I Gotta Try

Still in somewhat transit, though at my final destination for the next few months, I finally had a chance to catch up on some of the news from back home. My sister-in-law had pointed out a certain story that has been floating around, and in fact gone 'viral' as they say on the internet. It was the incident in which the older lady on the school bus was being berated by kids.

We are shocked, for some strange reason, at the vulgarity and direct display of disrespect from the youth of America to this elderly woman. Of course society will blame the media and reality TV shows, hip-hop and Eminem. The media, will blame other media and of course probably race or social differences in the poor and rich. It will be a disgusting mixture of pointed fingers and misappropriated blame.

The hard truth to all of this, is that it isn't the fault of what's on TV. It's not the fault of social classes. This time should not be the normal American way of things, to find and place blame on other things. Find a scapegoat for the problem and then attack it for all it's worth, or until we are disgusted or interested in the next best thing. The problem is greater and more influenced by more problems than we can even comprehend. Of course, the obvious problem here is the youth of our nation. The truth of that matter is not only in parenting and lawyers and the ability to place blame on everywhere but where it needs to be; on each and everyone of us. Personal responsibility for one's actions, words and existence has all but been lost in our society.

We as a society can obviously point our finger at the parents of these kids. And shake our fingers and change our tone and light our torches, and call for justice. Of course, any good lawyer, as well all pretend to be in this country can simply place the bad parenting blame on plenty of other society factors; video games, Lil' Wayne, food stamps, Ritalin. The excuses pour out of every crack in sanity. We eat it up like dinner after no lunch. We are a product of our own compassion. We are have sympathy and compassion for this woman, who certainly is deserving, and then we will be just as compassionate to victimize the perpetrators and the reasons why they are the way they are. The cycle is never ending, and sickening.

So how do we change our society? It starts with you, and I. We have to be willing to take responsibility into our own hands. We have to be able to punish the guilty. We have to be willing to step out of our comfort zones. How many times have you seen someone doing something wrong, and simply turn the other cheek, walk the other way, and go about your day? How many times have you seen a kid walking through the grocery store being a complete brat, his mother too busy or ignorant to deal with him. We say nothing, do nothing. We're too afraid to get sued. Too burden our day, with something that we consider, not our problem.

We are too afraid that what we will say will be seen as tyranny or oppression in our free world. Lest we forget, your rights end as soon as they infringe upon other's rights.

The good news from the story, is that the social media, something I somewhat consider a contributor to the laziness and downfall of our country allowed for the good people to at least raise a pen, sign a check and contribute in the best way we Americans know how to help; from a distance.

They say it's a hopeless fight, but I say...


It is incumbent on every generation to pay its own debts as it goes- President Thomas Jefferson

Why We Fight

The Speech

If you haven't listened to the link posted up ahead, you're not doing yourself any favors. The Speech as I have labeled it is something that spins my head around every time I hear it. It's certainly something that seemingly could change every bone in your body to the opposite spectrum of what you may consider reality.

This day, the day of days, is one that I will remember for the rest of my life. It's a seemingly normal day, with a bright sun, and a cool breeze. No more or less ordinary than any other day. Yet, as I sit here, the wheel of life is being turned by the hamster of destiny. I listen to the speech, over and over again until my lips sync it without hesitation. I was barely alive when the words said rang out, and yet they still are ringing true today. 

Before we left to arrive in this country, our last holding place before getting into the alien space ship looking airplane we rode in, there was a beautifully painted mural. It wasn't breath-taking or astonishing by any work of the imagination, but it was American, and something I too almost looked over. It was a picture of the New York skyline, pre September 11th, along with some other FDNY helmets and other very normal things to be seen in a 9/11 mural. After a slight glance, I thought that I had realized all of what the mural was, and certainly knew what it was about.

We continued, in the terminal, to watch the movie that was being projected onto the wall, until it was our time to leave. I stayed behind the majority of the group, ensuring that everyone was where they were supposed to be, and we had everything. As the line formed towards the door, I marauded in the back. I took more note of the mural as I stood waiting. Suddenly it struck me, there was a roped off area just in front of the mural that I had overlooked. It's humble, yet powerful presence struck me in every way. In an instant, all my trepidations, my worries, my fears were answered with a simple piece of metal. I was taken back by the reddish metal sitting on a wooden stand, with an inscribed plate labeling it's worth. 

From Tower II of the WTC. 

The bolts into the metal that sat before me, the reasoning for all that we have done for the past year sat there in front of me. I reached out, touching it gingerly and instantly having my breath taken away. It's not the first time I've touched a piece of the Towers, but never so close to ensuring that we won't have to have murals and monuments to such catastrophes. At Fort Bragg, there is a large piece, far bigger than the one at Manas AFB. I run to it on occasion, stand in it's twisted and deformed shadow, and remember what it is I've chosen to do this. No matter how frustrating, how painful this job could be, it's so that there isn't a piece of metal with the souls of thousands cast upon it to touch. 

It consumed me, and in the moment of contact and the precious one's to follow, I could've cried. 

...you and I, have a rendezvous with destiny.

Welcome My Son, To The Machine

The scenery is somewhat familiar to one's I remember years ago. White and green and tan tents thrown up and placed like a sand castle constructed by a toddler. Rigid, yet verging on failure in the wind. The gravel is flat in the high traffic areas, melted into the sand with the soles of boots, sandle's, feet and the heat. Concrete barriers, different sizes and shapes, but all the same. Walls not to be permanent, made so by time. Everything worn in together for a perfect fit.

It doesn't feel foreign, but I've spent a year with it before. To a new comer, and American, it's a foreign planet, an unknown way to live. It's grunge, it's dirty, it's desert life at it's most Roman style. Assimilation.

The lingo, you learn from day one changes. You're bathroom, a latrine, your mouth a cock-holster, your underwear, non-existant. Then, in an instant, you're not that shaved head pip squeak that wouldn't listen to mother, you're a boy in a man's world, the immaturity, the touch of immortality fits the warfighter you've become well, and in the waiting for it now, you think, Gyllenhaal narrated it so well, got it so right that you're astonished by the honesty that only Hollywood could bring you. To paraphrase; Clean rifle, masturbation, discuss religious differences, further masturbation.

This time for me is a little different, but it all feels the same. You're cocky because you're trained to be. You haven't fully let go of all of your childhood, couldn't happen to me innocence, even though you prepare yourself for the worse, you're still hoping and expecting the best. It's not just me anymore, there are men below me, charged to me. Their safety, their ability, there safety, there danger, their safety, their danger. I will imagine it's like most things with combat. You don't feel the change, don't see the change in yourself until you're home. Until you're free and away from it all. There's no PTSD while you're in country, and those who claim it, never have been outside the wire.

You talk through your experiences, hoping that the recollection you have of them will be enough to pass on at least one thing that could help the new guys, the fresh boys, the FNG's to key in on something that could save their lives. They play video games, and grab ass. Clean weapons and masturbate. Eat chow, sleep, workout, trade pictures of girls who sent them nude pictures. Their lives, in the near future, in an instant; will change. Their lives, my life, it's already changed. We're just to ignorant to realize it, to realize the depth of change that we have already made.

The mountains here, reminiscent of those in Palm Springs, or Vasquez Rocks, or a little of both. The snow caps still sitting, but obviously melting. The heat, not hot. They tower around in seemingly all directions. Starkly complex, and strangely beautiful and mystic. They're real places, and Mordor. It's not T-walls and metal containers. It's harsh and surreal. It's new. It's different. It's eerie and somewhat sinister.


... have a cigar, you're gonna go far...