My son - the Marine.
My mother would always introduce me to people as “my son - the Marine.” I would correct her “I’m her son the NASA Astrophysicist.” IN PRIVATE - I’d ask “It means nothing to you that I went to eight years of college post-Marine Corps and work as a Gov’t Astrophysicist? You know - Einstein type stuff?” She would explain how proud she was of my work, etc… I was making a big deal of nothing. But I hated the Marine Corps and counted every day until my separation interview. Upon seeing my enthusiasm when I received my pink veteran ID the attending Warrant Officer said “That and a dollar will get you a cup of coffee.” I replied “and a delicious cup of joe it will be, Sir.”
After I retired - ten years after my mother died - I was throwing away all my Marine Corps stuff. There were boxes of letters. I had forgotten that she and my grandmother wrote me diligently, every week. News about the Wisconsin weather. Dumb stuff. But they wrote. For them, writing letters to my father (WWII Paratrooper) was their war effort. In their minds - with a little social pressure from the Gov’t - they helped my father (and me) win the war and come home. IN THEIR MINDS YOUNG SOLDIERS AND MARINES SAVED THE WORLD FROM FASCISM.
As a 63-year old retiree I realized their letter writing was something they participated in and remembered. My college and professional life was something I achieved without them. And my leaving Wisconsin was the last thing they wanted. To Betty Ann, I will always be her son - the Marine.