As we welcome Father’s Day, which should be every day, the boomers might reflect that we are a generation that will never come again. Our parents shaped us all, and they had survived World War II, from 1939-1945. Our folks were Australians who achieved victory around the world, and came home to marry, have families, and grow peace for us. Some parents had arrived from overseas, eager to become Australian citizens and foster the future of our democracy.
We grew up in different days from the hi-tech savvy youth of current times. Never again will Australian primary school children march around a grey asphalt quadrangle after singing God Save the Queen as our flag was raised. We marched in good tempo and formation, threatened by teachers with corporal punishment if anyone misbehaved or was into silly nonsense.
Never again will 900-1000 Australian teenagers stand in blazing hot summer sun, or in drizzling rain, listening to the Principal nagging us all. In correct uniform, in silent rows we were patrolled be very scary prefects, perfect role models of pristine goodliness and behaviours. These days the young ones have school halls and seating plans, good luck to them.
Never again, (let’s hope not), shall aforementioned teenagers be compelled to view Dr. Strangelove, see mushroom clouds on the film. Some of the more sensitive lads, whose names are now forgotten from the 1960’s, went away weeping at the conclusion. Those boys at our secondary school were faced with conscription and potentially serving overseas in Vietnam. Many of their fathers thought this would be good for their sons, make men by shearing off long hair, teaching them more respect. Anything was better than that dreadful Rock N’ Roll and The Beatles.
Never again, or so it seems, shall our successors see 100,000 citizens of any age marching peacefully for peace. We were cheered on by the office workers in the city, encouraging us from their workplace windows, some joining in as well. The police did not need riot gear, only standing there in silence, maintaining law and order. That was what we assumed was our democratic privilege, even if our parents never did understand our motives or cause.
Being brought up in a free thinking society, I marched too, but had to zip my lip when I took a gap year and worked in the civilian side of administering the Department of Defence, Southern Command. There are many sides of any debate about pacifism and military service at the final stages of Australian engagement in Vietman by our troops who had been overseas. Some of them had come home to our town, wondering what they had been marching for, some were proud of their tour of duty, and mateships formed.
In modern times, the lands of Japan and Vietnam welcome Australians and their tourist dolllars, boomers and others keen to take their interesting selfies. Some very haunting images are shared with family and friends, as well as learning about different cultures, and many temples.
Our own father had to leave some of his mates in New Guinea, and returned in civvy street, with a few pounds, overcoming his PTSD his own quiet way. Some fathers had marched into Hiroshima, and survived to tell a tale. The women who served as nurses or in their homeland had waited for the diggers. Some, like my mother, had married an older male, who grew flowers, fruit trees, his family, and devoted himself to living peacefully. He was a well-respected army veteran, who never wanted to travel overseas again. So no more he did.
Thus, this generation will say Happy Father’s Day on Earth and beyond. Peace for all in the world ahead will never be gained in one day, so we send silent waves to all our Dads. Guess we will always meet again, somewhere across the veil, some sunny day.