Memories and Words
Since I wrote the entry “What the Cat Doesn’t Know,” about my childhood impressions of France when my father was stationed there in the early ‘60s, I’ve heard from plenty of brats. Of course: A great many of us spent extended periods in other countries, and were profoundly impressed—or shocked!—by what we found there.
Readers, I want to challenge you to send in the specifics. Write your own recollections of overseas life. Keep it on the brief side, but feel free to write in more than once. Tell us your memories of what you saw, heard, smelled, tasted…. Tell us where, and when, and how old you were. Tell us a story about something funny, odd, mysterious, frightening, embarrassing, beautiful. Let it live again. You know how, in civilian contexts, you learned not to talk about those experiences for fear of being labeled a snob or a braggart? Well, this is a safe venue. We are free here to tell our exotic stories without incurring criticism. Everyone here here will “get it,” and your story, no matter what it is, will give each of us the gift of prompting recollections of our own young, impressionable selves long ago, overseas.
Once I got in trouble for using that word. I was 22, living in Richmond, Virginia, and needed to sell my car before taking an open-ended trip to Europe. I placed an ad saying my car was only two years old and must be sold before I went overseas. The first guy who came to see it was a retired Marine who still sported the haircut and the ramrod posture. He brought his teenage son along—the car would be for him—and he seemed surprised when I turned out to be female. He asked for my husband. I said I was the one selling the car, and would he like to see it? His face turned purple up to the roots of his vertically-charged hair.
“You’re not military?” he snapped. I was surprised.
Then he blasted me.
“That’s deception!” he roared. “You said overseas in that ad. No one could read an ad with that word without thinking you’re military! You deliberately lied in order to sell your car!”
I was blindsided, speechless and unable to defend myself. I even felt guilty. Of course, in those days, not long removed from my particular military family, I had a strong tendency to feel guilty about absolutely everything. It must be my fault. I may not have known it was wrong, but it was still wrong, and I did it. I am guilty. I should be punished. The idea of rejecting the accusation and arguing back never even crossed my mind. I submissively folded in the face of his attack, as though I accepted the premise that overseas experiences are the sole domain of uniformed service members, and I, as a mere child living in Europe, had encroached on that domain and stolen something.
Of course, if someone, Marine or not, barked the same thing at me today, I would know what to say. I would be calm, but I would say:
It’s my word too. I lived it. I earned it. As the child of a career Army family, I served too, in my own way, just like all members of military families. The overseas experience is part of my heritage, and I will not degrade that experience or that service by disavowing a word that comes as naturally to me as it does to you.
So there. Thirty-odd years late, I know, but so there anyway. The difference between that humiliating day in 1974 and now--the result, of course, of much hard work--is this: Knowing where I come from. Knowing who I am. Owning my cultural identity.
So in that spirit, brothers and sisters of our far-flung tribe, send in your stories! Own that experience! Share it!
Overseas, overseas, overseas, overseas, overseas!!
And also the word "stateside" referring to all the "not-Japan" places back home, as in "when we get back stateside..." or "You'd never see this stateside." Like "overseas," "stateside" isn't just a soldier's "in"-word, but also a bit of specialized vocabulary in our shared language that we brats proudly picked up in Japan too.... I'm looking forward to sharing my stories with you.... Have you heard the one about the time my legs mysteriously and suddenly quit working, so I crawled almost across a whole parade ground, nearly to my school, when my legs miraculously started working again, so I forgot all about it.... But I sure felt blue when I reached the school and heard that I had missed all the excitement of a gigantic earthquake...I felt quite sorry for myself for some time.... (We brats are so resilient)! XO Nancy
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Mary,
What an excellent thought, and I'll be anxiously waiting to read some of the experiences of our fellow brats regarding their time overseas.
I did not have the experience overseas, however something in your discussion with the Marine clicked a memory. A long ago discussion with my late cousin, Milly, regarding the time her husband spent in the reserves. Milly and I grew up a long way away from each other, so her knowledge of my background is somewhat limited. In all innocence and curiosity she asked me "Did you ever serve your country?"
It took me a moment or two to reply to this in an honest way, particularly since I knew my cousin wasn't looking for a way to claim some superiority over me, but it hit a chord. So my answer was:
Yes, Milly, in a way I did. I served as a brat, which meant that without any warning I was uprooted and moved from the friends and home I knew and plopped down in another one, and then three, or perhaps four years later, did it all over again. I put up with my father being gone for long absences, some of which later drove my mother to alcohol in terror of his not returning alive. I learned to stand by the grave of the father of one of my friends and pray to Jesus that what had just happened to Mark, or Rich, or Steve wouldn't happen to me. I learned to live with the roar of a wing of B-52's on alert flying over our house and rattling the dishes, sometimes two or three times a week. And, I learned that the friends I knew today, could disappear without warning, or goodbye, in a moment's notice. So yes, Milly, I served, even though I didn't volunteer or get drafted.
I don't want anyone of our fellow brats to think I'm equating what I (or any of you) went through to compare to that of a serving member of the armed forces, because no matter what I've noted, it doesn't compare - at all.
But serve? You bet I did, and I'm very proud of it.
Bravo, Mary, and thanks once again for helping me open that dusty cedar chest of memories in my heart.
Your friend,
KW
ps - San Diego still misses you!
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Thanks, Ken. You are so right about our having served, in our own fashion. I could not express it better myself.
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Hi KW, I just found this site and I loved your reply. But I want to reply to:
I don't want anyone of our fellow brats to think I'm equating what I (or any of you) went through to compare to that of a serving member of the armed forces, because no matter what I've noted, it doesn't compare - at all.
I can't help but disagree with that. I was a military brat until I left home. Eighteen years of non-voluntary service. Being shipped from place to place sometimes for a few years, other times for a few months. The difference as I see it is the people who serve our country enlist (except of course when we had a draft), but I would have never chosen the life of a dependant had I been asked. Don't get me wrong, I took the best it had to offer, but it was a hard life and one that I think affects all dependants for the rest of our lives. We are different than others and always will be. We did sacrifice more than those who grew up with roots and surrounded by family. But similar to the way a secretary is not considered as important as her boss, she or he is often the glue that holds so much together so that the boss can get on with the business of what he does. So you can equate - as we all can - our "service" as dependants as important and vital to a healthy, functioning military. How many lifers could stick it out without their families to make it just a little easier?
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PANAMA: THE JUNGLE THAT SURROUNDED US
We kids weren’t supposed to go into the jungle. Even though we had been warned about the poisonous snakes and spiders that lived in there, we would occasionally sneak in and have a look around. We would see colorful birds, little monkeys and some mysterious animals that our mothers had never seen in Ohio or New Jersey where they had grown up. Our fathers were soldiers, stationed in Panama, right next to the Panama Canal. Ft. Clayton had landscaped lawns and gardens surrounded by the Central American tropical forest, a thick barrier of exotic plants and trees that began where our back yards ended. It was a very tempting place for adventurous kids like us, a group of young army brats. Usually, we only made short trips into the jungle to explore, with all our eyes on alert for anything that might cause us harm. The most dangerous part of our trip was probably getting in and out of the jungle without any of our mothers seeing us.
My days were often spent running barefoot under a blue sky wearing nothing but a one-piece sun suit or riding my little turquoise Huffy two-wheeler all over the post with my hair blowing in the hot breeze. It was never cold. There was rainy season and dry season, but the temperature was always between rather warm and very hot. We had no glass in the windows of our quarters, only screens to keep the bugs and birds out and louvers to close against the rain.
We lived in Panama from the time I was six until I was nine. We crossed the Panama Canal to go to school accompanied by an armed military policeman in full uniform. Sometimes our school bus would have to stop and wait while the canal locks opened to accommodate a ship passing though to the Atlantic or Pacific Ocean. During the delays, we would sing “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall” or “I Don’t Want No More of Army Life”. I’m not sure who instigated the singing. It could have been the military police, encouraging us to sing instead of tormenting each other. We were fairly well behaved for a busload of Army Brats. I always thought the Military Police were on board to keep us in line. It never occurred to me that they were there to protect us. I always felt safe.
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Sharyn, what great recollections! I loved the detail about no glass in the windows and waiting at the "ship crossing" of the Panama Canal. Say, I've forgotten the words to "I Don't Want No More of Army Life." Can you, or any other reader, refresh my memory? By the way, what were the specific years you were in Panama, and what were the dangers there for which you needed MP protection?
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Thanks, Mary. I've been writing a few stories about places I lived as an army brat. Panama was one of the most memorable and the most different from anywhere we lived in the States. We were there from 1957-59. Since we children crossed the Panama Canal every day, we were in a vulnerable and predictable position for any would-be attackers wanting to compromise the canal that was controlled by the Americans at the time. The possibility of military dependents as hostages in a strategic shipping passage must have worried the brass enough to place armed MP's on our buses.
Following are the verses I can remember from "I Don't Want No More of Army Life". I know there are more, but it's been a long time since I sang the song. Maybe someone else can remember more?
I DON'T WANT NO MORE OF ARMY LIFE
Oh the biscuits in the Army, they say they’re mighty fine,
One rolled off the table and killed a friend of mine!
Oh, I don’t want no more of Army life!
Gee Ma, I wanna go, not back to Tokyo, gee Ma, I wanna go home.
The women in the Army, they say they’re mighty fine,
You ask for Betty Grable, they give you Frankenstein!
Oh, I don’t want no more of Army life!
Gee Ma, I wanna go, not back to Tokyo, gee Ma, I wanna go home.
Oh the whiskey in the Army, they say it’s mighty fine,
It doesn’t have a label and tastes like turpentine.
Oh, I don’t want no more of Army life!
Gee Ma, I wanna go, not back to Tokyo, gee Ma, I wanna go home.
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Sharyn, what a memory trip to see the words of "I Don't Want No More of Army Life." Thanks so much! Of course, we always sang that on our buses, too--but I'd forgotten all about it. I'd love to see more verses!
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Hi Mary,
Your work has definitely touched my life. I'm going to step out here on a limb and say that I am the author of Mr. Loo
http://www.everything2.com/index.pl?node_id=714236
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Debbie, I just read your beautiful and moving essay about Mr. Loo and his importance to your life as a tiny girl in Taiwan. I hope everyone who reads this will follow that link and read it. When you write, "I am not the same having seen the moon shine on the other side of the world," it speaks to all of us. That lovely phrase could be a banner raised above our collective childhoods. In fact, if you ever expand your essay and publish it elsewhere, I recommend that as the title.
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Mary, I always read the postings with the intent of commenting, only to read the coments and discover that someone already said it. I like that. It is just another way of knowing that I wasn't the only one...
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Mary, what a joy to discover your blog! Your book found its way into my hands and heart more than a decade ago and reading it was an incredibly healing and affirming experience. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
My own overseas experience was in Izmir, Turkey, in the late 60's. Our three years there were the best part of my childhood. I still miss it. I've only just recently begun blogging and have started putting up some photos from the family archives with related writings. One about Turkey is here:
http://robin-turner.blogspot.com/2008/01/morning-meditation.html#links
Would love to hear from other brats!
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Dear Mary (and readers),
You've got to see this--
**Today a New York Times article discussing whether or not former military brat John McCain is eligible to run for President since he was born as a military child outside of the continental United States.
Boy did that bring up some feelings for me-- both my Sister and Brother, although Air Force kids, were born overseas-- and it just has occured to me-- they may not ever have been eligible to run for President of the United States because they were born as French and German citizens respectively.
(Click this link to NYT article to see this unbelieveable debate)--
http://elections.foxnews.com/2008/02/28/mccains-extra-territorial-birth-raises-questions-about-ability-to-become-president/
Best,
Phil Murray, Proud Military Brat and also Son of a Brat.
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Phil, you are so right. This is a ridiculous "controversy." If someone born overseas to an American citizen in service to our country cannot run for president, then there is something fundamentally wrong with our democracy. I feel sure, though, that this will be remedied by Congress or the Supreme Court.
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I don't think that it matters where you were born if your parent is in the US military. You are automatically a citizen of the United States. A lot of people don't know that.
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McCain was born on a military base in the Canal Zone, Panama, which was considered U.S. territory at that time.
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The pobres huddled on cold nights in the clinker fields next to our home we called a castle since it had three floors and a basement. The only blue house, in a street of white, it was a majestic house with balconies that looked out over the city, then spreading wildly into the northern campo.
The street in front had been torn up and in process of being paved by small flint stones and cement, laid tediously by hand. Heaps of red clay cast long shadows at sunset showing the undergarment of a road used by shepherds for hundreds of years to get their sheep from the campo to the protection of the inner city. Called cañadas by a law set down by Alfonso el Sabio (the Wise) in the 1200’s, the prized merino sheep, known for their fine wool, had the right of way on those streets then.
Donkeys did not. Carts full of garbage were pulled by donkeys to remote areas for dumping. The day we arrived at our assigned hotel, just a few weeks earlier, a donkey had been hit by a car, his body strewn across the hood, the garbage being swept through pools of blood by three or four men in rope soled shoes and berets.
In front of our castle, at just about dawn every night, the pobres, 10 or 15 usually, gathered at the corner and walked in a cadence to the piles of spent coal in the field next to the fence of our castle. They would dig out a small sleeping place, as warmth and protection from the portero and his dogs, hired to protect the other houses under construction. The spent coal came from our castles.
We lived two miles from the place where Calvo Sotelo’s body had been dumped after he was assassinated in 1936, sparking the civil war that became the testing ground for Hitler’s weapons 3 years later.
At that same place, when I was 12 years old, and 23 years after the start of that civil war, I witnessed a midnight firing squad that killed 9 men.
And one mile from that first home in Madrid, that same year, I was shot by the son of a Waffen SS general, living under the protection of a ruthless dictator, Francisco Franco.
Madrid, 1957. There are a hundred other stories of that 4 years we lived in a castle we called La Macarena and another we called La Triana.
I still tell people I had an uneventful childhood. They would never believe me if I told them the truth. For a while, I convinced myself it was normal.
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Beautifully written, David! Very evocative. It would make a terrific novel. Have you ever considered writing a novel about it? I wish you would.
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I was in Germany in the early 60's as well and I loved it. The culture shock came for me when I returned to the little town in the middle of nowhere after spending four years in Europe. Oh my.
I'm Canadian, my mother's an American however, so it was always fun at border crossings and whenever we flew home to see her family or flew home to Germany just mentioned that because our experience in a number of ways are different but, over all, the same. Things like home being wherever we were heading for example. One trip we went home four times...all different cities, good thing we knew what we meant.
No matter what country we were traveling in Military plates from either country was cause to wave at the very least and frequently led to our fathers pulling over so we could have lunch or spend a little time together. It's always amazed me how we 'knew' one another on a level that was more intimate than that of our families back home because of our common experience. You need help, you go to the nearest base. You find someone who needs help, nearest base or embassy...we picked up a girl who'd been robbed in Switzerland and got her to the US embassy. To this day if I meet someone who grew up in the military we get along instantly, we understand one another and it's always so nice to spend a little time with one of your own.
We were there during the Missile Crisis, the base abuzz, the planes plugged in all day outside the classroom. You sort of know what's up but it's really not that different that you're scared...it just is what it is, even those few hours we were at war before the ships turned around.
You know about Moscow Molly. Our landlady was in a work camp, her husband, an Obberfurer, a POW at the end of the war. Every German soldier says he fought on the Eastern Front when they talk to our fathers at the Gausthouse. You listen while they talk & understand far more than anyone so young should. You stand outside a bombed out building to wait for the bus to school. There are so many people with missing limbs, war wounds, quickly you hardly notice them. You learn to shake hands and curtsy when you meet elders. Your parents carry 'papers' with them everywhere. Buildings built before Columbus dropped by our shores are still be used. You see a concentration camp. You are changed forever in ways that no one who didn't live the life can understand, until I found Military Brats I had no idea how common this uncommon childhood was.
I have to confess I thought everyone used 'overseas' but now that I've read Mary's blog and remember back it really IS only other military people who do. Another one of those words we say or understand differently. Like 'Sir' or 'Ma'am'...I use them both without thinking, like please & thank you, but people frequently mention it as they seem to think they're special words. So many years later it's the little things that give us away.
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Mary, this may not "go" with this post but i just had to tell you this. I was at our local craft store AC Moore and they had a paper with a coupon they were handing out. It says: "Celebrate month of the military child reocognizing the children of all who seve our country." I have never seen anything like this before. You can decorate a toy car and make your own Thomas car.
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I just discovered this site. I am a nurse. Since I write in fragmented sentences, facts only, here goes. My mother, a German citizen, illegitimate,experienced all the hell of the Nazi regime. Marries her night in shining armor, dad. Dad, a handsome, Elvis Presley, look alike, born in Pollock, LA. Dad goes to LSU/ROTC. Flew planes for awhile until his hearing affected his flying. He was a champion in skeet shooting in Germany. Well, I was born in Germnany. From there, was all over the States, Panama Canal, Quito,Equador. I learned Spanish fluently, then. Learned how to curtsie. Meet Ambassadors. Mom danced with highest officials in Quito. She mentions at times, "Who would ever have thought that a worn torn orphan would be doing this?" All these experiences gave me great insights into human character. Hardly anyone knows squat about me. It sounds partly sensationalize/fantasy/over-inflated to some that I shared my story with. I've seen my mother evolve,changed,morph, into this magnificent woman who endured so much. Dad died years back. All his travels, distanced them, problems, the usual stuff. My sister and I have never been close. Always trying to get our parents affection early on.
Just your typical normal/dysfunctional military family. Would I trade it for someone else, stable, 1-home family , in 1 town upbringing? No Way!
My life is a mystery to most. Oh well, I've flown by the seat of my pants. 14 moves early on, 20+ since I've moved I went to college. All the moves, the lifestyle, only prepared me for an adult life of constant moves. I have 3 kids. The youngest is adopted from China. I tell my mom, I adopted because I witnessed first hand her emotional journey. That's it. Thanks for the website. My mom gave me your book 10 years ago which helped me understand that I wasn't a civilian "freak". I love my life, warts and all. Thankyou Ms.Wertsch
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