Thank you for your whatever it was
Oh, it was a rollicking good time. We had cheerleaders, we had football players, we had loud music, we had screaming fans. We also had a huge American flag, an honor guard of some sort, a moment of silence for the fallen. And the national anthem, sung by the Broadway star or the local 10year-old prodigy — guaranteed to bring a tear, if not open weeping.
This happened all over the country, every place an NFL game was staged. It was a Veterans Day extravaganza. The coaches were wearing khaki or camouflage outfits, with camouflage accessories, even camouflage headphones. And who could be cynical about it? It’s our vets. We love our vets. Maybe not enough to give them adequate medical care or a good job, but still.
But every time you relax your guard and say, “At last, something I don’t have to be cynical about,” reality slaps you around.
Turns out the Pentagon has been paying NFL teams to create an appropriate patriotism-athon for the pregame festivities. All that solidarity with the troops was greased by money. The Pentagon believes that great spectacles of military sentimentality increase recruitment numbers.
The military has a little image problem. It needs to deflect the conversation away from Abu Ghraib and the bombed hospital in Afghanistan. Be a soldier! Everyone will love you. Look at the cheerleader, kicking high — she’ll love you. I mean, really love you.
Look, I’m a soldier fan, although not for conventional reasons. I believe that, like soldiers in many countries over many centuries, the United States armed forces have been sold a bill of goods. I feel bad for them, the way I feel bad for anyone who has been misused by their nation. They take the brunt of the craziness.
When people enlist, foreign policy is not their concern. They are sent to serve in various hellholes, because any country at war is a hellhole. Their enemies are shadowy. It is unclear in what way they threaten America. It’s unclear whether anyone wants our soldiers there. And yet they fight, and yet they die. For nothing.
And they come to understand that. That’s the terrible thing. What do soldiers inevitably talk about when they get home? Their buddies. The soldiers that they’ve been thrown together with, and have sworn blood oaths to die for. They are often united in their hatred of civilians, who don’t understand. And they have all seen the same horrors and have scars, not all of them physical, that they will carry with them the rest of their lives.
Most soldiers work behind the lines; they augment policies. They’re not supposed to think about larger issues, but they do. Which is scary for the Pentagon, because Edward Snowden was also a guy who started to think. So the Army watches itself, the Navy watches itself, and each is watched in turn by others ... it’s a poisonous atmosphere.
But here’s a lovely jacket, decorated in colors that were designed to allow the wearer to hide in the countryside so she won’t get blown up by a 60mm mortar that was stolen from an Iraqi army depot. Survival gear, made fashionable! Don’t shoot me, I’m a patriot.
Who says football should be involved in professional soldiering? Who says soldiers are good role models? Let’s ask the executives at the various football teams: Would you want your son or daughter to be a soldier? Or, if your son were a talented football player, would you advise him to enlist with the Marines? Country before career, right?
Roger Goodell did not serve in the armed forces. He has two daughters; it is unclear whether he’s grooming them for a life in the military. His wife, Jane Skinner, a former Fox news reporter, also did not volunteer for military life.
Which is fine; I didn’t volunteer either. But neither did I use the memory of fallen soldiers as an occasion for branding. Nor did I make active duty soldiers strut around so I could rake in a few bucks.
The late Pat Tillman was lionized by the NFL. He achieved hero status; he abandoned his lucrative NFL career and was sent to Afghanistan, where he died. By that time, he had become an opponent of the war, and of the military brass who got us into war. That last part wasn’t mentioned.
Nor did any notable football stars say “me too” and rush off to the local recruiting station. No, they learned how to say “Thank you for your service,” which is just as easy as “I’m sorry for your loss.” Thank you for your service, not that I would have done something like that, but you did so I didn’t have to, so thanks for allowing me to get on with my life while you did, you know, whatever.
Empty pomp, punctuated by moments of self-congratulation. Isn’t the security state fun?
Just a little taste of what it’s like to live in a dictatorship. Orwellian hell, but also comforting. “Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn’t one?” Alice asked. “We called him Tortoise because he taught us,” said jcarroll@sfchronicle.com.