When I was a kid the only person I remember calling me a brat on a regular basis was my big sister, Lynda. Okay, I may have been a brat on occasion, but, hey, she set the example; I was just following her lead. That's my story, anyway.(Above photo: Lynda and Terry Wilkerson, Brats for Life.)
As an adult I realized I was a brat. But it had a totally different meaning. I was born and raised an Air Force brat (military child dependent). Being part of a worldwide community of Americans who were raised in the military made me proud ... and still does. It wasn't my choice, of course. My father's decision to enlist and make the Air Force a career, to dedicate himself to the protection of our country, to move us whenever Uncle Sam said it was time to go, that's where my pride is rooted.
Roots. We didn't have geographical roots. Whenever someone asked me where I was from I would say, "Umm, all over ... I'm an Air Froce brat." My parents both grew up in Indianapolis and knew each other their whole lives. What was that like?
Mom always wanted to have adventures and see the world. She was the ideal Air Force spouse. Although her own mother died when Mom was ten-years old, she was determined to make a home for us that was stable and close-knit. As it turned out, she was a compassionate, but strict leader, a stellar example to us and her grandchildren. No matter how often we moved, our family was an entity, singular in the world. When we arrived at a new assignment, Mom felt we were home, again It was safe being a brat, living on a military installation among our own.
We attended DoD (Department of Defense) schools and our classmates were brats, like us. Honestly, we didn't know any different. We said the Pledge of Allegiance with our hand over our hearts, sang My Country 'tis of Thee and sat down to learn. When we went to the movies, which we did hundreds of times, we stood for the National Anthem. At 5:00 pm when the 'Klaxon' sounded, if we happened to be in a car, driving around the base, Dad pulled the car to the curb, got out and saluted until the flag was lowered. On Guam we had the Klaxon in our back yard. Yes, it was loud, but we got used to it. Everyday at noon and 5pm it shouted out to us. We didn't need a watch. Occasionally, the Klaxon sounded at unscheduled times and that meant Dad had to jump into his uniform and go to work because there was an alert.
We and our friends said "yes sir" and "yes ma'am" because we were taught to be respectful. Sometimes I cringe at the way I hear children speak to adults. Was it just the way I was raised? Surely respect isn't unique to military brats.
Does being a brat just mean being the offspring of a military member? I don't think so. To me it means having roots, not in a place but in people, in a lifestyle, in a community made up of individuals who are so different from me, but with that common thread that can never be severed.
No matter how old I get I will always be a "BRAT".
Guam Adventures- Mystery of the Cave can be purchased at, www.createspace.com/4008187 or directly from us at whammysteries@gmail.com
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