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icles/A39213-2002Nov25.html

 My Heart on the Line

 By Frank Schaeffer
 Before my son became a Marine, I never thought much about who was defendin=
g me. Now when I read of the war on terrorism or the coming conflict in Ira=
q, it cuts to my heart. When I see a picture of a member of our military wh=
o has been killed, I read his or her name very carefully. Sometimes I cry.

 In 1999, when the barrel-chested Marine recruiter showed up in dress blues=
 and bedazzled my son John, I did not stand in the way. John was headstrong=
, and he seemed to understand these stern, clean men with straight backs an=
d flawless uniforms. I did not. I live on the Volvo-driving, higher educati=
on-worshiping North Shore of Boston. I write novels for a living. I have ne=
ver served in the military.

 It had been hard enough sending my two older children off to Georgetown an=
d New York University. John's enlisting was unexpected, so deeply unsettlin=
g. I did not relish the prospect of answering the question "So where is Joh=
n going to college?" from the parents who were itching to tell me all about=
 how their son or daughter was going to Harvard. At the private high school=
 John attended, no other students were going into the military.

 "But aren't the Marines terribly Southern?" asked one perplexed mother whi=
le standing next to me at the brunch following graduation. "What a waste, h=
e was such a good student," said another parent. One parent (a professor at=
 a nearby and rather famous university) spoke up at a school meeting and su=
ggested that the school should "carefully evaluate what went wrong."

 When John graduated from three months of boot camp on Parris Island, 3,000=
 parents and friends were on the parade deck stands. We parents and our Mar=
ines not only were of many races but also were representative of many econo=
mic classes. Many were poor. Some arrived crammed in the backs of pickups, =
others by bus. John told me that a lot of parents could not afford the trip=
.

 We in the audience were white and Native American. We were Hispanic, Arab =
and African American and Asian. We were former Marines wearing the scars of=
 battle, or at least baseball caps emblazoned with battles' names. We were =
Southern whites from Nashville and skinheads from New Jersey, black kids fr=
om Cleveland wearing ghetto rags and white ex-cons with ham-hock forearms d=
efaced by jailhouse tattoos. We would not have been mistaken for the educat=
ed and well-heeled parents gathered on the lawns of John's private school a=
 half-year before.

 After graduation one new Marine told John, "Before I was a Marine, if I ha=
d ever seen you on my block I would've probably killed you just because you=
 were standing there." This was a serious statement from one of John's good=
 friends, an African American ex-gang member from Detroit who, as John said=
, "would die for me now, just like I'd die for him."

 My son has connected me to my country in a way that I was too selfish and =
insular to experience before. I feel closer to the waitress at our local di=
ner than to some of my oldest friends. She has two sons in the Corps. They =
are facing the same dangers as my boy. When the guy who fixes my car asks m=
e how John is doing, I know he means it. His younger brother is in the Navy=
.

 Why were I and the other parents at my son's private school so surprised b=
y his choice? During World War II, the sons and daughters of the most power=
ful and educated families did their bit. If the immorality of the Vietnam W=
ar was the only reason those lucky enough to go to college dodged the draft=
, why did we not encourage our children to volunteer for military service o=
nce that war was done?

 Have we wealthy and educated Americans all become pacifists? Is the world =
a safe place? Or have we just gotten used to having somebody else defend us=
? What is the future of our democracy when the sons and daughters of the ja=
nitors at our elite universities are far more likely to be put in harm's wa=
y than are any of the students whose dorms their parents clean?

 I feel shame because it took my son's joining the Marine Corps to make me =
take notice of who is defending me. I feel hope because perhaps my son is p=
art of a future "greatest generation." As the storm clouds of war gather, a=
t least I know that I can look the men and women in uniform in the eye. My =
son is one of them. He is the best I have to offer. He is my heart.

 Frank Schaeffer is a writer. His latest book, co-written with his son, Mar=
ine Cpl. John Schaeffer, is "Keeping Faith: A Father-Son Story About Love a=
nd the United States Marine Corps." He will answer questions about this art=
icle in a Live Online discussion at 1 p.m. today at www.washingtonpost.com.