Army Brats Seventeen Years Old, Virginia
Army Brats
Seventeen Years Old, Virginia
When I was in eighth grade, my dad deployed to Afghanistan for a year. On one of the many nights I couldn’t sleep, I opened my ever-present journal and did some calculating: Of my thirteen years, Dad had been away for six. For nearly half my life, he’d had boots on the ground in various foreign countries.
Every time he deploys, I cry rivers. Mom does too. But before long, we settle into a routine. We carry on. We survive.
God willing, Dad will too.
Six months, eight months, twelve months later, he redeploys. Mom and I meet him with posters that boast my bubbly handwriting in red and blue: Welcome home, Daddy! He hugs me, smelling of elsewhere, and murmurs, “I missed you, Millie.”
Onlookers blot tears, thanking him for his service. He smiles, humble. He’s third-generation military. It’s not as simple as service; patriotism pumps through his veins.
Tradition dictates that, post-deployment, we swing by Burger King for Double Whoppers and sodas. Then we head home, to whichever house we’re renting, in whichever Army-post-adjacent town we’re living. Dad drags his dusty duffels into the garage. After a hot shower and a couple IPAs, he passes out in the recliner, jet-lagged and in desperate need of uninterrupted sleep.
I’ve always been close with my parents. That’s the way of most Army brats, I think. We’re transient, a family of caribou traversing the land as Dad’s orders dictate, our only constants being each other. I’ve made friends along the way, but when I think of them, I think of fun, blowing off steam, filling time. I don’t think lifelong .
With the exception of Beck.
Beck was an Army brat too. He knew what it was like to move every few years, to pack up a room and wave goodbye to buddies. He knew how it felt to be the new kid. His dad deployed as often as mine. He’d pulled construction paper links from plenty of countdown chains. He leaned on Bernie in all the ways I’ve leaned on Mom.
Beck understood.
I grew up vacationing with the Byrnes. FaceTiming Bernie to dish about the angsty TV series we streamed in tandem. I attended Connor’s promotion ceremonies, just as I attend my dad’s. When I was three-four-five (Beck was five-six-seven), our dads were assigned to the same unit at Fort Bragg. We lived in the same development. When I was eight-nine-ten (Beck was ten-eleven-twelve), it happened again. Fort Lewis. We lived on the same street. When I was fourteen (Beck had just turned sixteen), Dad was given a stint at the Pentagon. Connor was assigned to Fort Belvoir, also in Northern Virginia.
Together again.
Bernie and Mom were ecstatic.
Beck and I fell in love.