Patricia A. Nugent: In Government Service

I’ve never much cared for him. When I go to the post office, I always hope I’ll get someone else behind the counter. This young government worker never smiles and doesn’t make eye contact. From my perspective, he has “an attitude.” And my taxes are paying your salary, I think to myself.

I don’t like to think like that. I’m an advocate for retaining our national postal system, opposed to the privatization of mail delivery services and the thinly veiled attempts to break the American Postal Workers union. But this afternoon, I’m again dismayed that his is the next window available to serve this USPS patron.

He weighs my first envelope, characteristically without greeting or acknowledging me, reinforcing my own bad attitude toward him. “Seventy cents,” he announces to no one in particular. In silence, he then affixes a stamp to my postcard and sets both items aside.

“That’s thirty-four cents,” he tells me, looking the other way while awaiting payment.

“What about the first letter that was seventy cents?” I question, my voice brimming with annoyance. “Don’t I owe you $1.04?”

He glances at the register. “Oh, I forgot about that,” he says softly with his head down. “Just like that, it went right out of my head. That’s how quickly I forget things. Sorry.”

“Nah, you’re too young to use that excuse,” I playfully respond, surprised by the engagement. “Wait ‘til you’re my age. Then people will understand your forgetfulness. They’ll even expect it from you!”

His eyes lock on mine. “I have TBI…” He pauses, wondering whether to complete the sentence. “…from my time serving in Iraq.”

As soon as I ask him what TBI stands for, I know. He doesn’t respond to my question, nor do I utter the derived answer out loud.

“Will it get better over time?” I ask, knowing nothing about traumatic brain injuries and suddenly concerned for this young man’s well being.

“I don’t know. It’s been four years now, and it doesn’t seem to be getting any better. I’m getting discouraged.”

“You guys have been through a lot. I’m sorry,” I mumble, as if it were somehow my fault.  Because I’m not convinced that in some way, it isn’t. My taxes pay for that carnage too.

Were my protestations against the Iraq war loud enough? Visible enough? Frequent enough? Vehement enough?

Can it ever be enough? What does it take to stop this insidious war machine?

I pay the $1.04 and drift away from the counter, wondering how much those in line behind me could hear. I want them to know too why this government worker – this able-bodied yet wounded veteran – acts so sullen. I want to defend him now to those who might also be critical of him like I was. Defend him just as he believed he was defending “The American Way of Life” by joining a war in the Middle East.

Back in my car reflecting on our conversation, I hear the radio newscaster announce that our government is considering sending more ground troops into Iraq. And I wonder how much more our young people can sacrifice in service to this government. How many more invisible wounds are damaging our social fabric, causing alienation and hostility? Maybe if our taxes were not used to fund war, we could better take care of veterans like this who are living with permanent life-altering injuries. And we might even be able to afford to keep the United States Postal Service fully functioning.

— by Patricia A. Nugent writing for Vox Populi