Dream Keeper (Dream Team 4)

“Yes, now class, welcome Mr. Hero, who is going to talk to you about being a marine,” Ms. Linn reminded them.

Auggie strode to stand in front of the room as the class singsonged, “Welcome, Mr. Hero.”

It was then I realized, when I’d been talking, I’d had some of the girls’ attention but none of the boys’, because right then I could see Auggie had all their attention.

In fact, the vast majority of the class was leaning forward on their desks like he was a magnet luring them to him.

I looked at him.

I’d gone into detail about how gorgeous he was.

I did not share that he was wearing black cargo pants. Lightweight black utility boots were on his feet. A black quarter-zip wicking pullover with a gray stripe that ran over the shoulder and down the arm covered him up top.

And a serious expression was on his face.

In other words, I did not share that he looked like he’d strolled into that classroom direct from some maneuvers, like, say, rappelling down the side of a high-rise building.

He launched in.

“I appreciate your teacher saying you’ll be thanking me for my service, but you don’t need to do that. Because we all should serve our country in some capacity. I chose to do it enlisting, doing drills, learning how to shoot a rifle, going to class and listening to lectures about strategy and tactics, and being deployed and put in situations where I would eventually have to put everything I’d learned into action. I also do it by voting. When you turn eighteen, one way you can, and should do it, is by voting. You can also do it by keeping informed about what’s happening and staying on top of your representatives by sharing with them what’s important to you. You can do it by knowing the laws and obeying them. You can do it by becoming involved in some sort of civil service or with an organization that does good work to keep the will of the people, not the will of special interests, foremost in our representatives’ minds.”

Some boy in the third row interrupted him by calling out, “But you know how to shoot a gun, right?”

Auggie nodded shortly. “I know how to shoot many different kinds of guns. I’ve shot all those guns. And I’ve shot people.”

I sucked in a breath, so did Ms. Linn and pretty much every kid in that room.

“And it was not fun,” Auggie went on. “What it was, was necessary in the worst form that can take. But what’s more important for you to know about that is not me lifting a rifle and pulling the trigger. It’s the foreign policy that put me in the position to do something so terrible. It’s the decision-making path that planted me in that desert. And each and every one of you, when you can vote, will bear responsibility for where any soldiers’ boots hit ground. Now, you can handle that responsibility responsibly. Or you can choose not to give a crap. But you’ll still be responsible for where he or she goes, who they shoot, and who shoots at them. My advice, having had my boots hit ground in a lot of places that weren’t a barrel of laughs: Give a crap.”

“Um…” I started nervously, then called, “Auggie, honey.”

He looked to me.

Yes, his expression was very serious.

However.

“Maybe dial it back a bit?” I suggested.

“No way!” a kid cried. “Like, we send soldiers to deserts and jungles and stuff?”

Auggie turned back to the class. “Not now, but you will. But now, your parents do. And you will when you’re no longer a minor and you can assume your responsibilities as a citizen.”

“That’s crazy!” another kid said. “The president sends soldiers places.”

“And who votes for the president?” Auggie asked.

There was a powerful, collective sense of Hmm throughout the classroom.

“My uncle was like, you know…he was in the army and he went somewhere,” another kid said. “He came back, and Mom was mad because he did it without a hand. And it messed up his head. And she and Grandma and Granddad said he shouldn’t have been there in the first place.”

“Maybe he shouldn’t, but maybe he should,” Auggie said. “Sometimes, it’s ugly work, but it’s gotta get done. Do you wanna know what cost your uncle his hand? What was so important he was somewhere that could happen? Why someone who will never pick up a rifle decided to send him somewhere where he’d not come back all in one piece?”

“Yes,” the kid said quietly.

“Yes,” Auggie agreed. His voice gentled when he asked, “Where did he go?”

“A place called Sylia.”

“Syria,” Auggie corrected kindly. “And maybe one day you can have a conversation with your mom and grandparents about it and they can explain why they feel the way they do. But there are very bad people in Syria doing very bad things. And I’m sorry your uncle lost his hand. That’s terrible for him and everyone who loves him. But from what I know about what’s happening there, there’s a good chance he was fighting the good fight.”