. And I’m so, so sorry if I’ve never understood what it’s like over there. Please stay safe.”

Not the sort of dialogue one expects to hear outside a blockbuster action movie. The guy I was dating at the time made that clear as he grimaced and shuffled away from where I stood against the theatre wall. Bad enough that I started crying in the first 20 minutes of the movie, but now I insisted on making THIS phone call? In front of shouting, bubbly, excited people?

He didn’t get it.

Neither did the man who sat next to me, watching me break down over an action scene.

An ACTION scene.

Who cries over battle scenes?

I saw him pull his son further from my seat. And I wanted to reassure him the boy was safe. I wasn’t some random mental case, escaped into a crowded movie theatre and bent on wreaking havoc.

But how do you explain a line of dominos tumbling forward to result in ONE STUPID SCENE from Transformers leaving you sobbing out of control?

Domino 1: Fourth of July

Fourth of July looks different for me. I understand the history behind the holiday, the same as most Americans. My father was stationed in Boston for almost two years, after all. And Bostonians LOVE teaching the Revolutionary War (I still have bits and pieces of “The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere” permanently etched on my brain).

But seeing the flag with fireworks sparkling in the background holds a different reminder:

There’s no freedom without effort.

I come from a military family. Too often for us, freedom’s effort has meant war. World War II, Vietnam, Korea, Iraq (I refuse to use such silly labels as “Enduring Freedom”), Afghanistan. Conflicts that often exist as abstract concepts or news bites to other people hold genuine meaning for us. They consumed bits and pieces of our family — in the name of freedom.

Freedom for those they fought for. Freedom for those who remained behind. Always that word arising somewhere in the rhetoric and propaganda. And whether you agree with the politics or not, the men and women that step into active theatre believe in FREEDOM with every breath.

While other people hit the beach, plan barbeques, or count down hours until their day off, Fourth of July remains tagged in the back of my mind as another day to honor those who serve. The flag stands as a reminder of the cost of the freedom everyone’s eager to celebrate.

And in 2007, with my brother in Iraq, seeing the flag on the Fourth REALLY brought the reminder home.

Domino 2: 2007

Some dates stick in your mind. You remember the year you turn 16 (I’m not listing my 16th year here; Suffice it to say it occurred before this century). If you’ve married, you — hopefully — remember that year. For those with children, you know when they entered the world.

And for people with loved ones in Iraq during the war, you remember 2007. By the time the year closed, it had earned the dubious honor of the deadliest year of conflict.

Watching the news every night made me nauseous and anxious. I stopped reading the headlines in the morning. If I overheard someone discussing numbers, I turned away. Any mention of the regions my brother was stationed near made me shake uncontrollably.

You go through this curious game as a military family member. Most of the time, you NEVER want to know what’s happening (ignorance is bliss). But a tiny part of you? That part craves an end to the anxiety. You can’t handle NOT knowing.

So I pulled up my email every morning, desperate for a message from my brother. Whenever he could, he sent us something. Usually, a meandering note on how things were going. He never edited them well (resulting in numerous heart attacks for my mom). Frightening as some of the updates were, though, at least they confirmed he was there.

Alive.

Breathing.

Okay.

Domino 3: Transformers

The movie theatre was packed for the opening. We needed to wait over an hour in line to buy tickets (no pre-orders back then). Standing around, chatting with everyone, you could feel the excitement about getting to FINALLY see Transformers.

I remember rolling my eyes and making jokes about the teenagers and kids in line. None of them knew what a Transformer was. They showed up for the stunning CG. Or Shia LaBeouf. I, on the other hand, remembered watching the cartoons on Saturday morning. And, of course, stealing Bumblebee and Ravage from my brother.

Most of all, I remembered the day when he earned enough stickers on our chore poster to get Optimus Prime. The little brat refused to let me touch his new prize. But getting to watch him open that coveted toy stood out in my memory. I couldn’t wait to see the Autobot in the flesh (metal?).

I knew my brother wouldn’t get a chance to see the movie for — well, who knew. This was my chance to do something for him.

And me. (Come on — EVERYONE wanted to see that film)

Everything started going wrong when the movie swung to the military base. I felt the first short circuit in my brain. No, I didn’t know what my brother’s base looked like. He didn’t send pictures like that — out of respect for mom. But my imagination, aided by the news, filled in the blanks.

And while I KNEW no Decepticons lurked in the Earth atmosphere, that first action scene brought everything home in a way I wasn’t ready for. Before I knew it, I was crying.

Ugly crying.

In a sold-out movie theatre.

Surrounded by strangers.

Not one person understood that I was no longer seeing a fiction movie.

Instead, my mind substituted the real world. I saw my brother, the men and women in his patrol, the thousands of others stationed throughout Iraq. And I felt that twisting reminder of WHY they were there.

People stared.

My date hissed at me that I was making a scene.

And I think I traumatized the little boy next to me.

Movie Trauma

To the relief of everyone around me, I got myself under control. I even managed to make it through the remainder of the film without crying (People kept checking, though; I should have charged an admission fee).

But when we left, I needed to make that phone call. I knew the chances of my brother picking up the phone were slim. That didn’t matter. Saying the words, letting the emotion in my voice carry through the line were more important. I didn’t want Fourth of July to pass without the call.

Of course, I needed to explain myself the next time he got a chance to talk. And he laughed when I told him Transformers traumatized me. We needed the laugh, though. It gave us something bright during a year that proved trying and horrific for our family.

To this day, watching the movie causes a hiccup in my chest. But so does standing outside on the Fourth of July. Or reading the list of names my brother posts every Memorial Day.

Different pieces that translate to the same thing:

What are you willing to give to achieve freedom?

My thanks to Ellie for her writing prompt, “What Does Freedom Mean to You?” that suggested this post.