Just so you know,
you outrank me today
because you have been in the Army for longer than I have.
And that's cool,
because there are things you know,
that I don't know.
But I'm not going to be this rank for long.
And pretty soon, I'm going to run into you again.
And we'll be the same rank.
And you'll be confused.
And pretty soon after that, I'm going to run into you again.
And I'll be a higher rank than you.
And you'll get mad.
And think "Boy, he must suck dick a lot to get promoted fast!".
But you're just lying to yourself.
Because I'm not a political person.
I don't fucking like you, I don't like your fucking boss, and I'm not going
to play stupid politics.
So, when I get promoted, it's all fucking talent and accomplishment.
I get promoted when I am so fucking amazing that they can't ignore me.
So lie to yourself.
I don't mind.
Because you are a fucking amateur.
I did things before I joined the Army
that were far harder
than anything you have ever done
or ever will do.
When I joined, you would say:
"Hah, I've been deployed"
You don't say that any longer: I've done that.
When I joined, you would say:
"Hah, I've been in combat"
You don't say that any longer: I've done that.
When I joined, you would say:
"Hah, I've been blown up"
You don't say that any longer: I've done that.
I've known it all along, but you'll come to know it too:
I'm made of harder stuff than you are,
and I'm made of harder stuff than you can even imagine.
And when I joined, I had just gone through some of the worst shit
I have ever heard of, and I was sucking pretty bad.
But I've had a little bit of time to recover.
And I'm feeling a lot more like the old me.
And I'm feeling a lot more like I can take on anything
that anyone can throw at me.
So, bring it on,
because next time we meet, you'll be working for me,
if you're good enough.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
My health this year
After over twenty years of my diet being very very screwed up, with massive intakes of sugar on a daily basis, after the last year of controlled diet and exercise I have completely cut out soda, completely cut out candy, completely cut out sweets. I've dropped about ten pounds, give or take, and what I have is a LOT more muscles and tendons and veins and a LOT less soft white marshmallow.
And my PT test has gone up around 60 points.
I still use a lot of caffeine, because I work 12 hour shifts without any days off ever, and the caffeine helps me focus, but I get it in pill form now, so I'm not consuming tons of sugar and crap with it. Seemed like the best compromise, focusing on the solvable problem of sugar without touching the other problem of caffeine until later.
And my PT test has gone up around 60 points.
I still use a lot of caffeine, because I work 12 hour shifts without any days off ever, and the caffeine helps me focus, but I get it in pill form now, so I'm not consuming tons of sugar and crap with it. Seemed like the best compromise, focusing on the solvable problem of sugar without touching the other problem of caffeine until later.
Know what I hate? Stupid stupid people.
Know what I hate? Stupid stupid people.
People who say "oh, yeah, you got a good pt test. but you are old, so you are scored differently"
Yes, asshole, except I score higher than you do on the young person scale too.
Or "Oh, you have lots of promotion points, but its because you went to college"
Yes, asshole, why don't you try it? Since I did it while I worked, I guess you can too.
Or "Well, I don't know how you would be as a leader if we promoted you"
Well, asshole, why don't you ask the three soldiers who have been calling me their leader for the better part of the past year?
Asshole.
Yes, I am better than you. I am better than you, on every scale except the "who's fattest" contest. You couldn't beat me in a fucking "eat doughnut" competition. I'll play your game, because I have to, but we both know it: I am better than your fat, lazy, ass, and always will be.
Have a nice day!
People who say "oh, yeah, you got a good pt test. but you are old, so you are scored differently"
Yes, asshole, except I score higher than you do on the young person scale too.
Or "Oh, you have lots of promotion points, but its because you went to college"
Yes, asshole, why don't you try it? Since I did it while I worked, I guess you can too.
Or "Well, I don't know how you would be as a leader if we promoted you"
Well, asshole, why don't you ask the three soldiers who have been calling me their leader for the better part of the past year?
Asshole.
Yes, I am better than you. I am better than you, on every scale except the "who's fattest" contest. You couldn't beat me in a fucking "eat doughnut" competition. I'll play your game, because I have to, but we both know it: I am better than your fat, lazy, ass, and always will be.
Have a nice day!
SCORE!
SCORE!!!!
Just git a present from my departing Australian Battle Major.
Hmmm....how to describe it. It's a giant map of this area of Afghanistan. It's printed on a cloth fabric, like money is, so it is rip resistant. The edges of it have pictures of local flora and fauna. It can be used as a shelter, a map, all sorts of different uses. It has phrases in local dialects. It is what pilots take in their helicopters so if they crash in the mountains they can use it to survive.
TOTALLY AWESOME THING TO HANG ON MY FUCKING WALL!
GO ME!
Just git a present from my departing Australian Battle Major.
Hmmm....how to describe it. It's a giant map of this area of Afghanistan. It's printed on a cloth fabric, like money is, so it is rip resistant. The edges of it have pictures of local flora and fauna. It can be used as a shelter, a map, all sorts of different uses. It has phrases in local dialects. It is what pilots take in their helicopters so if they crash in the mountains they can use it to survive.
TOTALLY AWESOME THING TO HANG ON MY FUCKING WALL!
GO ME!
Todays conversation
So, if I stay more than 365 days in Afghanistan, Congress says I am supposed to get extra money. That money isn't budgeted in, so they can't have anyone get it without having a big stink. So, they asked if I wanted to sign a voluntary waiver saying I would stay more than 365 days w/o being paid anything extra. Since I am paid monthly, and this would involve coming home late in september instead of early, I wouldn't get any extra pay, or any extra promotion incentives (because it is still in the same calender month). So.....I could stay here, for an extra three weeks, and get nothing for it at all. Basically because I am very good at my job, I would be punished by working an extra three weeks for free, while everyone else goes home on time. Should I mention, I have been in Afghanistran for 22 of the last 30 months already?
Yeah, no.
Yeah, no.
Is your life perfect?
Is your life perfect?
Do you have a wonderful wife, a fulfilling job where you make a ton of money?
Did you graduate college, and were a straight A student?
Do you have great kids, and they are big, and beautiful, and smart?
You don't drink, or smoke, or do drugs?
And you have perfect skin, and perfect hair and perfect teeth?
Your dog even shits in the toilet, and you go to church every Sunday?
You know how to use apostrophe's correctly, and allways know whether the i or the e comes first?
If this the case, feel free to criticize my wife and my family, and how we choose to live.
Granted, I will probably not listen, but maybe you have something interesting to say.
If not, kindly go fix your own life, we are doing just fine without your stupid feedback.
Do you have a wonderful wife, a fulfilling job where you make a ton of money?
Did you graduate college, and were a straight A student?
Do you have great kids, and they are big, and beautiful, and smart?
You don't drink, or smoke, or do drugs?
And you have perfect skin, and perfect hair and perfect teeth?
Your dog even shits in the toilet, and you go to church every Sunday?
You know how to use apostrophe's correctly, and allways know whether the i or the e comes first?
If this the case, feel free to criticize my wife and my family, and how we choose to live.
Granted, I will probably not listen, but maybe you have something interesting to say.
If not, kindly go fix your own life, we are doing just fine without your stupid feedback.
A typical phone call home:
Get to the phone.
Some days this means go sign in, get a number, wait in line thirty minutes, name called out, go to phone. Some days its easier. Some days it is not as easy.
Dial thirty-three numbers.
Busy.
Dial thirty three numbers.
Get ex. Ex is still at work, not at home. Get number son is at. Remind ex that today is other sons birthday, perhaps son could call him and wish him happy birthday?
Ex asks if when I call, and no-one picks up, could I call back, because sometimes the phone is in the other room, and they don't pick up in time, and son is sad when he misses my call. I agree.
Hang up.
Dial thirty three numbers.
Get answering machine.
Tell answering machine date and time and ask that son call other son, who has birthday today.
Hang up.
Dial thirty three numbers. Voicemail, called ex’s number by accident. FML.
Hang up.
Dial thirty three numbers.
Call does not go through.
Dial thirty three numbers.
Call does not go through.
Dial thirty three numbers.
“This card is currently in use”
Hang up, pick up phone, hang up, pick up phone, hang up.
Pick up phone. Dial thirty three numbers.
Third ring, wife picks up.
Talk to her for a minute. Talk to the boy for a couple minutes.
Wish him happy birthday.
Talk to the wife for a couple minutes.
Wife asks the daughters if they want to say 'hi' to daddy.
They say "no". Odds are, as soon as she hangs up, they will change their minds and scream for an hour.
She won't be able to call me if that happens, she'll have to wait for the next time I call.
Talk for a minute.
Get disconnected.
Hang up. Pick up phone.
Dial thirty three numbers, busy signal.
Hang up.
Some days this means go sign in, get a number, wait in line thirty minutes, name called out, go to phone. Some days its easier. Some days it is not as easy.
Dial thirty-three numbers.
Busy.
Dial thirty three numbers.
Get ex. Ex is still at work, not at home. Get number son is at. Remind ex that today is other sons birthday, perhaps son could call him and wish him happy birthday?
Ex asks if when I call, and no-one picks up, could I call back, because sometimes the phone is in the other room, and they don't pick up in time, and son is sad when he misses my call. I agree.
Hang up.
Dial thirty three numbers.
Get answering machine.
Tell answering machine date and time and ask that son call other son, who has birthday today.
Hang up.
Dial thirty three numbers. Voicemail, called ex’s number by accident. FML.
Hang up.
Dial thirty three numbers.
Call does not go through.
Dial thirty three numbers.
Call does not go through.
Dial thirty three numbers.
“This card is currently in use”
Hang up, pick up phone, hang up, pick up phone, hang up.
Pick up phone. Dial thirty three numbers.
Third ring, wife picks up.
Talk to her for a minute. Talk to the boy for a couple minutes.
Wish him happy birthday.
Talk to the wife for a couple minutes.
Wife asks the daughters if they want to say 'hi' to daddy.
They say "no". Odds are, as soon as she hangs up, they will change their minds and scream for an hour.
She won't be able to call me if that happens, she'll have to wait for the next time I call.
Talk for a minute.
Get disconnected.
Hang up. Pick up phone.
Dial thirty three numbers, busy signal.
Hang up.
Pride, a first draft
I've been thinking about this one. I think I may write an extended note about it. See, each unit has certain key things that you have to have. For the 82nd, its graduating airborne school. For tenth mountain, it is combat patch and CIB. I s...uspect it may be air assault for 101st. I know it is ranger school for ranger bat. If you don't have this, you really aren't a member of the group. You don't have the right to an opinion, and you are basically an E-1. The interesting thing is this: with a combat patch and CIB, someone has spent at least a year deployed, seen combat, and come back. So, the people who have it probably deserve to be respected, and the people who don't probably deserve to listen. For airborne school, its a 2 week school, being macho and tough. It shows you are brave enough to jump out of a plane, but says nothing about what you know. For air assault, replace 2 weeks with 10 days and plane with helicopter. So where our respected elders are combat veterans, the respected elders at 82nd and 101 are 19 year olds who got out of basic last month.
Thats my best guess, and why I asked about air assault: if Jay doesn't have it, he may get a lot of social stigmata because of it. Just my thoughts for the day.
The 82nd is the only Airborne unit. You can be Airborne qualified, but they are the only unit that way. And they are trained from the day they get to the unit that ONLY THEY ARE REAL SOLDIERS, BECAUSE EVERYONE ELSE WAS TOO AFRAID TO GO AIRB...ORNE. Actually, Airborne is an Army school, and for the rest of us, most of us do not get the opportunity to go, just as I don't get to go to SERE school or culinary school. The same indoctrination program is given to the 101st, because of AIR ASSAULT! They are taught that they are the ULTIMATE KILLING MACHINES because of some shit they did three months after joining the Army.
At Drum, there are standards of excellence that we wear. The CIB, the Combat Patch, the EIB, the Ranger Tab. But they require AT LEAST one year to get one. Some may take three or four years. And anything you did in basic? DONT TELL US. WE DO NOT CARE WHAT YOU DID IN BASIC. Basic = kindergarten. You get to Drum, you learn EVERYTHING you have done so far was easy, so be quiet and learn for a year or two before you start mouthing off. The guys at the 101st and 82nd get taught YOU ARE THE ULTIMATE KILLING MACHINE, BETTER THAN EVERYONE ELSE IN THE ARMY, BECAUSE OF YOUR TWO WEEK/TEN DAY SCHOOL. ALL OTHERS ARE COWARDS WHO STILL SUCK AT THEIR MOTHERS TIT.
So, that's my analysis of why those two units are the way they are.
Yes, at Drum, after being there for four years, earning my combat patch and my CIB, and working on the other two, I am pretty cocky. I've also done a few things, and I know when to be humble.
Thats my best guess, and why I asked about air assault: if Jay doesn't have it, he may get a lot of social stigmata because of it. Just my thoughts for the day.
The 82nd is the only Airborne unit. You can be Airborne qualified, but they are the only unit that way. And they are trained from the day they get to the unit that ONLY THEY ARE REAL SOLDIERS, BECAUSE EVERYONE ELSE WAS TOO AFRAID TO GO AIRB...ORNE. Actually, Airborne is an Army school, and for the rest of us, most of us do not get the opportunity to go, just as I don't get to go to SERE school or culinary school. The same indoctrination program is given to the 101st, because of AIR ASSAULT! They are taught that they are the ULTIMATE KILLING MACHINES because of some shit they did three months after joining the Army.
At Drum, there are standards of excellence that we wear. The CIB, the Combat Patch, the EIB, the Ranger Tab. But they require AT LEAST one year to get one. Some may take three or four years. And anything you did in basic? DONT TELL US. WE DO NOT CARE WHAT YOU DID IN BASIC. Basic = kindergarten. You get to Drum, you learn EVERYTHING you have done so far was easy, so be quiet and learn for a year or two before you start mouthing off. The guys at the 101st and 82nd get taught YOU ARE THE ULTIMATE KILLING MACHINE, BETTER THAN EVERYONE ELSE IN THE ARMY, BECAUSE OF YOUR TWO WEEK/TEN DAY SCHOOL. ALL OTHERS ARE COWARDS WHO STILL SUCK AT THEIR MOTHERS TIT.
So, that's my analysis of why those two units are the way they are.
Yes, at Drum, after being there for four years, earning my combat patch and my CIB, and working on the other two, I am pretty cocky. I've also done a few things, and I know when to be humble.
Is there a benefit to enlisting in the Army? Just something I wrote in response to someone saying there wasn't.
See, I have to disagree. Enlisting does -lots- of people good. It does good for the person who now has a steady job. A steady job in a field where you are trained, continually. Where you are pushed to better yourself, continually. Where you are taught to strive to accomplish more and achieve more. A steady job that provides full medical, full dental, all your clothes, all your food, where you live, that provides for your education. Where you go out into the worst parts of the world, where terrible things happen, where Red Cross and International Aid are never seen. Places where they can -not- be seen, because they would just be killed. And you provide security, which allows for rebuilding.
If it is good to help people when there is a disaster, if it is morally just to help people in Japan and Haiti and New Orleans, why do we not help people when the disaster occurs in a dangerous place? Well we do. We send people to help them who are not afraid of being shot at. And when the place has been quieted down, then we provide the aid they so desperately need.
Your vision of what the military does is narrow, shallow, and not very accurate. Imagine: take the Red Cross. Take the Peace Corps. Take the Police Department. Merge them. Now give them armor so they don't get shot, and weapons, to keep people from shooting at them. That is about 50% of todays military. Th other 50% more actively provide security and safety for that group, but there is NO OTHER GROUP IN THE WORLD who provides the service we do. NO ONE can provide aid in a country where there is shooting, where there are mass executions, where there are "night letters" and bombs. It is military or abandonment. And I, for one, am not willing to abandon the poor, desperate people, just because it's a little dangerous where they live.
If it is good to help people when there is a disaster, if it is morally just to help people in Japan and Haiti and New Orleans, why do we not help people when the disaster occurs in a dangerous place? Well we do. We send people to help them who are not afraid of being shot at. And when the place has been quieted down, then we provide the aid they so desperately need.
Your vision of what the military does is narrow, shallow, and not very accurate. Imagine: take the Red Cross. Take the Peace Corps. Take the Police Department. Merge them. Now give them armor so they don't get shot, and weapons, to keep people from shooting at them. That is about 50% of todays military. Th other 50% more actively provide security and safety for that group, but there is NO OTHER GROUP IN THE WORLD who provides the service we do. NO ONE can provide aid in a country where there is shooting, where there are mass executions, where there are "night letters" and bombs. It is military or abandonment. And I, for one, am not willing to abandon the poor, desperate people, just because it's a little dangerous where they live.
I know
I know that I exist because you imagine me.
I am tall because you believe I am tall,
and I am clean because you watch me
with your clean glance.
Your thought makes me intelligent,
......and in your tenderness,
I am simple and kind.
But if you forget me
I will be dead and nobody will know it.
They will see that my flesh lives
but that will be another man - dark, clumsy, bad-
the one that inhabits it.- Angel Gonzalez.
I am tall because you believe I am tall,
and I am clean because you watch me
with your clean glance.
Your thought makes me intelligent,
......and in your tenderness,
I am simple and kind.
But if you forget me
I will be dead and nobody will know it.
They will see that my flesh lives
but that will be another man - dark, clumsy, bad-
the one that inhabits it.- Angel Gonzalez.
Progress
So, I was thinking how amazingly open minded our country was.
Think about our presidents name.
It's like we had elected Adolph Moussellini president in 1948.
JFK almost didn't get elected because of his chosen religion.
Today, some people couldn't even tell you the difference between a Prostant and a Catholic.
Yet we managed to see beyond this mans name and his race, see past stories about his religion and his birth, and saw fit to elect him to lead us.
What'll we have in twenty years?
A Chinese Lesbian Hermaphrodite worshipper of Ra?
More power to us, if s/he's the best (wo)man for the job!
Think about our presidents name.
It's like we had elected Adolph Moussellini president in 1948.
JFK almost didn't get elected because of his chosen religion.
Today, some people couldn't even tell you the difference between a Prostant and a Catholic.
Yet we managed to see beyond this mans name and his race, see past stories about his religion and his birth, and saw fit to elect him to lead us.
What'll we have in twenty years?
A Chinese Lesbian Hermaphrodite worshipper of Ra?
More power to us, if s/he's the best (wo)man for the job!
Children.
If you really loved your children, you would set a bad example for them to rebel against.
Tell them how you dropped out of high school, how much fun it is to do drugs, leave cigarette butts all over and half empty cans of beer on the stove.
Talk loudly, use the word "Aint" and "Y'all" a lot, make sweeping generalizations.
Tell them you don't have a job, and are a "dancer".
Tell them "SKOOL AINT NEVER DONE NUFFINK FOR ME!!".
That way, they can rebel against you, get an education and a job, and thank you later.
When they are thirty or so I'd recommend telling them the truth.
Tell them how you dropped out of high school, how much fun it is to do drugs, leave cigarette butts all over and half empty cans of beer on the stove.
Talk loudly, use the word "Aint" and "Y'all" a lot, make sweeping generalizations.
Tell them you don't have a job, and are a "dancer".
Tell them "SKOOL AINT NEVER DONE NUFFINK FOR ME!!".
That way, they can rebel against you, get an education and a job, and thank you later.
When they are thirty or so I'd recommend telling them the truth.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Best. Argument. Ender. Ever.
"Blaming the other side is a fools errand, and an attempt to avoid personal responsibility. As is an inability to treat any subject as serious, I might add. Because if a subject were serious, we might have to do something about it. We might have to stand up for our beliefs. We might have to believe in something.
I believe. I believe with all my heart, and I back it up, every day. You don't have to take this discussion seriously. It's not an issue for you. Lots of things aren't issues for you. It might not be an issue for you if some kid I see on the street here has enough to eat, or whether my interpreter friends family is safe, or what justification is enough to pull a trigger. But that doesn't mean that other people don't wonder those questions, those issues. I wonder them. For me, this is an issue that matters, that has meaning. So are the others I describe. I put my life on the line, standing up for what I believe, for what I find to have meaning. I sincerely hope you have beliefs which you hold as strongly, although I doubt that you do. I'm sorry, that must be really sad. I hope you find reason, find purpose. I hope you find things that are true for you, and simple, and clear. I'm afraid it is very obvious to me that cutting off pieces of a child because they used to do it is evil. I'm sorry, but it is very obvious to me that your callous humor and petty squabbling just shows a lack of maturity and a desire for self gratification. Arguing with you is like jerking you off: it satisfies you, it leaves me feeling dirty and soiled, and brings us no closer to anything good. Have a great day."
I believe. I believe with all my heart, and I back it up, every day. You don't have to take this discussion seriously. It's not an issue for you. Lots of things aren't issues for you. It might not be an issue for you if some kid I see on the street here has enough to eat, or whether my interpreter friends family is safe, or what justification is enough to pull a trigger. But that doesn't mean that other people don't wonder those questions, those issues. I wonder them. For me, this is an issue that matters, that has meaning. So are the others I describe. I put my life on the line, standing up for what I believe, for what I find to have meaning. I sincerely hope you have beliefs which you hold as strongly, although I doubt that you do. I'm sorry, that must be really sad. I hope you find reason, find purpose. I hope you find things that are true for you, and simple, and clear. I'm afraid it is very obvious to me that cutting off pieces of a child because they used to do it is evil. I'm sorry, but it is very obvious to me that your callous humor and petty squabbling just shows a lack of maturity and a desire for self gratification. Arguing with you is like jerking you off: it satisfies you, it leaves me feeling dirty and soiled, and brings us no closer to anything good. Have a great day."
Back to Afghanistan, again.
Sigh. Nothing deep. Words are meaningless, tawdry, cheap.
I am thankful I get to spend what time I have with my family.
I am thankful I get to spend what time I have with my family.
Pants
Do you know how, when you aren't feeling confident, they tell you:
"Imagine other people putting on their pants. They do it the same way you do: One leg at a time."
Well, that's bullshit. I put on my pants both legs at the same time. Always have. Fuck you, world: I've got you outnumbered, all by myself.
"Imagine other people putting on their pants. They do it the same way you do: One leg at a time."
Well, that's bullshit. I put on my pants both legs at the same time. Always have. Fuck you, world: I've got you outnumbered, all by myself.
Progress
So, I was thinking how amazingly open minded our country was.
Think about our presidents name.
It's like we had elected Adolph Moussellini president in 1948.
JFK almost didn't get elected because of his chosen religion.
Today, some people couldn't even tell you the difference between a Prostant and a Catholic.
Yet we managed to see beyond this mans name and his race, see past stories about his religion and his birth, and saw fit to elect him to lead us.
What'll we have in twenty years?
A Chinese Lesbian Hermaphrodite worshipper of Ra?
More power to us, if s/he's the best (wo)man for the job!
Think about our presidents name.
It's like we had elected Adolph Moussellini president in 1948.
JFK almost didn't get elected because of his chosen religion.
Today, some people couldn't even tell you the difference between a Prostant and a Catholic.
Yet we managed to see beyond this mans name and his race, see past stories about his religion and his birth, and saw fit to elect him to lead us.
What'll we have in twenty years?
A Chinese Lesbian Hermaphrodite worshipper of Ra?
More power to us, if s/he's the best (wo)man for the job!
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Coming back to America.
When you deploy, the first three months you spend learning your job.
The last month you spend trying to not think about home, about getting extended, about getting hurt or killed.
I spent 2009 in Afghanistan.
I spent four months of 2010 in Afghanistan.
I’ve spent all of 2011 so far in Afghanistan.
In the last twenty nine months, I have spent twenty one of them in Afghanistan.
If I had deployed thirteen days earlier,
I would have been in Afghanistan for 2008, 2009, 2010, and 2011.
So, I’m coming “home” for leave.
Two weeks of R&R. Rest and Recreation.
Civilians probably think we have some stupid name for it, like “Rest and Reproduction”.
No, we don’t joke about it. We joke about death. We joke about being hurt. We joke about being captured, and having our heads cut off, we joke about prosthetics.
We just call it “Leave”.
I’ll come “back” to America for two weeks.
“Back”.
I don’t know America any more. I don’t know how to be there. Is there stuff I want to do, are there places I want to see?
I have no idea.
What am I supposed to do for two weeks?
And I am haunted by the knowledge that Leave is a reflection of being deployed back to the States, and that is a reflection of being a civilian.
What the fuck would I do as a civilian?
How would I find a job? What would I be qualified as? What would happen when I lose that job?
Coming back to America is too much like dying.
Here, I have a job, a task, a purpose. Here I am valuable.
There, what am I?
Useless.
Unemployed.
Without purpose.
How do I go “home”?
What would the point even be?
Will she like me?
Will she like the changes that have happened to me?
The callouses, the cuts, the bruises, the fact that I shave my head every morning? The muscles, the fat, the wrinkles and lines, the differences in my body, my mind, my soul?
Will she still like me?
Will the children want me around? Will I be patient enough? Will I be a good father? Will they remember me? When will they judge me? Will they forgive me?
The mind attempts to grab on to things to focus on. A present! If I could find the right present, _that_ would make things better! A stuffed animal, or a scarf, something beautiful, or silly, or strange, or endearing. The item, ultimately empty. Meaningless, except to keep the mind anchored, keep it from drifting into shallow waters of fruitless worry and stress.
Never think about the possibilities. Do they love you? Do they still need you? Have you been replaced? Is there any meaning to the sacrifices you have made? Will they be there for you, or will you come home to an empty airport, and empty ceremony, and empty home?
And if they are there this time, what about next time? And the next time?
It’s like jumping. Leaping. In the dark. And you cannot see the other side, and you don’t know if there even _is_ another side.
You just jump.
And hope.
And again.
And again.
Tonight is my last night at work.
Getting ready for that plane flight. Getting ready for that ticket home.
Getting ready to jump.
In the dark.
Again.
The last month you spend trying to not think about home, about getting extended, about getting hurt or killed.
I spent 2009 in Afghanistan.
I spent four months of 2010 in Afghanistan.
I’ve spent all of 2011 so far in Afghanistan.
In the last twenty nine months, I have spent twenty one of them in Afghanistan.
If I had deployed thirteen days earlier,
I would have been in Afghanistan for 2008, 2009, 2010, and 2011.
So, I’m coming “home” for leave.
Two weeks of R&R. Rest and Recreation.
Civilians probably think we have some stupid name for it, like “Rest and Reproduction”.
No, we don’t joke about it. We joke about death. We joke about being hurt. We joke about being captured, and having our heads cut off, we joke about prosthetics.
We just call it “Leave”.
I’ll come “back” to America for two weeks.
“Back”.
I don’t know America any more. I don’t know how to be there. Is there stuff I want to do, are there places I want to see?
I have no idea.
What am I supposed to do for two weeks?
And I am haunted by the knowledge that Leave is a reflection of being deployed back to the States, and that is a reflection of being a civilian.
What the fuck would I do as a civilian?
How would I find a job? What would I be qualified as? What would happen when I lose that job?
Coming back to America is too much like dying.
Here, I have a job, a task, a purpose. Here I am valuable.
There, what am I?
Useless.
Unemployed.
Without purpose.
How do I go “home”?
What would the point even be?
Will she like me?
Will she like the changes that have happened to me?
The callouses, the cuts, the bruises, the fact that I shave my head every morning? The muscles, the fat, the wrinkles and lines, the differences in my body, my mind, my soul?
Will she still like me?
Will the children want me around? Will I be patient enough? Will I be a good father? Will they remember me? When will they judge me? Will they forgive me?
The mind attempts to grab on to things to focus on. A present! If I could find the right present, _that_ would make things better! A stuffed animal, or a scarf, something beautiful, or silly, or strange, or endearing. The item, ultimately empty. Meaningless, except to keep the mind anchored, keep it from drifting into shallow waters of fruitless worry and stress.
Never think about the possibilities. Do they love you? Do they still need you? Have you been replaced? Is there any meaning to the sacrifices you have made? Will they be there for you, or will you come home to an empty airport, and empty ceremony, and empty home?
And if they are there this time, what about next time? And the next time?
It’s like jumping. Leaping. In the dark. And you cannot see the other side, and you don’t know if there even _is_ another side.
You just jump.
And hope.
And again.
And again.
Tonight is my last night at work.
Getting ready for that plane flight. Getting ready for that ticket home.
Getting ready to jump.
In the dark.
Again.
Monday, April 18, 2011
My Father
So, two more packages from my father in the mail today.
Now, I have to give you some context.
I was two weeks old when my mom and dad split up. I’m pretty sure what happened was she split,
with me, possibly with another guy. Over the years, I was told a lot of bad shit about him.
When I was nine, I got a box from him. I remember there being a copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull amongst the contents.
When I was seventeen, I flew to Alaska, where I got to meet him for the first time.
Now, this was an interesting experience.
Bob was a Marine. He volunteered for the Marines, for the Infantry, and he served in Viet-Nam. He ran long range patrols, weeks in the bush. He came home with a Purple Heart, a case of trenchfoot, and a lot of other things. Things you don't talk to people about all that much.
He came home without the name he left home with.
The Marines, like war, bring out the best in a man. They also bring out the worst.
My father and I spent two weeks together. I learned to drive a stick, I learned to shoot. I’m not sure if he learned much from the experience. It is possible he did, he never had an opportunity to be a father, maybe he got a taste of it. Maybe not. It’s hard to tell. Plus, he’s set in his ways. Any lesson he learns takes a few years to set in.
Bob came out to Buffalo when I was twenty-two. That visit went even less well. He managed to fight with every single person in the household.
While he was in Buffalo, I lost my job. I only misplaced it, it turns out, but at the time it looked like it was definitely missing, probably for good. When I was about two weeks unemployed, I received a check in the mail from one of my clients at the hospital. She had been dying, I had been taking care of her for years, her family didn’t care about her, she mailed me a check. The check happened to be for the same amount as I made in two weeks.
Well, Bob was in town. Fathers day was coming up. His birthday fell right around the same date. I went to the mall, and I saw a framed print. Odds are you have seen it. It depicts the Vietnam Memorial in Washington. It’s a print by Lee Teter. My dad fought in Vietnam. He was a volunteer, not a draftee. He looks a lot like the guy in the print. I bought it for him.
I didn’t have a job, which no-one knew yet, but I had the money my client had given me.
I wrote a note on the back and left it in the basement where he was staying. His response, to my grandmother, was, and I quote “Too Little, Too Late.” That print is still hanging on my wall in my living room. I am not one to forget, or forgive, a slight.
There were a few other things. My father and I are _painfully_ similar. We are both _right_. ALWAYS. We aren’t know-it-alls, we just know it better. See, for some reason, we both genetically have a sense of “rightness”. We are unbearably sure of ourselves. It makes us insufferable to people who don’t like us, and sometimes makes us capable of doing things others would not expect, or sometimes even believe possible. But we believe. Down to the core, whatever it is that we feel, or know, or are, there is not a shred of doubt. One of us can be annoying, provoking, difficult, arrogant, illuminating, amazing, daring. Two of us is guaranteed to be a disaster.
There are other problems. Men who are very confident and believe in themselves attract women. And are usually attracted to women. Soooooo, maybe it’s best we didn’t live in the same household. That being said, his visit when I was 22 was rather difficult.
I think I saw him once or twice since then. I think when the boys were young. I have this weird glitch in my memory, things beyond three years are really vague. Have had it since I was a kid. I suspect a cause, but have never been certain. So I am pretty sure I’ve seen him once or twice since then.
Well, a couple years ago, I was going through a bad time. Which is like describing a hurricane as a “spot of bad weather”. I didn’t have a job, I didn’t have much of anything. I had lost custody of one of my kids, gone bankrupt, lost a lot. I needed something. Maybe I needed a purpose. Maybe I needed a reason why I couldn’t see my kid, so when he asked why I didn’t see him, I could say “Because I was in Afghanistan” which is _so_ much better an answer than “Because of your mother”. Maybe I just needed to die. I was really close. So I stopped at the recruiters office, and talked to the Marine recruiter.
They called back, and said I was too old, would I be interested in having my info passed on to any other branches? I said sure, give it to the Army. And when the Army called, I demanded infantry, demanded combat, demanded enlisted. See, I remembered talking to my father. I knew a man who hasn’t seen combat has no business leading soldiers in combat. So I knew I wanted Infantry, and I knew I wanted enlisted. And I knew I wanted combat. After all, there was a war on: if there’s anyone who can use a man who isn’t afraid to die, it would have to be the Army, wouldn’t it?
My scores were rather high. By rather, I mean “so high I had to argue to get into the infantry because they wanted me to design rockets or some shit like that” rather high.
And now I’ve been in the Army for almost four years. In the Infantry, combat arms. Enlisted. A Sergeant. Like my father. I’ve deployed twice. I’ve been shot at, with machine guns and with RPGS. I’ve been blown up. I’ve shot back. Effectively. I’m a soldier, an Infantryman. Want to know what I do for a living? I walk around. I eat stuff. I talk to people. Sometimes people try to kill me, and I try really hard to not get killed, and I try to kill them back. I’m really good at my job.
You wouldn’t believe how much knowledge and training and experience goes into something so simple.
My father started sending me packages this deployment. I talk about getting healthy, and cutting down on candy, the packages include healthy snacks. The packages include things to disarm an IED. They include socks. They include knives, and flashlights, and multi-tools. They include external hard drives, and scarves, and earplugs. They include magazines and supplements and a lot of other things. I am an Infantryman. There are tools to my trade, and the name brands on the things he sends me? They are the best. And, incidentally, the most expensive. His packages, each and every single one of them, are loaded with the very best tools of the trade that he practiced and I practice. I know this: like any professional, I know what works, and what doesn’t. His packages usually don’t include letters.
My father talks to my wife sometimes, but he and I rarely speak, or directly write each other. We have a lot in common these days. We have each had a son taken from us. We are each hard men. We are each solitary men by nature. We both still believe. I doubt we could be together and get along. But sometimes, it’s easier to get along with someone when they are a little further away. And Afghanistan and Alaska are pretty far away.
Now, I have to give you some context.
I was two weeks old when my mom and dad split up. I’m pretty sure what happened was she split,
with me, possibly with another guy. Over the years, I was told a lot of bad shit about him.
When I was nine, I got a box from him. I remember there being a copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull amongst the contents.
When I was seventeen, I flew to Alaska, where I got to meet him for the first time.
Now, this was an interesting experience.
Bob was a Marine. He volunteered for the Marines, for the Infantry, and he served in Viet-Nam. He ran long range patrols, weeks in the bush. He came home with a Purple Heart, a case of trenchfoot, and a lot of other things. Things you don't talk to people about all that much.
He came home without the name he left home with.
The Marines, like war, bring out the best in a man. They also bring out the worst.
My father and I spent two weeks together. I learned to drive a stick, I learned to shoot. I’m not sure if he learned much from the experience. It is possible he did, he never had an opportunity to be a father, maybe he got a taste of it. Maybe not. It’s hard to tell. Plus, he’s set in his ways. Any lesson he learns takes a few years to set in.
Bob came out to Buffalo when I was twenty-two. That visit went even less well. He managed to fight with every single person in the household.
While he was in Buffalo, I lost my job. I only misplaced it, it turns out, but at the time it looked like it was definitely missing, probably for good. When I was about two weeks unemployed, I received a check in the mail from one of my clients at the hospital. She had been dying, I had been taking care of her for years, her family didn’t care about her, she mailed me a check. The check happened to be for the same amount as I made in two weeks.
Well, Bob was in town. Fathers day was coming up. His birthday fell right around the same date. I went to the mall, and I saw a framed print. Odds are you have seen it. It depicts the Vietnam Memorial in Washington. It’s a print by Lee Teter. My dad fought in Vietnam. He was a volunteer, not a draftee. He looks a lot like the guy in the print. I bought it for him.
I didn’t have a job, which no-one knew yet, but I had the money my client had given me.
I wrote a note on the back and left it in the basement where he was staying. His response, to my grandmother, was, and I quote “Too Little, Too Late.” That print is still hanging on my wall in my living room. I am not one to forget, or forgive, a slight.
There were a few other things. My father and I are _painfully_ similar. We are both _right_. ALWAYS. We aren’t know-it-alls, we just know it better. See, for some reason, we both genetically have a sense of “rightness”. We are unbearably sure of ourselves. It makes us insufferable to people who don’t like us, and sometimes makes us capable of doing things others would not expect, or sometimes even believe possible. But we believe. Down to the core, whatever it is that we feel, or know, or are, there is not a shred of doubt. One of us can be annoying, provoking, difficult, arrogant, illuminating, amazing, daring. Two of us is guaranteed to be a disaster.
There are other problems. Men who are very confident and believe in themselves attract women. And are usually attracted to women. Soooooo, maybe it’s best we didn’t live in the same household. That being said, his visit when I was 22 was rather difficult.
I think I saw him once or twice since then. I think when the boys were young. I have this weird glitch in my memory, things beyond three years are really vague. Have had it since I was a kid. I suspect a cause, but have never been certain. So I am pretty sure I’ve seen him once or twice since then.
Well, a couple years ago, I was going through a bad time. Which is like describing a hurricane as a “spot of bad weather”. I didn’t have a job, I didn’t have much of anything. I had lost custody of one of my kids, gone bankrupt, lost a lot. I needed something. Maybe I needed a purpose. Maybe I needed a reason why I couldn’t see my kid, so when he asked why I didn’t see him, I could say “Because I was in Afghanistan” which is _so_ much better an answer than “Because of your mother”. Maybe I just needed to die. I was really close. So I stopped at the recruiters office, and talked to the Marine recruiter.
They called back, and said I was too old, would I be interested in having my info passed on to any other branches? I said sure, give it to the Army. And when the Army called, I demanded infantry, demanded combat, demanded enlisted. See, I remembered talking to my father. I knew a man who hasn’t seen combat has no business leading soldiers in combat. So I knew I wanted Infantry, and I knew I wanted enlisted. And I knew I wanted combat. After all, there was a war on: if there’s anyone who can use a man who isn’t afraid to die, it would have to be the Army, wouldn’t it?
My scores were rather high. By rather, I mean “so high I had to argue to get into the infantry because they wanted me to design rockets or some shit like that” rather high.
And now I’ve been in the Army for almost four years. In the Infantry, combat arms. Enlisted. A Sergeant. Like my father. I’ve deployed twice. I’ve been shot at, with machine guns and with RPGS. I’ve been blown up. I’ve shot back. Effectively. I’m a soldier, an Infantryman. Want to know what I do for a living? I walk around. I eat stuff. I talk to people. Sometimes people try to kill me, and I try really hard to not get killed, and I try to kill them back. I’m really good at my job.
You wouldn’t believe how much knowledge and training and experience goes into something so simple.
My father started sending me packages this deployment. I talk about getting healthy, and cutting down on candy, the packages include healthy snacks. The packages include things to disarm an IED. They include socks. They include knives, and flashlights, and multi-tools. They include external hard drives, and scarves, and earplugs. They include magazines and supplements and a lot of other things. I am an Infantryman. There are tools to my trade, and the name brands on the things he sends me? They are the best. And, incidentally, the most expensive. His packages, each and every single one of them, are loaded with the very best tools of the trade that he practiced and I practice. I know this: like any professional, I know what works, and what doesn’t. His packages usually don’t include letters.
My father talks to my wife sometimes, but he and I rarely speak, or directly write each other. We have a lot in common these days. We have each had a son taken from us. We are each hard men. We are each solitary men by nature. We both still believe. I doubt we could be together and get along. But sometimes, it’s easier to get along with someone when they are a little further away. And Afghanistan and Alaska are pretty far away.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
...
La la.
Working working.
Today "working" means "explaining Islamic and Afghan burial customs",
instead of "walking 20 kilometers carrying shit".
Working working.
Today "working" means "explaining Islamic and Afghan burial customs",
instead of "walking 20 kilometers carrying shit".
Saturday, April 16, 2011
It's dark.
It’s dark.
It’s dark, my eyes are closed.
I’m drifting.
There is a rhythmic
sound,
but it is far away.
I’m drifting.
The sound changes pitch,
becomes higher,
sharper,
more of a whine and
less of a throb.
My eyes come open.It’s dark.I’m holding my weapon, barrel pointed downwards.I’m strapped in,
heavily armed, heavily armored.
Emphasis on the “heavy” part.
Strapped in.
Next to me, on either side and across from me, are the rest of us, strapped in, faceless in the dark.
In some ways, it’s like being on a bus.
Or like being in an airplane.
But it’s not.
The shape next to me leans in:
“TWO MINUTES! LOCK AND LOAD!”
I pass the message on, as I snap to full consciousness, my hands loading my M-4, checking the safety,checking my ‘203 rounds, releasing my five point safety harness.
“ONE MINUTE! HOT LZ!”
The pilots must have seen tracer fire.
The insurgents know the sounds our helicopters make.
The engine is screaming now, the pilots don’t like people shooting, they are coming in fast and hard,they aren’t going to land, they’re going to skip off the ground and we are going to get the fuckoff their helicopter as fast as we can so they can leave.
A helicopter, a CH-47 Chinook helicopter,a “shit-hook” helicopter, the fastest, highest flying, double-rotor helicopter, costs between eighteen and twenty five million dollars, plus crew and extras.
We must be the extras.
We don’t cost nearly as much.
The back door is open.
It’s a ramp, it folds down.
We are a couple hundred feet over the Afghan hills,
we aren’t buckled in,
we are travelling around a hundred miles an hour,
the door is open,
we are in a helicopter,
and someone down there is shooting at us.
If the bullets hit us, they’ll go right through the airframe.
Right through us.
They’ll make a movie about how brave we were, how we were like brothers to each other, about our grieving, yet strong wives and parents and their noble sacrifice, about our heroism.
They always leave out the screaming in the movies.
The screaming and the crying.
And the whimpering.
They always leave out the screaming.
I even know guys who don’t seem to remember the screaming.
Who told me “wow, he didn’t scream at all! He just joked and laughed and was really brave!”
Really? Is that what you remember? Because I remember the screaming. I remember the screaming like someone shot a dog, and it was dying. Scared, and in pain. Dying, scared and in pain. When they bring you the news, and they tell you "it was quick, he didn't suffer" they lie. Its never quick. Even if it only takes a few hours, or a few minutes. Those are the longest, the worst minutes of your life. Every - last - second of them.
It’s dark, nighttime, almost pitch black.
The dark velvet is relieved only by small red lights, by the lighter green of glow-in-the-dark patches on some of our equipment.
I check my weapon again, make sure the safety is on, again, make certain the magazine is secure in my weapon, again.
We hit, and are running out the door, streaming out the back of the aircraft, falling out of the back of the chopper, dust, dust everywhere.
Throwing ourselves down into the prone, the last few guys literally jumping off the bird as it leaves.
The pilots are not sticking around, a helicopter costs 18 to 25 million dollars.
Plus extras.
The chopper is gone.
We’re alone,
in the desert.
They put us down 3 kilometers from where we were supposed to be.
Time to go.
It’s dark, my eyes are closed.
I’m drifting.
There is a rhythmic
sound,
but it is far away.
I’m drifting.
The sound changes pitch,
becomes higher,
sharper,
more of a whine and
less of a throb.
My eyes come open.It’s dark.I’m holding my weapon, barrel pointed downwards.I’m strapped in,
heavily armed, heavily armored.
Emphasis on the “heavy” part.
Strapped in.
Next to me, on either side and across from me, are the rest of us, strapped in, faceless in the dark.
In some ways, it’s like being on a bus.
Or like being in an airplane.
But it’s not.
The shape next to me leans in:
“TWO MINUTES! LOCK AND LOAD!”
I pass the message on, as I snap to full consciousness, my hands loading my M-4, checking the safety,checking my ‘203 rounds, releasing my five point safety harness.
“ONE MINUTE! HOT LZ!”
The pilots must have seen tracer fire.
The insurgents know the sounds our helicopters make.
The engine is screaming now, the pilots don’t like people shooting, they are coming in fast and hard,they aren’t going to land, they’re going to skip off the ground and we are going to get the fuckoff their helicopter as fast as we can so they can leave.
A helicopter, a CH-47 Chinook helicopter,a “shit-hook” helicopter, the fastest, highest flying, double-rotor helicopter, costs between eighteen and twenty five million dollars, plus crew and extras.
We must be the extras.
We don’t cost nearly as much.
The back door is open.
It’s a ramp, it folds down.
We are a couple hundred feet over the Afghan hills,
we aren’t buckled in,
we are travelling around a hundred miles an hour,
the door is open,
we are in a helicopter,
and someone down there is shooting at us.
If the bullets hit us, they’ll go right through the airframe.
Right through us.
They’ll make a movie about how brave we were, how we were like brothers to each other, about our grieving, yet strong wives and parents and their noble sacrifice, about our heroism.
They always leave out the screaming in the movies.
The screaming and the crying.
And the whimpering.
They always leave out the screaming.
I even know guys who don’t seem to remember the screaming.
Who told me “wow, he didn’t scream at all! He just joked and laughed and was really brave!”
Really? Is that what you remember? Because I remember the screaming. I remember the screaming like someone shot a dog, and it was dying. Scared, and in pain. Dying, scared and in pain. When they bring you the news, and they tell you "it was quick, he didn't suffer" they lie. Its never quick. Even if it only takes a few hours, or a few minutes. Those are the longest, the worst minutes of your life. Every - last - second of them.
It’s dark, nighttime, almost pitch black.
The dark velvet is relieved only by small red lights, by the lighter green of glow-in-the-dark patches on some of our equipment.
I check my weapon again, make sure the safety is on, again, make certain the magazine is secure in my weapon, again.
We hit, and are running out the door, streaming out the back of the aircraft, falling out of the back of the chopper, dust, dust everywhere.
Throwing ourselves down into the prone, the last few guys literally jumping off the bird as it leaves.
The pilots are not sticking around, a helicopter costs 18 to 25 million dollars.
Plus extras.
The chopper is gone.
We’re alone,
in the desert.
They put us down 3 kilometers from where we were supposed to be.
Time to go.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
ch-ching...
There are no Democrats and there are no Republicans. They are two faces of the same coin, and the coin is counterfeit.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Just some thoughts, brought to mind my a conversation about the Air Force.
My friend told me a story today, about a soldier who went to a gathering of Veterans.
And he said that at this gathering was a man who had served with the Air Force and had been deployed to a nice, safe, cushy job for three months in a country where one is not subject to daily bombings, IEDs, rocket attacks, where you don’t have people shoot at you when you walk to the shitter.
The man who was in the Air Force said when he came home, he couldn’t go into a large group of people without wanting to “smoke some dudes”.
My friend told me this story, and there is a lot of humor in a man complaining about life when he had it so easy. He wasn’t bombed, or blown up. He never threw pieces of a friend in a river to keep the dogs from eating it. He never saw the hood of his truck hung in a village with graffiti about “Bush” and scrawling of RPGs on it. He never got shot, or even shot at.
But this man stood up, and he said he had some issues.
Why? Why would a soldier have an embedded core of anger and frustration?
Is he a whiner? Does the human penchant for exaggeration explain it? Probably a bit of both.
Maybe there is something else there too. Maybe the military systematically degrades and humiliates its soldiers, maybe the military never bothers to show you what you have done, what meaning there was in your actions. Maybe three months doing a meaningless, repetitive job, for low pay and little thanks leads to feelings of frustration and alienation. Maybe the military has a bit too much of sitting in the hall and waiting for orders. And waiting. And waiting. And waiting. Maybe in some ways I was lucky. I saw the people we were trying to help. I saw the enemy I signed up to fight, and had the opportunity to shoot at him. I got to see what we were doing, and what we were not doing, and what needed to be done. I know what I did, and what I didn’t do. Honestly, now that I have been to combat, the volume on everything else has been turned down. Little things don’t stress so much. Know what makes you want to kill people? The DMV. The guy on the bus giving you the wrong change. The guy in line in front of you who doesn’t seem to know that 20 items is more than 12, and he should be in the other aisle. And now he’s writing a check. And doesn’t have ID. And wants to argue with the teller, a poor single mom who just wants to finish her shift so she can take off her shoes and sit down and rest. Know what? Going on patrols is awesome. It’s fun. It’s exciting. It’s interesting. It’s like going on vacation, walking around, taking pictures of mountains and little kids and lakes. And when you do it, you are doing a job you have practiced, that you are good at, that you enjoy. Coming home, sitting in garrison, in the hallways, staring at the fucking cement walls while guys play light saber battles with their iphones for hours, break for lunch come back, sit on the floor and watch the walls while they play with their iphones, “Look, I caught a big fish on my phone!”, staring at the walls, for hours, the boss comes out: “Go home, be back at 6:30 for pt (so we can do it again)”. Staring at the walls.
“Bring the soldiers home!” you say. Why? Why would you do that to me? Why would you take away the things that I do that have meaning, take away my job, my livelihood, make my skills pointless, make me sit and stare at walls and do nothing, when I could be deployed, I could be on patrol, I could be defusing bombs, and meeting elders, and talking to kids and living my life and doing important, exciting things?
When you say “bring the troops home” you are telling me “I want you to be fired, I want you to be unemployed, I want your life to have no meaning, no purpose. I want you to be a shell of a man, sitting on the couch, old and fat and soft, wishing I were deployed, wishing there was a purpose.” Bring me home, feed me, buy me drinks. Take me somewhere I can see water, and grass, and pretty girls. Wash me, shave me, hold me. Send me back out to do what I am good at. Send me out to do what I want to do, what I need to do, what makes me a hero, what makes me brave.
I pity that guy from the Air Force. He signed up, and in his heart, he hoped he’d get what I got: the chance. He didn’t get that chance, and he’s mad about it and he whines about it.
No man is brave from a couch. No man is a hero from home. Here, I am a hero. Here, I am brave. Here, I do something important, something meaningful.
And he said that at this gathering was a man who had served with the Air Force and had been deployed to a nice, safe, cushy job for three months in a country where one is not subject to daily bombings, IEDs, rocket attacks, where you don’t have people shoot at you when you walk to the shitter.
The man who was in the Air Force said when he came home, he couldn’t go into a large group of people without wanting to “smoke some dudes”.
My friend told me this story, and there is a lot of humor in a man complaining about life when he had it so easy. He wasn’t bombed, or blown up. He never threw pieces of a friend in a river to keep the dogs from eating it. He never saw the hood of his truck hung in a village with graffiti about “Bush” and scrawling of RPGs on it. He never got shot, or even shot at.
But this man stood up, and he said he had some issues.
Why? Why would a soldier have an embedded core of anger and frustration?
Is he a whiner? Does the human penchant for exaggeration explain it? Probably a bit of both.
Maybe there is something else there too. Maybe the military systematically degrades and humiliates its soldiers, maybe the military never bothers to show you what you have done, what meaning there was in your actions. Maybe three months doing a meaningless, repetitive job, for low pay and little thanks leads to feelings of frustration and alienation. Maybe the military has a bit too much of sitting in the hall and waiting for orders. And waiting. And waiting. And waiting. Maybe in some ways I was lucky. I saw the people we were trying to help. I saw the enemy I signed up to fight, and had the opportunity to shoot at him. I got to see what we were doing, and what we were not doing, and what needed to be done. I know what I did, and what I didn’t do. Honestly, now that I have been to combat, the volume on everything else has been turned down. Little things don’t stress so much. Know what makes you want to kill people? The DMV. The guy on the bus giving you the wrong change. The guy in line in front of you who doesn’t seem to know that 20 items is more than 12, and he should be in the other aisle. And now he’s writing a check. And doesn’t have ID. And wants to argue with the teller, a poor single mom who just wants to finish her shift so she can take off her shoes and sit down and rest. Know what? Going on patrols is awesome. It’s fun. It’s exciting. It’s interesting. It’s like going on vacation, walking around, taking pictures of mountains and little kids and lakes. And when you do it, you are doing a job you have practiced, that you are good at, that you enjoy. Coming home, sitting in garrison, in the hallways, staring at the fucking cement walls while guys play light saber battles with their iphones for hours, break for lunch come back, sit on the floor and watch the walls while they play with their iphones, “Look, I caught a big fish on my phone!”, staring at the walls, for hours, the boss comes out: “Go home, be back at 6:30 for pt (so we can do it again)”. Staring at the walls.
“Bring the soldiers home!” you say. Why? Why would you do that to me? Why would you take away the things that I do that have meaning, take away my job, my livelihood, make my skills pointless, make me sit and stare at walls and do nothing, when I could be deployed, I could be on patrol, I could be defusing bombs, and meeting elders, and talking to kids and living my life and doing important, exciting things?
When you say “bring the troops home” you are telling me “I want you to be fired, I want you to be unemployed, I want your life to have no meaning, no purpose. I want you to be a shell of a man, sitting on the couch, old and fat and soft, wishing I were deployed, wishing there was a purpose.” Bring me home, feed me, buy me drinks. Take me somewhere I can see water, and grass, and pretty girls. Wash me, shave me, hold me. Send me back out to do what I am good at. Send me out to do what I want to do, what I need to do, what makes me a hero, what makes me brave.
I pity that guy from the Air Force. He signed up, and in his heart, he hoped he’d get what I got: the chance. He didn’t get that chance, and he’s mad about it and he whines about it.
No man is brave from a couch. No man is a hero from home. Here, I am a hero. Here, I am brave. Here, I do something important, something meaningful.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
language
Some things people say do not mean what you think they mean.
“I think we should see other people”
Means:
I think _I_ should see other people.
And by “Other people”
I mean:
“Lots of people, in fact, probably quite a few people you know”
And by “see”
I mean:
“Have sex with, frequently”
And by “I think”
I mean:
“I have been”
So: “I think we should see other people”
Means, in fact,
“I have been having sex, frequently, with lots of other people, in fact, probably quite a few people you know”.
“I think we should see other people”
Means:
I think _I_ should see other people.
And by “Other people”
I mean:
“Lots of people, in fact, probably quite a few people you know”
And by “see”
I mean:
“Have sex with, frequently”
And by “I think”
I mean:
“I have been”
So: “I think we should see other people”
Means, in fact,
“I have been having sex, frequently, with lots of other people, in fact, probably quite a few people you know”.
sex
Sex.
Sex is communication.
Two people, grappling with their mortality.
What do we tell each other?
"see me"
"feel me"
"hear me"
"tell me I am real"
"tell me you want me"
"tell me i am important"
"let me deface you"
"let me hurt you"
"let me defile you"
"I want to do things to you"
"I want you to do things to me"
"let me make you my thing, so i can feel good about myself,
so that I can feel powerful"
"i am weak, make me feel strong"
"notice me"
"love me"
"I see you."
"I feel you."
"you are important"
"you are special"
"I respect you"
"I am paying attention to you"
"I want you"
"I want to do things with you"
"I want to be with you"
"I want to be happy with you"
"I want for us to be together"
"I want us to be one"
"I love you"
So many things we can tell each other. So many things we want,
we expect, we hope for, we dream of.
And, oddly, enough, we almost never honestly tell people what
we want, what we expect or hope for. We are rarely enough
honest even with ourselves.
Sex is communication.
Two people, grappling with their mortality.
What do we tell each other?
"see me"
"feel me"
"hear me"
"tell me I am real"
"tell me you want me"
"tell me i am important"
"let me deface you"
"let me hurt you"
"let me defile you"
"I want to do things to you"
"I want you to do things to me"
"let me make you my thing, so i can feel good about myself,
so that I can feel powerful"
"i am weak, make me feel strong"
"notice me"
"love me"
"I see you."
"I feel you."
"you are important"
"you are special"
"I respect you"
"I am paying attention to you"
"I want you"
"I want to do things with you"
"I want to be with you"
"I want to be happy with you"
"I want for us to be together"
"I want us to be one"
"I love you"
So many things we can tell each other. So many things we want,
we expect, we hope for, we dream of.
And, oddly, enough, we almost never honestly tell people what
we want, what we expect or hope for. We are rarely enough
honest even with ourselves.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Don't you get it?
Every couple of weeks, someone posts something that I just don't get.
I'll say I'm working on being stronger, or more fit, or smarter, and they'll
make a comment about getting old.
Hey, no offense people, but what the fuck?
I am thirty eight years old.
Five years ago, I had damned near nothing in my life.
My wife weighed 78 pounds, and had nearly died.
My ex had sued me, taken my child from me, then sued me
again, and I had gone bankrupt immediately from it.
I lost my phone, we moved in the middle of the night to avoid bill
collectors. I lost my car, my customized car that I had spent hundreds
of hours and thousands of dollars working on. I lost pretty much everything
I owned.
When my wife would go upstairs to put the kids to bed, I would eat the cereal
off the floor that they had spilled. I waited till she was upstairs, because if
she had seen, she would have cried.
I stole food from work so I could have enough to eat and spend all my money
on them.
I walked ten miles to work, I am not making this up, each day, and hoped each
day someone would offer me a ride home.
I dropped out of college, and eventually lost my job, and with it, most
of my self respect, and most of my sanity.
And when my best friend offered to let me use his car
for my birthday, so I could see my son,
his mom said "no".
And I started over.
With nothing, except my wife, my amazing, beautiful, wonderful wife,
and my children.
I started over.
And since then
I have done so much
I have earned the respect of men who amaze me
I have seen the moons of Jupiter from a spotting scope on the side of a mountain in the
foothills of the Himalayas. I have seen the tracers streak the sky from a helicopter on
an attack landing.
I have seen the birth of my daughters.
I have reshaped my body, I am infinitely stronger, more confident and more resilient than ever before.
I have done things I never would have dreamed of even five years ago.
And I feel like my life is just beginning.
And nothing is beyond my grasp.
And you tell me I am old?
And I should accept things the way they are?
I tell you this:
It is never too late to start over.
It is never too late to begin again.
It is never too late to do something amazing.
The world awaits you, and age just means you do fewer stupid things.
And I can run a man half my age into the ground.
So, no offense, but if you are thinking of retiring,
thinking of relaxing, thinking of taking it easy,
then you are already dead.
I plan to do this till I get everything I can from it,
and then I plan to do something else.
And like my Grandfather,
and like my Uncle,
I expect that I will work till I die.
And I love that.
Live.
Live like you love life.
Do things. Go out. Challenge yourself. Run.
Old age might catch you, and it might catch me,
but I think it'll have to wait till I'm dead to try,
because I'm not stopping
and I'm not slowing down.
Not today.
Not ever.
I'll say I'm working on being stronger, or more fit, or smarter, and they'll
make a comment about getting old.
Hey, no offense people, but what the fuck?
I am thirty eight years old.
Five years ago, I had damned near nothing in my life.
My wife weighed 78 pounds, and had nearly died.
My ex had sued me, taken my child from me, then sued me
again, and I had gone bankrupt immediately from it.
I lost my phone, we moved in the middle of the night to avoid bill
collectors. I lost my car, my customized car that I had spent hundreds
of hours and thousands of dollars working on. I lost pretty much everything
I owned.
When my wife would go upstairs to put the kids to bed, I would eat the cereal
off the floor that they had spilled. I waited till she was upstairs, because if
she had seen, she would have cried.
I stole food from work so I could have enough to eat and spend all my money
on them.
I walked ten miles to work, I am not making this up, each day, and hoped each
day someone would offer me a ride home.
I dropped out of college, and eventually lost my job, and with it, most
of my self respect, and most of my sanity.
And when my best friend offered to let me use his car
for my birthday, so I could see my son,
his mom said "no".
And I started over.
With nothing, except my wife, my amazing, beautiful, wonderful wife,
and my children.
I started over.
And since then
I have done so much
I have earned the respect of men who amaze me
I have seen the moons of Jupiter from a spotting scope on the side of a mountain in the
foothills of the Himalayas. I have seen the tracers streak the sky from a helicopter on
an attack landing.
I have seen the birth of my daughters.
I have reshaped my body, I am infinitely stronger, more confident and more resilient than ever before.
I have done things I never would have dreamed of even five years ago.
And I feel like my life is just beginning.
And nothing is beyond my grasp.
And you tell me I am old?
And I should accept things the way they are?
I tell you this:
It is never too late to start over.
It is never too late to begin again.
It is never too late to do something amazing.
The world awaits you, and age just means you do fewer stupid things.
And I can run a man half my age into the ground.
So, no offense, but if you are thinking of retiring,
thinking of relaxing, thinking of taking it easy,
then you are already dead.
I plan to do this till I get everything I can from it,
and then I plan to do something else.
And like my Grandfather,
and like my Uncle,
I expect that I will work till I die.
And I love that.
Live.
Live like you love life.
Do things. Go out. Challenge yourself. Run.
Old age might catch you, and it might catch me,
but I think it'll have to wait till I'm dead to try,
because I'm not stopping
and I'm not slowing down.
Not today.
Not ever.
FML
Ok, so there's this female who works at the compound here.
She's been having sex with various soldiers.
She's single, and junior enlisted, so as long as she's not banging a superior and as long as she doesnt get pregnant, her superiors are letting it slide. Granted, she is currently having sex with someone two ranks higher than her, so TECHNICALLY thats a total violation of a WHOLE BUNCH OF RULES, but that doesnt matter, because her bosses wouldnt want to have to do paperwork, I guess.
Now, I usually get people a ride home, so they don't get raped and murdered. This one asks for a ride. I can't give her a ride, because I'm a male superior, so I cant be alone with her, because NO WAY IN FUCK am I letting ANY HINT OF GOSSIP or stupidity stick to me. FUCK THAT. Since I am higher ranking than her, and seriously married, even allegations would be a royal pain in the ass. I'm doing my best to be about a mile from this person at all times. My life is conplicated enough without more stupidity.
She cant walk home alone, cause she'll get raped. Ok, she might not, but KAF has a population of thirty thousand, mostly transient, few people know each other, lots of dark areas, lots of people from different countries. Basically, while you are here, these are the bad things that can happen to you, in order of likelyhood: Death by Traffic Accident, Death by Fire because your roommate fucked up the power cords, Rape, Death by Negligent Discharge because your "buddy" cleaned his weapon and shot you, Death by Suicide. So, at night people tend to walk in pairs and women get escorted. Now, as many me get raped as women, so escorting women doesnt exactly make sense, and more than half the rapes are acquantance rape (I guess "friend rape" isn't a word?), so walking with someone you know might be a mistake also, but it doesn't have to make sense. We also wear neon colored reflective belts because of the traffic thing. I don't have a solution for the negligent discharge issue. OK, I carry a tournequit at all times, but that's only a partial solution. For suicide the army "Solution" is that if a soldier has a problem, they take his weapon for a couple weeks, manadate councelling, and humiliate him. Interesting approach, but not sure how effective it is, really.
Anyways, back to this annoying woman.
I can't have a woman walk home with her, because how would they get back without being raped and murdered? So I have to have TWO PEOPLE escord this idiot to her room each night, so noone gets accused of having sex and so noone gets raped. MIND YOU SHE HAS A GUN. If you have a gun and someone tried to rape you, SHOOT THEM. FML. All because a) this woman is too stupid to keep her vagina in her pants and b) because we don't want her to get raped and murdered. FML. THIS is the kind of stupid shit I deal with every day.
Somewhere around 9 out of 10 soldiers who drink drink because of this shit. Not because of their buddies getting turned to hamburger, but because of stupid, pointless, annoying drivel. Because of being cooped up with people who cannot do a job, who cannot be professional, who cannot even decently stay out of the way for you to do your job.
A whole year of this shit, interspersed with random rocket attacks and lots and lots of stupidity.
Oy.
She's been having sex with various soldiers.
She's single, and junior enlisted, so as long as she's not banging a superior and as long as she doesnt get pregnant, her superiors are letting it slide. Granted, she is currently having sex with someone two ranks higher than her, so TECHNICALLY thats a total violation of a WHOLE BUNCH OF RULES, but that doesnt matter, because her bosses wouldnt want to have to do paperwork, I guess.
Now, I usually get people a ride home, so they don't get raped and murdered. This one asks for a ride. I can't give her a ride, because I'm a male superior, so I cant be alone with her, because NO WAY IN FUCK am I letting ANY HINT OF GOSSIP or stupidity stick to me. FUCK THAT. Since I am higher ranking than her, and seriously married, even allegations would be a royal pain in the ass. I'm doing my best to be about a mile from this person at all times. My life is conplicated enough without more stupidity.
She cant walk home alone, cause she'll get raped. Ok, she might not, but KAF has a population of thirty thousand, mostly transient, few people know each other, lots of dark areas, lots of people from different countries. Basically, while you are here, these are the bad things that can happen to you, in order of likelyhood: Death by Traffic Accident, Death by Fire because your roommate fucked up the power cords, Rape, Death by Negligent Discharge because your "buddy" cleaned his weapon and shot you, Death by Suicide. So, at night people tend to walk in pairs and women get escorted. Now, as many me get raped as women, so escorting women doesnt exactly make sense, and more than half the rapes are acquantance rape (I guess "friend rape" isn't a word?), so walking with someone you know might be a mistake also, but it doesn't have to make sense. We also wear neon colored reflective belts because of the traffic thing. I don't have a solution for the negligent discharge issue. OK, I carry a tournequit at all times, but that's only a partial solution. For suicide the army "Solution" is that if a soldier has a problem, they take his weapon for a couple weeks, manadate councelling, and humiliate him. Interesting approach, but not sure how effective it is, really.
Anyways, back to this annoying woman.
I can't have a woman walk home with her, because how would they get back without being raped and murdered? So I have to have TWO PEOPLE escord this idiot to her room each night, so noone gets accused of having sex and so noone gets raped. MIND YOU SHE HAS A GUN. If you have a gun and someone tried to rape you, SHOOT THEM. FML. All because a) this woman is too stupid to keep her vagina in her pants and b) because we don't want her to get raped and murdered. FML. THIS is the kind of stupid shit I deal with every day.
Somewhere around 9 out of 10 soldiers who drink drink because of this shit. Not because of their buddies getting turned to hamburger, but because of stupid, pointless, annoying drivel. Because of being cooped up with people who cannot do a job, who cannot be professional, who cannot even decently stay out of the way for you to do your job.
A whole year of this shit, interspersed with random rocket attacks and lots and lots of stupidity.
Oy.
Fight or Flight
Right now, my stress level is rather high.
Whether I am doing good or bad, either way pretty much every hormone in my body is at highly elevated levels, every day. It’s a fact of life while deployed.
There is a whole school of research that says this is one of the primary causes of PTSD: the body spending months and years detoxing from the constant intensity of being over here.
Even when you are tired and bored, and doing nothing, you are still wound up far tighter than you ever are elsewhere.
Colors are more intense. Smells are sharper. Mood swings more radically.
Coming off of that is hard.
The mind fixates on simple things, and obsesses over them. I had a guy last deployment, he wanted to buy fuzzy purple handcuffs for his wife. He had this image in his head, of her wearing the handcuffs, wearing a short skirt, leaving partway over a table. When we were coming home, I bought a Russian infantrymans dress uniform. I know soldiers who obsess over cars, or motorcycles, or who plan a cruise. Your mind grabs something small, and meaningless, and invests it with all your hopes and thoughts and focus. Does it mean anything? No. Quite frankly, it is just how the mind adapts. Obsession allows the mind to still have the feeling of hoping and planning and thinking, even when you are in a position where nothing you hope or plan or think matters. We are deployed. When we come home, we will find our children distant, our money gone, our girlfriends left, our wives cheated, our family pull away. We will find ourselves returning to empty houses and debt, and alienation.
So we obsess. It keeps us busy, keeps our mind focused. A good wife, like mine, just puts up with it. I want to buy a Russian Army Uniform? Cool. I want to listen to stupid music? No big deal. I need to sleep on the floor? Ok, we move the pillows to the floor. I need a tournequit hung up in the kitchen and a VS-17 Panel (It’s a 2’x2’ fluorescent orange flag used for signaling helicopters and suck) in the trunk of the car? Ok, no problem. A good wife knows that when you come home there will probably be a lot of crazy, for a while. My friend A. with the handcuffs thing, his wife didn’t realize it was a harmless coping technique. He’d keep thinking about how cute she’d look, she’d get mad, he’d ask for a picture from her in this particular pose, she’d put him off. Basically he was just asking her to reinforce the knowledge he already had that she loved him by going out of her way to do something for him, she didn’t, he got steadily more frustrated and angry.
You know when your kid wants to be tucked in at night, and he wants this toy, and a glass of water, and a hug, and a song, and a story, and the other toy? That’s us. We want to be reassured. We want to be told that we are still loved, still able to be loved, still deserving to be loved. We want to know that we haven’t been forgotten, that someone, somewhere remembers us, and thinks of us.
When I came home, I had two people who I liked a lot who stopped speaking to me after I talked about the war. People don’t want the truth. People don’t want to hear that you piss yourself, they don’t want to hear that you put bodies in a bag and then go eat spaghetti, they don’t want to hear how funny it is that the coolest scar I ever saw on a guy is on a black guy and now everyone who sees it doesn’t think “war hero” they think “thug”. On me, it would look like a war scar. On pretty much any vet it would look completely badass. It’s a giant slice down the side of his throat, like would be caused by a knife. Everyone just figures he’s in a punk gang. Too funny. They don’t want to hear about how B. remembers that E. didn’t scream hardly at all after the IED, when his foot was blown off. I remember. I remember he screamed like a wounded animal. He screamed and screamed and screamed. B. Remembers him not screaming, telling jokes and shit. It’s not what I remember. I remember him screaming, and throwing the parts of his foot in the river so the dogs wouldn’t eat it. You tell people that back home, people stop talking to you. Have you seen Restrepo? There is a scene in there where they get hit by an IED. There is dirt all over the windshield; people are yelling the vehicle is at a 45 degree angle. That scene, I laugh every time I see it. Every time. Why shouldn’t I laugh? It happened to us too, and I’m still alive. We laugh when we go on a scary rollercoaster and don’t die. I laugh when the IED strike doesn’t kill me. Actually, I also laugh when I am scared, which is actually a pretty handy trait, btw. But if I laugh at that part of the movie, people are going to get upset at me.
When I was 18, I almost lost my virginity, but I laughed during the end of “Silence of the Lambs” and that was the end of that. Some things are socially appropriate, some are not. When you are here, and when you come home, what you consider appropriate, it’s different from what other people consider appropriate. So it’s easiest to not talk to people.
Here are a couple of situations: you come around a corner the same time as someone coming around in the opposite direction. Both of you step aside, say excuse me, and move along. When I come around a corner, when I walk down the street, when I stand in line, my shoulders are square, I don’t move aside, and I project what the Army refers to as a “dominant body posture”. Civilians call it “being an asshole”. Usually they call it that after they get out of the fucking way, and when they are far away. In the Army, it’s a good thing, its self confidence and an aura that demands respect. Amongst civilians, it is called being a dick. Another example: I met a new coworker today. She’s Southern. I pretty much hate southern girls. When I was young, I was poor. So poor that southern girls were pretty fucking uppity. So, when I said “I don’t think we’ve been introduced” and she said her name, normal people would have said their name, like “I’m Sergeant Geerts, I’m the CJOC SGT, if you need this or that I’ll be glad to help you out blah blah blah”. What I did was just continue the conversation after she had given her name, not giving my name in return. What do I care? My name and rank are on my chest, she’s a southern belle, and I’m here all year, she’ll probably figure out what my job is sooner or later, and if she doesn’t then she’s and idiot and it would be better if she didn’t interact with me. These are not the social skills that win friends and influence people. I wish to make this perfectly clear: I know how to massage egos, make people feel important and good about themselves, how to make people like me. I choose not to. Fuck that, too much work.
I reiterate: these are not the social skills that win friends and influence people.
This all being the case, I have less tolerance as well. So maybe someone makes a borderline joke, or an offhand comment, and instead of not noticing, or letting it go, I am more likely to read the worst into it. It's a fact of life that must be weighed into every situation, every interaction. It is not wise to make big decisions while deployed.
Whether I am doing good or bad, either way pretty much every hormone in my body is at highly elevated levels, every day. It’s a fact of life while deployed.
There is a whole school of research that says this is one of the primary causes of PTSD: the body spending months and years detoxing from the constant intensity of being over here.
Even when you are tired and bored, and doing nothing, you are still wound up far tighter than you ever are elsewhere.
Colors are more intense. Smells are sharper. Mood swings more radically.
Coming off of that is hard.
The mind fixates on simple things, and obsesses over them. I had a guy last deployment, he wanted to buy fuzzy purple handcuffs for his wife. He had this image in his head, of her wearing the handcuffs, wearing a short skirt, leaving partway over a table. When we were coming home, I bought a Russian infantrymans dress uniform. I know soldiers who obsess over cars, or motorcycles, or who plan a cruise. Your mind grabs something small, and meaningless, and invests it with all your hopes and thoughts and focus. Does it mean anything? No. Quite frankly, it is just how the mind adapts. Obsession allows the mind to still have the feeling of hoping and planning and thinking, even when you are in a position where nothing you hope or plan or think matters. We are deployed. When we come home, we will find our children distant, our money gone, our girlfriends left, our wives cheated, our family pull away. We will find ourselves returning to empty houses and debt, and alienation.
So we obsess. It keeps us busy, keeps our mind focused. A good wife, like mine, just puts up with it. I want to buy a Russian Army Uniform? Cool. I want to listen to stupid music? No big deal. I need to sleep on the floor? Ok, we move the pillows to the floor. I need a tournequit hung up in the kitchen and a VS-17 Panel (It’s a 2’x2’ fluorescent orange flag used for signaling helicopters and suck) in the trunk of the car? Ok, no problem. A good wife knows that when you come home there will probably be a lot of crazy, for a while. My friend A. with the handcuffs thing, his wife didn’t realize it was a harmless coping technique. He’d keep thinking about how cute she’d look, she’d get mad, he’d ask for a picture from her in this particular pose, she’d put him off. Basically he was just asking her to reinforce the knowledge he already had that she loved him by going out of her way to do something for him, she didn’t, he got steadily more frustrated and angry.
You know when your kid wants to be tucked in at night, and he wants this toy, and a glass of water, and a hug, and a song, and a story, and the other toy? That’s us. We want to be reassured. We want to be told that we are still loved, still able to be loved, still deserving to be loved. We want to know that we haven’t been forgotten, that someone, somewhere remembers us, and thinks of us.
When I came home, I had two people who I liked a lot who stopped speaking to me after I talked about the war. People don’t want the truth. People don’t want to hear that you piss yourself, they don’t want to hear that you put bodies in a bag and then go eat spaghetti, they don’t want to hear how funny it is that the coolest scar I ever saw on a guy is on a black guy and now everyone who sees it doesn’t think “war hero” they think “thug”. On me, it would look like a war scar. On pretty much any vet it would look completely badass. It’s a giant slice down the side of his throat, like would be caused by a knife. Everyone just figures he’s in a punk gang. Too funny. They don’t want to hear about how B. remembers that E. didn’t scream hardly at all after the IED, when his foot was blown off. I remember. I remember he screamed like a wounded animal. He screamed and screamed and screamed. B. Remembers him not screaming, telling jokes and shit. It’s not what I remember. I remember him screaming, and throwing the parts of his foot in the river so the dogs wouldn’t eat it. You tell people that back home, people stop talking to you. Have you seen Restrepo? There is a scene in there where they get hit by an IED. There is dirt all over the windshield; people are yelling the vehicle is at a 45 degree angle. That scene, I laugh every time I see it. Every time. Why shouldn’t I laugh? It happened to us too, and I’m still alive. We laugh when we go on a scary rollercoaster and don’t die. I laugh when the IED strike doesn’t kill me. Actually, I also laugh when I am scared, which is actually a pretty handy trait, btw. But if I laugh at that part of the movie, people are going to get upset at me.
When I was 18, I almost lost my virginity, but I laughed during the end of “Silence of the Lambs” and that was the end of that. Some things are socially appropriate, some are not. When you are here, and when you come home, what you consider appropriate, it’s different from what other people consider appropriate. So it’s easiest to not talk to people.
Here are a couple of situations: you come around a corner the same time as someone coming around in the opposite direction. Both of you step aside, say excuse me, and move along. When I come around a corner, when I walk down the street, when I stand in line, my shoulders are square, I don’t move aside, and I project what the Army refers to as a “dominant body posture”. Civilians call it “being an asshole”. Usually they call it that after they get out of the fucking way, and when they are far away. In the Army, it’s a good thing, its self confidence and an aura that demands respect. Amongst civilians, it is called being a dick. Another example: I met a new coworker today. She’s Southern. I pretty much hate southern girls. When I was young, I was poor. So poor that southern girls were pretty fucking uppity. So, when I said “I don’t think we’ve been introduced” and she said her name, normal people would have said their name, like “I’m Sergeant Geerts, I’m the CJOC SGT, if you need this or that I’ll be glad to help you out blah blah blah”. What I did was just continue the conversation after she had given her name, not giving my name in return. What do I care? My name and rank are on my chest, she’s a southern belle, and I’m here all year, she’ll probably figure out what my job is sooner or later, and if she doesn’t then she’s and idiot and it would be better if she didn’t interact with me. These are not the social skills that win friends and influence people. I wish to make this perfectly clear: I know how to massage egos, make people feel important and good about themselves, how to make people like me. I choose not to. Fuck that, too much work.
I reiterate: these are not the social skills that win friends and influence people.
This all being the case, I have less tolerance as well. So maybe someone makes a borderline joke, or an offhand comment, and instead of not noticing, or letting it go, I am more likely to read the worst into it. It's a fact of life that must be weighed into every situation, every interaction. It is not wise to make big decisions while deployed.
The Chicken Conundrum
Where do you suppose chickens came from?
Do you think there might have been Paleolithic herds of Proto-Chickens, weighing a ton or more each, covering the plains of the Serengeti during the last Ice Age?
Or were they loneres, eking out a meager existance, solitary by the side of the river, warily watching for predators, coming together only to mate? Steely-eyed warriors, cold velociraptor eyes peering out at the world....BKAWK!
I find the animal to be wildly improbably. A blightless, brainless bird, that eats and lays eggs and nothing else? Clear evidence both that there is a Creator, and he has a wicked sense of humor.
Do you think there might have been Paleolithic herds of Proto-Chickens, weighing a ton or more each, covering the plains of the Serengeti during the last Ice Age?
Or were they loneres, eking out a meager existance, solitary by the side of the river, warily watching for predators, coming together only to mate? Steely-eyed warriors, cold velociraptor eyes peering out at the world....BKAWK!
I find the animal to be wildly improbably. A blightless, brainless bird, that eats and lays eggs and nothing else? Clear evidence both that there is a Creator, and he has a wicked sense of humor.
Monday, February 14, 2011
faith
Faith is not belief in the unknowable.
Faith is the absence of doubt.
Doubt is that which saps the will.
Do you constantly spy on your spouse, expecting them to cheat on you?
That it doubt.
Do you trust them to do what is right?
That is faith.
Do you question things constantly, and believe that you can find a better way, a more just, more accurate, more complete way to accomplish things?
That is faith.
Do you lie in bed and say nothing has meaning, and nothing can be fixed, and life and the universe are random and unjust and unfair and nothing you do will ever matter?
That is doubt, which is the absence of faith.
Faith is belief, not in the unknowable, but belief that there is anything that can be known.
Faith is the knowledge that life can have meaning, that purpose can exist, that reason matters.
Faith is the absence of doubt.
Doubt is that which saps the will.
Do you constantly spy on your spouse, expecting them to cheat on you?
That it doubt.
Do you trust them to do what is right?
That is faith.
Do you question things constantly, and believe that you can find a better way, a more just, more accurate, more complete way to accomplish things?
That is faith.
Do you lie in bed and say nothing has meaning, and nothing can be fixed, and life and the universe are random and unjust and unfair and nothing you do will ever matter?
That is doubt, which is the absence of faith.
Faith is belief, not in the unknowable, but belief that there is anything that can be known.
Faith is the knowledge that life can have meaning, that purpose can exist, that reason matters.
Why the struggle continues, and how to tell who is winning
People ask why the war continues.
Better to ask why the insurgency continues.
They are not the same.
We make a lot of progress, but there is little reporting
in the news of what we accomplish.
But the insurgency continues because both sides understand fighting.
When you are weak, you attack the weakest part of the enemy.
You combine all your forces and smash their smallest element.
When you are strong, you attack the enemies largest element,
you hunt it down and smash it, then move on to the next.
That's the nature of fighting an insurgency:
they attack the weakest spot we have. Right now
that mean they don't attack us, they don't attack the Afghan National
Army, they attack the Afghan National Police.
Let me emphasize this:
They are so weak they cannot fight our military, they are so weak they
cannot even fight the Afghan military. They fight the police.
And each night, we go out, and we hunt down their largest groups,
and we smash them. Each night, we come in the dark, and snatch their
leaders, their planners. These are not big leaders: there are no
big leaders any more. But when they gather in groups of more than
around twenty, we find out, and we take them down.
Why does the insurgency continue? Because there will ALWAYS be a weak place
for them to attack. If they cannot attack American forces, and they
cannot attack ISAF forces, and they cannot attack ANA forces, and they
cannot attack ANP forces, and they cannot attack ABP forces, and the
cannot attack ANCOP forces, because we are all too strong, they will
attack civilians in the night. And if they are afraid to attack civilians,
they will kill children, because children will be the only people left
weak enough for them to attack. The will continue to fight, against
whomever they have the strength to fight.
And there will always be someone for us to remove. Tonight, we raid a
group of twenty. Next year we raid groups of ten.
The year after, we take out groups of five. Till, in the end, if two
people meet and plot against us, we take them down.
Look at who the enemy targets and you will know how strong they are.
And who are they targeting? Afghan National Police. So they are strong enough to,
with extensive planning, the element of surprise, and having chosen the field
of battle, they are strong enough to attack a couple of dozen relatively untrained
police officers with crap equipment. And even then, they lose men in their
attacks.
That's why the insurgency continues. That's the nature of the insurgency
today. You cannot win an insurgency instantly, quickly, in a pretty way.
You can win, but it takes time.
Better to ask why the insurgency continues.
They are not the same.
We make a lot of progress, but there is little reporting
in the news of what we accomplish.
But the insurgency continues because both sides understand fighting.
When you are weak, you attack the weakest part of the enemy.
You combine all your forces and smash their smallest element.
When you are strong, you attack the enemies largest element,
you hunt it down and smash it, then move on to the next.
That's the nature of fighting an insurgency:
they attack the weakest spot we have. Right now
that mean they don't attack us, they don't attack the Afghan National
Army, they attack the Afghan National Police.
Let me emphasize this:
They are so weak they cannot fight our military, they are so weak they
cannot even fight the Afghan military. They fight the police.
And each night, we go out, and we hunt down their largest groups,
and we smash them. Each night, we come in the dark, and snatch their
leaders, their planners. These are not big leaders: there are no
big leaders any more. But when they gather in groups of more than
around twenty, we find out, and we take them down.
Why does the insurgency continue? Because there will ALWAYS be a weak place
for them to attack. If they cannot attack American forces, and they
cannot attack ISAF forces, and they cannot attack ANA forces, and they
cannot attack ANP forces, and they cannot attack ABP forces, and the
cannot attack ANCOP forces, because we are all too strong, they will
attack civilians in the night. And if they are afraid to attack civilians,
they will kill children, because children will be the only people left
weak enough for them to attack. The will continue to fight, against
whomever they have the strength to fight.
And there will always be someone for us to remove. Tonight, we raid a
group of twenty. Next year we raid groups of ten.
The year after, we take out groups of five. Till, in the end, if two
people meet and plot against us, we take them down.
Look at who the enemy targets and you will know how strong they are.
And who are they targeting? Afghan National Police. So they are strong enough to,
with extensive planning, the element of surprise, and having chosen the field
of battle, they are strong enough to attack a couple of dozen relatively untrained
police officers with crap equipment. And even then, they lose men in their
attacks.
That's why the insurgency continues. That's the nature of the insurgency
today. You cannot win an insurgency instantly, quickly, in a pretty way.
You can win, but it takes time.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Another day
Just another day.
Hours spent meaninglssly.
Doing tasks that dont need doing.
Change the font on a report.
Assemble a nice leather chair for the general.
Throw away the used office chairs, they're no good anymore.
Put the documents on the IPAD for higher.
Hows that for a commercial idea for apple:
Look, our products being used by the general!
FIGHT THE WAR ON TERROR WITH YOUR NEW IPAD!
Just like real armies do!
We have a hundred thousand soldiers here.
What do they do? Hide in their rooms, play x-box, wait for their tour to be over.
What do the citizens of our homeland do? they dont even know theres a war going on here.
We have fucking TGIFridays here, and we have fucking 107 mm rocket attacks.
Does that sound crazy to you?
What the fuck.
Look at me, I'm a hero. Flip my switch and I'll do the little hero dance for you.
March up and down, wave the flag. Lets all get teary eyed.
Who cares? Who cares?
It's just another tv show, right, just another ho-hum thing happening on the other side of the world.
Won't affect anyone _we_ know. And besides, the war is wrong, right? We don't have to
support soldiers who were in an unpopular war. We support soldiers who fight wars to
smash armies, not the ones who build countries. Building countries is boring. Blow something up!
Look how bad-ass our team is, we blow shit up!
Let me tell you a few things.
The people we fight?
They throw little kids in fires.
Then they bring them to the FOB and ask for medical help.
So they can time our choppers, and get real close and see how we do things.
They throw LITTLE KIDS IN FUCKING FIRES.
They bomb weddings.
Remember when you got married? Kisses? Cake? 20 dead? 60 wounded?
Fuck it, you wouldn't understand.
There's no news out of Afghanistan.
Think about it: we have over ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND SOLDIERS HERE.
How many times a day do you see what the streets look like here?
What the people wear? What they eat? What we do and where we go and what we wear?
What the houses look like? What the people look like? What happens here.
Let me tell you, as a soldier who wanted to show his wife what he had seen:
Even I COULD NOT FIND ANYTHING.
There is more reporting coming out about fucking polar bears than there is about AFghanistan.
What do the windows look like here? What about the doors? Whats a collot? Whats a quala? Whats
a Wadi? Whats a Dashta? Whats a DSH-K? Whats a camel spider? What does the color black mean
to a muslim? What about red? Green? White? What color did I not ask about?
That's cool. Lets bring all the soldiers home. We'll just declare victory and leave. Doesnt matter.
Doesnt mean anything at all.
No one here matters.
No one here means anything.
Anything at all.
What we do cant be Just, it cant be Good, it cant be Noble, because its not on the news.
We cant be doing the right thing, right? Cause its not on the news?
The news lies to you. The government lies to you. If we leave here, in five years we'll be in war somewhere else.
Because the enemy isnt the taliban. They're dead. Its not the insurgents, because they're amateurs.
Its other countries. Other countries that dump money and arms into this war, and not on our side.
Afghanistan is a chess board, and there are many people playing, and the locals here are just pawns.
Bah.
Another day. Tired.
Hours spent meaninglssly.
Doing tasks that dont need doing.
Change the font on a report.
Assemble a nice leather chair for the general.
Throw away the used office chairs, they're no good anymore.
Put the documents on the IPAD for higher.
Hows that for a commercial idea for apple:
Look, our products being used by the general!
FIGHT THE WAR ON TERROR WITH YOUR NEW IPAD!
Just like real armies do!
We have a hundred thousand soldiers here.
What do they do? Hide in their rooms, play x-box, wait for their tour to be over.
What do the citizens of our homeland do? they dont even know theres a war going on here.
We have fucking TGIFridays here, and we have fucking 107 mm rocket attacks.
Does that sound crazy to you?
What the fuck.
Look at me, I'm a hero. Flip my switch and I'll do the little hero dance for you.
March up and down, wave the flag. Lets all get teary eyed.
Who cares? Who cares?
It's just another tv show, right, just another ho-hum thing happening on the other side of the world.
Won't affect anyone _we_ know. And besides, the war is wrong, right? We don't have to
support soldiers who were in an unpopular war. We support soldiers who fight wars to
smash armies, not the ones who build countries. Building countries is boring. Blow something up!
Look how bad-ass our team is, we blow shit up!
Let me tell you a few things.
The people we fight?
They throw little kids in fires.
Then they bring them to the FOB and ask for medical help.
So they can time our choppers, and get real close and see how we do things.
They throw LITTLE KIDS IN FUCKING FIRES.
They bomb weddings.
Remember when you got married? Kisses? Cake? 20 dead? 60 wounded?
Fuck it, you wouldn't understand.
There's no news out of Afghanistan.
Think about it: we have over ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND SOLDIERS HERE.
How many times a day do you see what the streets look like here?
What the people wear? What they eat? What we do and where we go and what we wear?
What the houses look like? What the people look like? What happens here.
Let me tell you, as a soldier who wanted to show his wife what he had seen:
Even I COULD NOT FIND ANYTHING.
There is more reporting coming out about fucking polar bears than there is about AFghanistan.
What do the windows look like here? What about the doors? Whats a collot? Whats a quala? Whats
a Wadi? Whats a Dashta? Whats a DSH-K? Whats a camel spider? What does the color black mean
to a muslim? What about red? Green? White? What color did I not ask about?
That's cool. Lets bring all the soldiers home. We'll just declare victory and leave. Doesnt matter.
Doesnt mean anything at all.
No one here matters.
No one here means anything.
Anything at all.
What we do cant be Just, it cant be Good, it cant be Noble, because its not on the news.
We cant be doing the right thing, right? Cause its not on the news?
The news lies to you. The government lies to you. If we leave here, in five years we'll be in war somewhere else.
Because the enemy isnt the taliban. They're dead. Its not the insurgents, because they're amateurs.
Its other countries. Other countries that dump money and arms into this war, and not on our side.
Afghanistan is a chess board, and there are many people playing, and the locals here are just pawns.
Bah.
Another day. Tired.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Thanks but No Thanks America, You'll Have to Get Your Altruism Porn Somewhere Else
written by my friend Sonya:
Recently casting calls from TLC went out at Army posts that have large numbers of deployed soldiers looking for spouses who want to have surprise reunions with their soldiers taped and shown on a new reality show: Homecoming, hosted by Billy Ray Cyrus. Not surprisingly, the brain trust behind this show is the same that created Army Wives on Lifetime, which is also a vicarious drama fest for those without enough drama in their own lives.
Stories talking about the show talk about the "raw emotion" of reuniting a spouse and children with a soldier who has been deployed and how moving it will be for the American public to see. Just like Extreme Makeover Home Edition and other shows of that ilk this show promises lots of happy tears and a tidal wave of emotion for the viewers at home as they rejoice in an American family made whole once again. American altruism porn at its finest. Feeling someone else's pain and subsequent joy in satisfying one hour bites from the safety of your cozy living room on your big screen tv once a week. Getting to feel like a better person and reveling in the fact that your small but comfortable life does not require from you any deep or "raw" emotion.
Recently casting calls from TLC went out at Army posts that have large numbers of deployed soldiers looking for spouses who want to have surprise reunions with their soldiers taped and shown on a new reality show: Homecoming, hosted by Billy Ray Cyrus. Not surprisingly, the brain trust behind this show is the same that created Army Wives on Lifetime, which is also a vicarious drama fest for those without enough drama in their own lives.
Stories talking about the show talk about the "raw emotion" of reuniting a spouse and children with a soldier who has been deployed and how moving it will be for the American public to see. Just like Extreme Makeover Home Edition and other shows of that ilk this show promises lots of happy tears and a tidal wave of emotion for the viewers at home as they rejoice in an American family made whole once again. American altruism porn at its finest. Feeling someone else's pain and subsequent joy in satisfying one hour bites from the safety of your cozy living room on your big screen tv once a week. Getting to feel like a better person and reveling in the fact that your small but comfortable life does not require from you any deep or "raw" emotion.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Things I've noticed
A few Random things I've noticed.
Little things infuriate. You put so much hope, so many dreams, so much expectation out there, any small difficulty fills you with rage. Not getting mail, not being able to use the phone, a loved ones getting off the internet right before you get on. All indescribably frustrating.
And everything is much much harder. It took three weeks to upload 40 pictures to shutterfly so I could get prints made. Three weeks, just to upload. You have internet, but it's like a joke: you have to give up literally half of your waking non-sleep hours to do the simplest thing.
It's like being in a wheelchair, and having to ask other people to do everything for you. Want some dental flossers? Ask someone. Want a webcam? Don't be a grownup and go to best buy. Just hope you get one. Need your paperwork for promotion? Ask your wife for it and wait. And hope. And wait. And wait. Anything you want or need or require: just beg for it and hope someone gives it to you. It's like being a cripple.
I did a stupid quiz about what I notice first about a woman. Then I thought about it. Turns out what I notice first, what makes an indelible impression that never goes away, is her hair. Even if she changes it later, that first impression is forever. Then I notice her eyes. Nothing deep here, but things I never knew about myself that I came to realize.
I saw someone with a cat. And it came to me that I hate animals, because I form very intense bonds with very few things. So I am still bitter about every animal that died or left. Tommy, and Buttons, and Geraldine, Zenobiah, Fabious Bile. Fuzzy Head, Brooklyn. They all still hurt. Then I realized I do this with people. I form very few friendships. Every true friendship that I form remains true, years after I have not seen someone. The few broken friendships still hurt, like sharp glass swallowed, cutting inside. And the ones who left, who cut me off and never told me why, they hurt like a broken tooth your tongue cannot leave alone.
And I hate the night shift. I live on momentum, and adrenaline and work and belief. And grinding just kills
me.
And I think too much.
And it's all just a series of games, things we do to while away eternity.
Little things infuriate. You put so much hope, so many dreams, so much expectation out there, any small difficulty fills you with rage. Not getting mail, not being able to use the phone, a loved ones getting off the internet right before you get on. All indescribably frustrating.
And everything is much much harder. It took three weeks to upload 40 pictures to shutterfly so I could get prints made. Three weeks, just to upload. You have internet, but it's like a joke: you have to give up literally half of your waking non-sleep hours to do the simplest thing.
It's like being in a wheelchair, and having to ask other people to do everything for you. Want some dental flossers? Ask someone. Want a webcam? Don't be a grownup and go to best buy. Just hope you get one. Need your paperwork for promotion? Ask your wife for it and wait. And hope. And wait. And wait. Anything you want or need or require: just beg for it and hope someone gives it to you. It's like being a cripple.
I did a stupid quiz about what I notice first about a woman. Then I thought about it. Turns out what I notice first, what makes an indelible impression that never goes away, is her hair. Even if she changes it later, that first impression is forever. Then I notice her eyes. Nothing deep here, but things I never knew about myself that I came to realize.
I saw someone with a cat. And it came to me that I hate animals, because I form very intense bonds with very few things. So I am still bitter about every animal that died or left. Tommy, and Buttons, and Geraldine, Zenobiah, Fabious Bile. Fuzzy Head, Brooklyn. They all still hurt. Then I realized I do this with people. I form very few friendships. Every true friendship that I form remains true, years after I have not seen someone. The few broken friendships still hurt, like sharp glass swallowed, cutting inside. And the ones who left, who cut me off and never told me why, they hurt like a broken tooth your tongue cannot leave alone.
And I hate the night shift. I live on momentum, and adrenaline and work and belief. And grinding just kills
me.
And I think too much.
And it's all just a series of games, things we do to while away eternity.
The hammer
It's like a hammer.
Like being under a giant hammer.
The eye of god.
Judging you, weighing you.
Every day,
living with yourself.
Feeling the burdens of the lies you have told.
Carrying the lies you have told yourself.
The things you tell yourself to make it easier.
To make it easier to be you.
At some point, you realize, its just a game.
And a boring, tedious game.
The purest metal comes from the hottest forge.
And when you have been under the hammer a few times
You find yourself beaten down,
all the lies, the things we tell ourselves to make us
feel ok to be us, beaten away
And all thats left is who we really are.
Right down to the core. Everything else beaten away
And just the reality left behind.
And maybe, maybe, if you don't like what you see,
there's still time to change it.
Like being under a giant hammer.
The eye of god.
Judging you, weighing you.
Every day,
living with yourself.
Feeling the burdens of the lies you have told.
Carrying the lies you have told yourself.
The things you tell yourself to make it easier.
To make it easier to be you.
At some point, you realize, its just a game.
And a boring, tedious game.
The purest metal comes from the hottest forge.
And when you have been under the hammer a few times
You find yourself beaten down,
all the lies, the things we tell ourselves to make us
feel ok to be us, beaten away
And all thats left is who we really are.
Right down to the core. Everything else beaten away
And just the reality left behind.
And maybe, maybe, if you don't like what you see,
there's still time to change it.
Monday, January 3, 2011
January 3rd, 2011
how do you die in afghanistan?
first you think to yourself:
"I only have a couple of months to go,
then I can go home. I just have to survive."
Then, when you go out,
you look past the IED, because you
dont want to see it, because you dont want
it to be real
you just want it to be a quiet easy day that
goes by quickly
so when you see it,
you look past it
your eyes aren't drawn to it, they look
away, because its not what you want to see.
because you see what you want to see, not
what is real.
Then you die.
Because what is real is what is real
whether you want it to be true or not.
in the land of milk and IEDs.
every day is your last day. tomorrow you
will wake up in the hospital, surrounded
by nurses. this is your last mission. your
last patrol. you only have to pay attention
for a couple more hours, because this is the
one, not a hundred more, just this one
this is the only one that matters, because this
is the patrol with the IED this is the patrol
with the ambush, this is the patrol where they get
you.
that's how you live in AFghanistan.
every patrol is your last. every patrol is the only
one that matters, because this patrol is the one.
there is no "leave" no "vacation" there is no going home at the end
of the tour. There is no home, no end. This is it.
This patrol.
This is all there is.
first you think to yourself:
"I only have a couple of months to go,
then I can go home. I just have to survive."
Then, when you go out,
you look past the IED, because you
dont want to see it, because you dont want
it to be real
you just want it to be a quiet easy day that
goes by quickly
so when you see it,
you look past it
your eyes aren't drawn to it, they look
away, because its not what you want to see.
because you see what you want to see, not
what is real.
Then you die.
Because what is real is what is real
whether you want it to be true or not.
in the land of milk and IEDs.
every day is your last day. tomorrow you
will wake up in the hospital, surrounded
by nurses. this is your last mission. your
last patrol. you only have to pay attention
for a couple more hours, because this is the
one, not a hundred more, just this one
this is the only one that matters, because this
is the patrol with the IED this is the patrol
with the ambush, this is the patrol where they get
you.
that's how you live in AFghanistan.
every patrol is your last. every patrol is the only
one that matters, because this patrol is the one.
there is no "leave" no "vacation" there is no going home at the end
of the tour. There is no home, no end. This is it.
This patrol.
This is all there is.
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