This essay was first published in Vol 9, Issue 1 of The Normal School in 2016. It was later anthologized in The Spirit of Disruption: Selections from The Normal School.
I came up with the idea for the essay and began drafting it during my last deployment, which was in 2014. It’s an example of a “braided” form, in which two or more narratives dance around each other. In “Calling Jody”, the idea for one narrative — the first — came to me in a dream, and is entirely fictional. The other is quite real, and details the way that running marathons became a means of memorializing my dead. Separating the two narratives are bits of verse from a “jody,” or marching cadence sung aloud to keep the formation in step, sung by my imagined formation of the dead.
Memorial Day has never been my favorite holiday, and you can probably guess why. But, I don’t begrudge you keeping the day as you like. With a little luck, this essay will give you a deeper understanding of what the day means to those of us lost friends and family to the Forever War. I’m pleased to offer this as a special Memorial Day feature for my paid subscribers, but free subscribers will see a preview below. Thank you for reading.
Todd and Therese mill about, scarred and seeping from a Green Zone suicide bomber. Ben flicks bits of an Iraqi linguist from his body armor. Matt, uniform shredded, steams into the cold morning from his perforated chest. White and Flores trail wisps of black smoke from charred flesh; find Joel waiting with a grin and M4 in hand. Anthony emerges from a dream covered in the blood of the Marines he couldn’t save, and finds a spot near the middle of the formation. Jeremy walks to the rear as if he’s not missing half a leg. Lieutenant Colonel Raible grips an M16 with his right hand, his left pressed to a wound on his neck that stopped bleeding years ago. He looks at me, mouths a soundless whisper, and heads up front. Three columns of men and women thirteen years deep: the living fall in alongside the dead and come to attention. I march us, then call for a double-time trot and sing the cadence from memory. Our feet strike the ground as one. The beat of the song carries us forward.
***
C130, rolling down the strip
Air Force PJ, gonna take a little trip
Mission top secret, destination unknown
Don’t even know if he’s ever coming home
***
June 19th, 2010.
The bus to the start line of the 2010 Grandma’s Marathon was a giddy swirl of pre-race nerves. The other runners grinned anxiously while fiddling with water bottles and chatting. Alone in the back, gripping a small bag that contained race shoes, water bottle, and a black permanent marker, my thoughts alternated between the race and the marker. I waited for a moment when no one was looking, then pulled out the marker to write first on my left arm, “Mike Flores, KIA 9 Jun 10, Afghanistan.” Then my right: “Ben White, KIA 9 Jun 10, Afghanistan.” One chance to get it right, I wrote carefully.
The race start was the usual business. The crack of the starter’s pistol under the whup-whup of the news helicopter released a rainbow thrash of technical tees and multicolored running shoes. After weaving through first mile stragglers, I pulled into a group that sheltered me from the Lake Superior crosswinds. For half the race, I tucked in and conserved my energy. After 13.1 miles, I said goodbye and left them behind.
I gave chase to an endless line of runners ahead, blurred them into the pavement behind. The world withdrew until a distant bagpiper’s notes washed across my arms, leaving gooseflesh. A kilted piper upon a field of green skirled “A Call to Arms” across my knotted throat. The scene misted. I choked a breath past the lump and into the day. The notes receded and I chased their wake too hard into the empty distance ahead.
***
Stand up, hook up, shuffle to the door
Jump right out and count to four
And if that chute don’t open wide
I got another one by my side
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