The Tags

Jan 2020

When I first decided I was going to run this race for him I knew I wanted him to be with me in every moment of this adventure. Especially since this was a race he had wished he could have done. I knew I would need him on my hard days of training and I would want to celebrate with him on my victorious days. I considered that, despite living 3,000 miles apart, we could talk or FaceTime and visit along the way. However, the more I thought about it that just did not seem like the answer to me. Immediately I knew what I needed, his dog tags. And so I called him up and told him my plan, with my one small request that I borrow his tags and wear them for the next several months as I embark on the journey to my next 26.2. Because after all, he is the reason I am signing up. 

We were lucky enough to fly back to my hometown over the Holiday break. I was glad that we got to spend time with my family, and especially my grandpa. The day he handed them to me was significant. The emotions were there just under the surface. A cascade of questions I wanted to ask but I knew was not the right time to do so. All in good time, as they say. So I put them away for safe keeping until I returned home from my visit. I needed time with them by myself. I needed to process what I received.

When I got home, after all of the bags were unpacked, I took them out. I held them in my hand. This cold metal object. I studied it. The name. The number. What did it mean? Who was the young man who wore these? What did he feel when they were in his hand? A small metal tag. No bigger in length than my thumb. The only identification of this man, while his life belonged to the United States. I sat there for a good while looking at it. Rubbing my thumb over it. So light in my hand. I could barely feel it. And then I placed it around my neck and the heaviness I felt after putting them on was not lost upon me. It was not the physical heaviness I refer to, no, it was the emotional heaviness I felt. I stood there looking in the mirror at myself with his tags on. The weight it holds staring me right back in the face. I was overcome with the heaviness. It was almost too much. I clenched them in my fist. Feeling a sense of unworthiness to not just wear them, but even to have them. The questions. So many questions, that went through my mind as I held them tightly in my hand. What did it feel like when they were placed around his neck? Was the heaviness of them there already, or did that come later? Did he become so accustomed to them that he eventually did not notice, or was he always aware of where they rested?

I cannot remember how long I stood there in that moment. But a lifetime of questions surfaced. I want to ask them all. I want to know his story. He is now not just a part of this journey, but also a part of me. The tag is worn as a reminder of the strength and perseverance one must have to complete the mission. The tag is there so that he is with my on this journey. When I cross that finish line, so will he.

April 2020

We have begun to scratch the surface of our talks. I have enjoyed listening to the beginning of his story. I hear in his voice as he remembers things. We have gone back a couple of times when he remembers different things for previous conversations. I asked him about his dog tags today. I typed feverishly trying to keep up with his words, and at the same time listen to what he was saying. I love listening to him remember. The little laugh when he recalls something funny. The serious, pensive notes when we tread upon sensitive areas. Today was a fun day. I got a lot more material than just the significance of his tags but we will talk about that later. I have been wearing these tags now for several months. He told me he did not remember in what fashion they were given to him, saying "hell they probably threw them at us," to which we both laughed. He said they were given to them the second day they were at the Marine Corp Recruit Depot. At that moment they were told to never take them off. Grandpa told me it was the only other thing that had the same significance as they rifle they were issued. It was to remain on your person at all times. You slept with it. Showered with it. Period. When it was given (or thrown at him haha) it did not hold as much meaning at the time. It was however the only form of identification they would hold. I asked him about the information on it. The number is your serial number, similar to your social security number. It is yours, and yours alone. Even at 84 years old he could rattle that number off to me so fast. Obviously ingrained to the depth of his mind. And then the next part, BT-A. His blood type. So if at anytime he needed blood they would know his blood type. USMC. That one was pretty obvious to me. And then the 'P.' I asked, is that because you were a private initially? Oh no, he said. Although, I did start out as a Private. That is your religious convictions. The 'P' is for Protestant. I said really? I had no idea and we both got a good laugh out of that. I knew grandpa had religious convictions but I just kind of assumed he was more of a non-denominational Christian type. And this is why this journey and these talks are so valuable and important. I am learning so much about my grandpa. I wish I could spend a whole week with him, talking alone and soaking in the story. But again, all in good time.....