I had long taken an interest in history, as it helped me to see the bigger picture; I was especially fond of dusty old maps and forgotten narratives about daring adventures. I had also become absorbed in military technology, collecting dozens of books about planes, tanks, and warships.
Please don't laugh at my geekiness, for there are far worse ways for a young man to occupy his time!
In April of 1982, Argentina invaded the Falkland Islands, a dependency of Great Britain. I perked up immediately, because my love of the glory from the past had led to a deep affection for all things British.
Yes, I had become an odd sort of Anglophile, complete with my grand imaginings about an elaborate alternate history where the Stuarts retained the Crown, and the Colonies were never lost. That was all about the Irish Catholic in me.
Ah, the joys of daydreaming!
Long before the time of the Blessed Internet, I had to read the daily newspapers, and watch the nightly news, to get updates on this epic battle. They said Thatcher could never do it, that Britain had no chance of recovering those distant islands. We were told it was insignificant in any event: why would it matter if a few thousand shepherds were under a different flag?
But it did matter. If nothing else, it mattered to me, because I was forming my sense of conscience. Though the politicians turned it into a matter of national pride, I saw it as a matter of personal freedom. If those fine folks in the Falklands wished to be British, I would gladly give my very life to defend their rights.
The Royal Navy obviously didn't want a sickly American teenager to help with the task, but I was at least there in spirit.
It felt like years passed as I kept up with the news, even as it was a mere two months. I followed every detail, and I kept my own humble diary of the gains and losses, which I still have in my little bag of precious mementos.
When the Belgrano went down, one side cheered. When the Sheffield was sunk, the other side cheered. This wasn't a game—it was a real war, where both sides had staked most everything. The very identities of Argentina and Britain hung in the balance.
In the end, Thatcher's gambit paid off, and Great Britain was once again great, if but for a moment. Galtieri, on the other hand, didn't have such a good time of it.
Ah, the fickleness of Lady Fortune!
And yet, observe also the glory of integrity, the triumph of individual virtue. The specific flag is far less important than the content of character. To this day, I vividly remember the first message from the Royal Marines after the recovery of South Georgia:
Be pleased to inform Her Majesty that the White Ensign flies alongside the Union Jack in South Georgia. God Save the Queen.
I read those lines after sneaking out of class to check the Boston Globe at the front desk of my school.
And I suddenly began to cry. They were uncontrollable tears, a whole expulsion of my emotions. The school secretary asked if she needed to call my parents, as there was surely something wrong with me. In the midst of my blubbering, I assured her I would mange. I got away with a tardy slip for my crimes.
What did all of that mean? In hindsight, it meant that my passions were being guided by my convictions. That is a good thing, actually the best of things.
Most of my so-called friends were so macho that they would never admit to crying, and I was being steadily led along the way of becoming a tool for whoever wanted to use me for his convenience. But this was finally a moment of free thought.
I cried because I had already developed a set of judgments about good and evil, however primitive, and so my feelings followed in their wake. It was an instance where I knew why how I felt was a consequence of how I thought.
While no one else in my class cared one bit about the Falklands, I cried because it meant something to me, and it meant something to me because I had made a conscious choice about what makes a human life worthy. Virtue, without any adornments, is what makes us worthy.
Decades later, I look to that event as profoundly formative. Laughter or tears will proceed from our opinions about the true and the false, the right and the wrong. We laugh for what we choose to care about, and we cry for what we choose to care about.
I wish I still had the front page from that newspaper, but it is of no matter. I still know, in my mind and in my heart, where I need to go.
—2/1994
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