Reflections of Fatherhood

Two roads diverged in a wood, and sorry I could not travel both, I took the one less traveled by. And that has made all the difference.

One year ago today, I checked my wife into Freeman Medical Center in Joplin, MO. She was scheduled to be induced that evening, and I had no idea the ride that I was in for over the next day, month, and year. As family and friends surrounded us, the ugly head of crisis made itself known in that small room. It seems that every time my wife attempted to deliver, my son's heart rate would drop dramatically. After this occurred several times, the doc decided that a C-Section was the safest option. 30 minutes later, at 8:54 PM on December 3, 2010, David Matthew Hatfield caught his first glimpse of the world. I was scared shitless. I have a photo of myself right before we went into the OR and it looked like I was frightened. In recollection, I realize I was. The doctor asked me if I wanted to cut my son's umbilical cord, but I did not because I was worried I would hurt him. In retrospect, I realize that my fears were unfounded, because all babies are born with umbilical cords. The next few days seem like a whirlwind of family, friends, baths, diapers, and feedings. The first diaper I ever changed I had to ask the nurse for help. I was completely lost. I haven't changed many diapers since then, and for that, I feel uneasy. A year has passed, and in that year many things have happened. I've lost friends, I've lost opportunities to be with my son, and I have lost a certain level of innocence. But one thing that I have not lost is the love for my son. One day, he will realize that his father left for a war while he was still in diapers. He may not understand why at first, but I hope that one day he realizes that I did it for him. I volunteered for this deployment. I didn't have to go, but I knew that if I didn't take this one, I'd be on the next one, and maybe he would be older, maybe he would truly realize his father is gone. Saying goodbye to your child is one of the toughest things you can do, but one must do it with poise and love, for I know that I will be reunited with him soon enough. I know that soon, I will hold him on my chest as he sleeps again, knowing that all is right in the world. In the mean time, his birthday will be just another day in a country whose future lays in our hands. My son will be in my thoughts and my heart, as he always is, but more so than usual. My son is my world to me, and I long for the day when he is in my arms again. I love you, David Matthew Hatfield.

For the record, he is not named after the Dave Matthews Band. Random tangent, but I look at people like they're stupid when they ask that.

Gazing at the Heavens

One of the things I absolutely love about where I am in Afghanistan are the clear skies. On a moonless night, you can see more stars than you ever thought existed. The first time I noticed, my breath was taken away, and that novelty has not worn much in the past few months. The other day as I was gazing at the stars I noticed a shooting star. Then another. Then another, and another, until in a little over an hour I had seen ten shooting stars, in all directions. It made me think of a joke, which goes like this:
A man was speaking with God and God said ask me any question you want. After a minute of thinking, the man looked to God and said, "God, what is a million years to you?" God replied "My son, a million years is but a mere second." After a few moments of contemplation, the man looked to God again and said "What is a million dollars to you?" God replied "Son, a million dollars is but a mere cent to me." Silent for a few minutes, the man looked to God and said "God, can I have a penny?" God replied "Wait a second..."

This joke points out a few things: time and monetary items are immaterial in the grand scheme of life. Our lives are just like those of the shooting star. Some are bright, full of happiness and joy, while others are dull and barely noticeable. But if you blink, they're both gone. So how do I make the most out of my blink of an eye? I try to change what will come after me. I will teach my son my values, my morals. My childhood was not the easiest, but without it, I would not be where I am today. Those experiences have taught me to be wise beyond my years. Heaven forbid that my son ever have to experience what I have, but hopefully, I can teach him those values and morals in other ways. Just some food for thought, all...

9/11

Everyone always poses the great question: "Where were you on 9/11? What were you doing when you found out?" and so forth. Where I was on 9/11 is of no significance, I was in the 6th grade, in the Principal's Office at Haysville Junior High. No, I wasn't in trouble (yet) but yet I was still there, saw the image of the first tower being hit played repeatedly, and watched, in shock, awe, and strangely a slight sense of amusement as the second plane flew into the other tower. I do not recall why I was amused, only that in reflection I realize that I did not fully comprehend what was happening at the time. My next class was a computers class, and I recall that we did nothing but watch the T.V. Living near Wichita at the time, I recall the air as being tense, as many believed we may have been a target due to McConnell AFB and the numerous airplane manufacturers located in Wichita. The moment that I recall more than 9/11, however, was a few days later. The whole city, as well as the country, had swelled with patriotism. Signs said "God Bless America" flags flew, people seemed more alive, friendlier, as it may have been. Looking back, I am saddened that it took a national tragedy to invoke these feelings of pride in one's country, sad that it took this to get people to accept the word "God" on a billboard without the ACLU suing the every living shit out of the company, because that is what it was before, and that is what it is once again. But I digress. The moment I most recall from the weeks following 9/11 was the day I was returning to school from a doctor's appointment. My mother was driving, and we were listening to some country station in Wichita. As we were driving down the road, I saw numerous flags being flown, some at half staff, others at full staff, some with POW/MIA flags below, others with "Don't Tread on Me" flags below. "God Bless the USA" by Lee Greenwood started playing on the radio, his tones, that haunting voice, full of sadness and pride at once. I recall my chest swelling with pride, as I listened to the lyrics and saw the flags pass by, one by one. I recall that day when I have days of depression, days of sadness. It reminds me why I do what I do, why I am where I am. So, ask yourself, not where were you on 9/11, but what did you do as a result of it?

Letter to my Son, Part II

Dear David,
I realize that you are too young to read this and understand it, but I know that one day you will be old enough to read it, and hopefully, wise enough to understand it. Every day I wake up, I look at a picture of you, I have seven of them hanging in my room in a picture frame, haphazardly arranged. I have a picture of you when you were a month old, the birth announcements that we had made up for Christmas. There is a picture of me awkwardly holding you, me dressed up in my uniform, you in a one piece getup that looks mildly ridiculous, but not quite as ridiculous as the way I am holding you, in a type of offering. I see you on Skype, your chubby cheeks so reminiscent of mine, calling me "Dada" then beginning to suck on your toes. I miss these moments, due to my own fault, but I hope you do not hold this against me. I do this not for myself, but for love of country. For the faith that maybe, one day, Afghanistan can be something more than it is. I do it out of duty, duty to my fellow brothers-in-arms. But there is yet one love, one duty that I have neglected. You. For this, I apologize, for I know that when I get home, you will be but a little over a year old. You will never know that I was gone, except for what I tell you. You will never know the things I have done, the places I have been, the stories I have to tell. Except for those I tell you. What innocence I see in your eyes, and I long for that same innocence. I long to be as pure and innocent as you, but I cannot. I long to hold you and whisper my secrets into your ear, knowing you won't tell anyone, that they will be between you and I, but, alas, I cannot. One day, soon, I will hold you in my arms and profess my deepest love for you. I will see the undeniable love in your eyes, the sheer trust, the faithfulness you have in me to provide for you. But do not be mistaken. Do not trust me, do not have faith in me. The most important lesson I can teach you is this: trust in your fellow man, have faith in him, but do not put all of your faith and trust in any one man. Have faith and trust for mankind. The most important contract you will ever make will be one of a handshake, not one signed with a pen. Your word is all you have, keep it, and people will give you their all, break it, and they will take all. But, as in the last letter, remember, Faith, Hope and Love are still the greatest.

Love,
Your Dad
(from Afghanistan)

Father's Day

Tomorrow will be my first Father's Day as a father. It is both thrilling and bittersweet, as I will be leaving for Afghanistan very shortly and will not be able to see my son. I have missed many firsts and will miss quite a few more before I return home next year. His first time holding his bottle on his own, his first time crawling, his first time talking, his first time walking. These are memories that I will never be able to hold and cherish, but I hope that in ten or fifteen years when my son asks me why I left, he can understand the values that I hope to instill in him: love of God, family and country. This post, however, is not about me, it is about my father, and another gentleman I have recently come to know. My father is not my biological father, he adopted me at the age of seven. I cannot call him a gentle man, as I never saw him cry until he lost his leg in 2003. He has never been prone to show weakness, only in his times of vulnerability have I ever seen that. He was an angry man, prone to spankings and a backhand before he would consider sending me to the corner. He showed me what it meant to work, clocking in 40 plus hours during the week and helping out friends on their farms and roofs on the weekends. I joined the military in part because I wanted to be like him. He is now a frail man of 65, but he has never lost the twinkle in his eye, that sly look that he always carried about him. He still loves a good joke and is still too proud to ask for a hand. I hope that one day I can epitomize that which he is, a hard working, blue collar family man.

Now to the other part... My biological father found me via Facebook. In a story straight out of a Lifetime movie... When my son was born I posted some pics of him on FB. Someone sent him a link of the pics of my son and told him that these were pictures of his grandchild. He sent me a message, we met, had a DNA test, and the results confirmed that he was my biological father. It's odd for a 22 year old man to meet his father for the first time. I had written this man off a long time ago as a dead beat man who didn't care enough to even try to find me. Now, I realize that he didn't try to find me not because he didn't want to, but out of love. The realization that him trying to become a part of my life at the time would have been catastrophic. My adoptive parents love and support me to achieve all of my dreams, and for that, I am truly grateful. However, I also want to know what else is out there. This man was diagnosed with cancer and has had repeated operations on it. My fear is that I will never truly get to know this man, that the tragedies of life may take him away before I can pick his brain, to find out who my biological father is. As it is said in the Middle East, Inshallah, or God Willing, I will get to discover who this man is. If fate has it differently, however, I can answer that question that has been nagging me all of my life. I know who my fathers are.

Joplin

May 23, 2011 started out as a normal day in Ft. Polk, LA. Waking up at 6 am, I prepared to go to work. Chow, shower, shave, all everyday occurances for myself as I prepare for my second deployment to Afghanistan. Greeting fellow soldiers as I walk into work, my supervisor calls me over to his desk. "Have you talked to your family? Are they all ok?" I wonder why he would be asking such a question, and I told him that I had talked to my wife and family a few days prior, as cell phone reception is extremely spotty. He then told me that a tornado had hit Joplin. I told him I knew that a small tornado had hit St. Johns the night before, but there wasn't any major damage. About that time, I turn around and on Fox News is footage of a picture that will be forever seared into my mind, one of destruction and devestation. As what had happened sunk into my mind, a million thoughts raced into my mind. My wife, my son, my parents, her parents, her grandparents, friends, aquaintances, thousands of thoughts. My boss told me to take a few hours and get ahold of my family to ensure that they were safe. I checked my email, eight emails from my wife telling me everyone was safe, my mom and dad were ok, my son was safe. Then there was a BUT. Isn't there always a but? Grandma's house was gone. The destruction and devestation at 24th and Grand was so bad my Grandmother got lost trying to find what little remained of her house. The power and strength that she showed in her statements still awe me, even now: my house is gone, but I want to help others. The dedication, hardwork, and love that this woman gave to Joplin in her darkest hour is awe inspiring. Her selflessness and caring still fill me with pride. But this is not about her, not singularly, it is about Joplin as a collective. Neighbors pouring out of ruins minutes after the storm had passed, looking for friends, neighbors, strangers, pets. Trying to comprehend that which had just happened and already moving on. The stories of those who gave their lives so that others may live. The gentleman at Home Depot sheperding customers to safety, only to fall while giving others life. The manager at Pizza Hut, holding down the door to the freezer. A week after this tragedy occured, I was talking with a dear friend Debbie, and told her that there is only one other place that I have seen such courage occur: that is the battlefield. I have not seen the destruction first hand, only pictures on the internet. I cannot comprehend getting lost in two blocks because there are no street signs in Joplin. I cannot comprehend looking down from 32nd Street and seeing 20th. I cannot comprehend a third of Joplin being flattened. I cannot comprehend Joplin. I sat down outside and I cried for half an hour. Even with the knowledge that my family was safe, I cried. I cried for Joplin. I cried for those who lost their lives. I cried most of all, however, because I know Joplin will never be the same. The stories of courage and assistance are even greater than those of death, the story of the gentleman who drove a Dodge Ram from California and simply handed his keys to a lady who lost everything. The sheer number of volunteers that showed up to help. From Carthage, Neosho, Webb City, Oklahoma, Kansas, Arkansas, New York, and points north, south, east, west, from all over the United States. For a brief moment in time, the world was Joplin. Donations poured into Joplin, the POTUS made a brief stop to show that we are united as one. When tragedy strikes, the world stops. Some want to simply gawk, but most want to help. I wish I could have come home, to have helped, to have shown love to my town, my people, my home. Joplin has faded from the national light, the news trucks are gone, the volunteers slowly leaving town, the donations fading. But one thing remains: Joplin. It is still there. The people, the buildings, the town, the love. Joplin will be here in five years, in ten, in fifty. It will never be the same, but it will be. The love you get is equal to the love you give. Joplin still has not stopped giving.

I am Joplin.

Usama bin Laden died for Islam, why won't you?

The excitement of President Obama strolling up to the podium last night to announce to the nation and the world that Usama bin Laden has been killed by a US operation in Pakistan. There was an atmosphere of celebration, albeit muted, here at Camp Shelby, MS. Some of you know, some of you don't, that I am currently training up to deploy to Afghanistan. I just wanted to take a few minutes to express my thoughts on the situation. I need to throw this in here:

*The following views are my own, and in no way reflect the views of the US Army, DOD or any government entity.*

Now that thats out of the way, the killing of Usama bin Laden is a highly symbolic gesture. He has been in hiding for the past 10 years, and probably hasn't given any signifigant orders to the Taliban in 2-3 years. As someone put it on Facebook last night: Usama bin Laden: world hide and go seek champion 10 years running. He has been a symbolic face to the Taliban, and realisticly, he has been out of the spotlight for several years.

The reality of the situation is this: the Taliban will want vengence. This will not go unanswered. The new question is not will you die for Islam. The new question is: bin Laden died for Islam. Why won't you? The Taliban are going to unleash a hell on US troops in Afghanistan for this. Pissing off a bunch of extremists with access to guns and explosives is not a good idea. The death toll will rise dramatically, and will not stop until we leave the country. Do not read that and think that I believe we need to get out of the country, for I don't. We went into Afghanistan for a reason. Now, whether that is the main reason that we stay does not concern me. I have been there, seen the country first hand, and strongly believe that we are there for the right reasons. On this note, I shall end: do not be naive and think this is over.