Reagan, His Boots, My Father

One of the most striking images for me during this on-going week of mythologizing Reagan is that of the boots in the styrups of Sgt. York. I admit to being a sucker for military pomp and ceremony. My father served in the Marines for 30 years, retiring as Sgt. Major. Marine precision, dress blues, sharp drills, flag ceremonies, reveille and taps--all are images that make me nostalgic for those days at Camp Lejune when we'd be driving through the base to go to the doctor or to buy groceries at the commissary. With political independence came a distance from my father, eventually resentment for most of what he represented, but several years ago in a psychological reconciliation I ran two marathons to honor my father: the Marine Corps and the Camp Lejune, the latter of which should have been called The Sir. Ask a question of a young marine and you'll get an answer with at least a dozen sirs.

So there's Sgt. York with Reagan's boots in the styrups, facing backwards, symbolically at troops he'll never commander again, but also, which hasn't been said, at his legacy of good and ill. I suppose the image also is an opportunity for us to look back. It's all so personal, backwards but inward. There's my father coming in the door at night, taking off his boots. My chore is to get the kiwi polish, the old rag, a tin of water, and to spit shine the boots until my father's face reflects in the toes. Those boots. Tyranny. Honor.