The Weight of war , memory and...A Story by Kimberly SmithEssay for class..decide to share
Kimberly S. Smith
English 1100
Mrs. Janet Beck
April 28, 2009
The Weight of war, memory and…
“The things they carried were largely determined by necessity. Among the necessities or near-necessities were dog tags , mosquito repellent, chewing gum, candy cigarettes, salt tablets, packets of Kool Aid, lighters , matches, two of three canteens of water”(O’Brien 2).
The significance of the things they carried was a definition of the load the soldiers carried either if it was pain, love, sickness or M-60. Tim O’Brien used this phrase to relate the things the soldiers carried physically to the things they carried mentally. Many times people carry something physically to support them mentally. After reading The Things they carried I started to realize that reason people carried guns, footballs or lip gloss, books, a purse or nothing at all for a reason. My father told me only cowards carried guns, or people who are afraid to die. I never thought that was true, I thought it was another ignorant phrase crossing his arrogant mind. O’Brien said “I was coward. I went to the war”. Then I realized that guns are the gust of war therefore making war a weapon. Guns are protection for someone who can’t defend for him or herself or are they? I don’t know how many stories I’ve heard of a cop killing a boy for reaching in his back pocket for a wallet, a wallet, or a girl shooting herself over something time could’ve healed. A gun is carried for power, money, greed, guilt, hunger, lies and for the easy way out.
“What they carried varied by mission. When a mission took the mountains, they carried mosquito netting, machetes, canvas tarps, and extra bug juices” (O’Brien9). The sentence is deeper than its surface. When our phases change in life so do the things we carry. To College, to career then to mother hood, to books, brief cases and filling to baby bottles and rattles. Just like the soldiers the location called for different equipment. The thing that Tim O’Brien carried was the burden of pleasing his family and community and the boy that he killed in combat.
Once I carried 6 books on my walk to school they all weighing about 5 pounds each , doing the math I was carrying at least 30 pounds , but I had just had a huge fight with my mother that morning and that seem to weigh on my body heavier then the books. I didn’t know how overbearing the books had become until my right arm gave out and they fell in the wet mud. Some pages ruin and wet some saved by the sprinkles of mud from the previous one. The mud made this big serious history book look like a square of tissue paper on a damp floor, not enough to destroy the thing , but just enough that its ruined and even if you reused it , it would never be the same, that was enough for me. I just remember that strange feeling as I watch the mud sink the book into its goo, and the wetness and moisture washing away the ink I’d studied and as they washed away I remembered not giving a s**t. Yes, I could’ve panicked rush to ground and try to save the books, but something kept holding me back. When I saw my homework I’d worked on all night and about 135 dollars in water damage to my textbooks. That load of homework and burdens of trying to keep those books descent all year was lifted. I felt relieved, confused, worried, happy and clarity all at the same time. The load of pain and hurt or the load of happiness and freedom we carry every day.
She always had dried tear marks scared on her face. She was 11 years old never had a prom, or even a date. Her step father use to rape her so you can say she never had a childhood. I guess the load of sadness, pain both mentally and physically form his pressures of lust was too much so she shot herself with his revolver. He was 16 years old, handsome and funny. He was coming back for a basketball game he had just won, and on his way to a party, he was pulled over by the police for speeding he fit the description of a person wanted for drug charges, he was asked to place his hands on the ground as the cops are calling him some name he doesn’t recognize, he reached in his back pocket for his wallet to show them his I.D. Then they shot him in his neck the cop confess later he was aiming for his right shoulder. People called him Tim Duncan because he was so good at basketball, but I guess his dreams and ambitions are only a story now. He was my cousin and she was my best friend. The things I carry hurt more than I knew, now I know the reason I always carry something sharp just in case a boy want to take advantage, and why I can’t fully trust men and the reason I never owned a wallet. “I don’t know how many stories I’ve heard of a cop killing a boy for reaching in his back pocket for a wallet, a wallet, or a girl shooting herself over something time could’ve healed”. I know how many times once, but I remember every single little detail and life seems to remind me every day. Every time April 4 rolls around, or a cool breeze in September takes the rhythm of my breath away. I can hear his screechy laugh in the basketball beating against my porch pavement as he waited every day at 6:00 am to walk me to school. It hurts so badly and sometimes I wish I had amnesia, so I will never cry again. Then I laugh, at the way her and I played in the rain at the playground because no one was there we had the whole playground to ourselves, we both though it was way more fun in the rain then in the sun. So every time it rains I see her, every time I see a basketball I see him, every time I hear a gunshot I see them both. The load I carry is a burden, and I wish I could take it off like a book bag, but every time I try it seems as though it’s nailed to my back. Seeming as if it would hurt more to take it off then keep it. I still remember…
The worst part of carrying these loads is carrying them all at the same time. When it hurt and feels good all at once. Like a tattoo or falling of a bike when you’re a child and the scar follows you your whole life or wishing you were a kid again because skinned knees are easier to fix than broken hearts. Sometimes we even forget the pain we endured those years ago but we still remembered it hurt because the scar is still there. That’s the significance of the things they carried in the war they carried the love and pain in their hearts that weighed heavier than their weapons, if it’s one thing I’ve learned from life is that memories are heavier than any pound. Do I wish I never carried these memories? I say no, but I mean yes. If those memories go away I would have nothing to carry, if it wasn’t for the weight I carried I wouldn’t have the muscle to pick up the simple things life throws at me now. O’Brien’s tells theses stories to keep him from going crazy, like Norman Bowker or do we call it crazy? Or do we call it “speaking of courage”? What’s so courageous about Norman or my best friend committing suicide? Yes, someone not carrying the same beast on their backs would call it insane. But then there’s us, the people that know insanity is courage. Now you’re asking yourself what’s sane? Am I sane? Me living to die in a world so fucked up hoping and wishing people change, life get better, Seeing way more deaths at 19 then she or my cousin had ever dreamed? So I’m carrying the same load as I did at 11 years old and yes, it’s heavy, but will I ever put them down or let them go? I can’t. I won’t. Not now, but I will, someday. Someday when cops, basketballs, step dads and rain doesn’t exist.
War is hell, but that’s not the half of it because war is also a mystery and terror and adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love. War is nasty; war is fun, war is thrilling; war is drudgery. War makes you a man; war makes you dead” (O’Brien 80).War is life and life is hell. We carry our pass along with material things that hides the truth. We all carry the weight of war/life, memory/pass and insanity/courage. At 11, 17, 19 years old, older or younger, one day when gravity fails you and you only, it will hit you. That there was never a difference and I threw those books in the mud. “This one does it for me. I’ve told it before –many times, many versions –but here’s what really happened” (O’Brien 76). I was struggling to catch the history book slipping, holding on by one page trying to save the book that I couldn’t understand, ripped. It was something about that sound. Man that ripped. I said just one page, one page became 30 pages, and 30 pages became $89. Matter of fact I crammed the mud in all the pages of the others books and didn’t care that mud was caked in my finger nails and the dirt clots painted on my $59 jeans. I guess you could say the load was too heavy or in that one moment I gain the courage to do it. Or what would you call it insane? I walk to school empty handed that day, so was my mind.
© 2009 Kimberly SmithFeatured Review
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