Friday, May 24, 2013

Food for Thought on National BBQ Day

Last year was the first time Memorial Day really affected me. 

I’m ashamed to admit that. 2012 wasn’t my first year with military association—my mother served in the Army and deployed to Saudi Arabia when I was seven. It wasn’t my first year as a veteran myself, or my first year with a connection to a military comrade killed in action.

Memorial Day 2012 was, however, the first time I gave the holiday the consideration it deserves.


Previously, I’d bounced between opposite ends of the spectrum of observance. Before I served in the military, I flitted past the final Monday of May without much thought. There are so many distractions in civilian America: work, family, friends, school, health, groceries, cleaning, sports, hobbies, politics . . . With holiday weekends come travel, traffic, sun (or complaints about rain), relaxation, barbeques and beer . . . It’s easy to overlook the meaning of the holiday; or to simply acknowledge, but not honor the purpose.

In the military, it’s impossible to forget. Reminders are everywhere, every day of every year.

My base in Afghanistan had a memorial wall with portraits of each of the 17 fallen comrades of Paktya province. I stared at those photos daily; proud faces of young men who had died in the space where I lived and worked. My base in Florida had names chiseled into a memorial outside the base chapel. There were plaques in the airpark commemorating those lost in aircraft crashes. Streets shared names with fallen Airmen. I attended memorial services; I wrote profiles on their subjects. Every day was Memorial Day.

I don’t remember how I spent Memorial Day 2011, my first year out of the military. Maybe I was stuck in limbo on that spectrum—at once too separated from the military, cozy with my family in my childhood home in Seattle; and too close, my war still fresh and raw and unprocessed.  

As Memorial Day approached last year, my mind went back to the faces in Paktya and the names at Hurlburt Field. It lingered for a long time with memories of Randy Voas, Ryan Hall and JD Loftis. I didn’t tell my mind to go there, but I didn’t try to redirect it either. I let those names and faces and memories form a backdrop to my time with family, to my sun and relaxation, food and drink. I toasted them. Then for one minute on Memorial Day, at 12:01pm Eastern Standard Time, I closed my eyes and cleared my head of everything but the names and faces I knew, and the countless others I didn’t, who made the ultimate sacrifice.

On some level, those names and faces are always with me now. They are part of who I am as a veteran. I can already feel them pushing a little harder as Memorial Day weekend approaches, and like last year, I won’t push back. I will again bring them to the forefront for a minute of silence this Memorial Day, and I hope you will do the same.

12:01pm EDT Monday: #GoSilent for one minute to honor the men and women who have given their lives for our country.

Then enjoy your weekend. That’s what they would want.




Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Another tragedy, and all I can do is write


I live in the Fenway area, about a mile and a half from the Boston Marathon finish line. I was safe at home yesterday when the bombs went off. I heard sirens, but with a major hospital complex right down the street, I thought nothing of it.

Then my phone lit up with inquiries from family and friends. Then my boyfriend turned on the TV and hollered at me to call my friend who lives downtown. Then I saw the first shaky video clips.

My initial reaction was horror. How could it be anything else? I joined the frantic texting/social media frenzy to account for my friends. I prayed. The news was a loop of fragmented, terrible details. Two dead. Twenty-two injured. Then 50. Then 75. One hundred.

Other thoughts filtered in. I hope the attacker isn’t a veteran; I hope it’s not a new poster boy (or girl) for PTSD.

I hope it’s not an extremist who reinforces hateful stereotypes.

I hope the bastard is brought to justice.

I thought I was done with war zones.

As a bystander in a situation like this, I think in some ways it’s easier to be a veteran. Not easy, by any means, not un-affecting—especially for those whose trauma symptoms are triggered. But, unfortunately, it’s something we’re familiar with. We’ve been involved in attacks, whether directly or on the fringes. We’ve been through planning and exercises.

We’ve carried that burden, taken that risk, in hopes that others won’t have to; that this will be a safe place to return home; that citizens will not have to live in fear; that children can watch their parents run 26.2 miles on a beautiful spring day.

I thought of the marathon I ran in Houston in 2009—masochistically wonderful and peaceful and inspiring. I thought of watching my sister run Coeur d'Alene last year, my two-year-old niece jogging along on the sidelines. I thought of the fear in the eyes of the Afghan children I met; a necessary, deep-seeded complex no child should have to endure.

Yesterday, more than fear I felt completely helpless. I wasn’t downtown to help and couldn’t get there if I tried. Because I’ve “lived” in an area with a prevalence of certain diseases, I can’t even donate blood.

So I ate a bunch of junk food. I hugged my boyfriend and snuggled with my cat. I watched something funny on TV.

And I wondered if I had been there, what would I have done? When my fight or flight reflexes kicked in, which would win? I don’t blame those who ran away—self-preservation is a logical and natural human reaction, and probably saved lives yesterday, not to mention alleviated mass confusion. But as a veteran, as someone with training and experience, would I join them?

Or would I be one of the hundreds who ran toward the scene? Would I help clear debris and carry victims to safety? Would I use my combat lifesaver training to render emergency first aid? Would I offer soothing words and a hand to hold?

I hope if I were there I would stay.

I hope I never have to find out.


RIP to those who lost their lives in this senseless attack. May victims and family members find comfort and healing—physically and emotionally.

Thanks to the first responders, medical and security personnel, K-9 units, blood donors, and those around the city and across the nation who’ve offered thoughts and prayers of support. You have shown that tragedies like this unify us and make us stronger.

May we hold onto unity and love long after the wounds begin to heal. 

Friday, March 29, 2013

On top of the world...literally

Wow have I been slacking on the blog front. It's a good thing I have some super cool military friends who are doing super cool things that I can brag about in lieu of my own super coolness. 

Rob Marshall's super coolness was obvious the first time I met him: He was from Washington State, contagiously enthusiastic, drove an alternative fuel-powered vehicle, and was in the process of climbing the highest mountain on every continent to raise money for the families of Special Operations Airmen killed in action. 

It was this final point that led me to Rob. In 2009, I wrote a feature article on the U.S. Air Force 7 Summits Challenge. I was impressed not only by the effort itself--which, if successful, will be the first time a U.S. military team has accomplished the ultimate mountaineering feat--but also by Rob and his team's sheer commitment and determination. They used their own money to fund the climbs, and burned through personal vacation time. They planned, trained, and executed around two, three or more deployments-a-year schedules. Here I was, struggling to find the time and energy to make something other than frozen pizza for dinner. 

At the time Rob and his team had two peaks left to climb: Vinson Massif in Antarctica, and the crown jewel of mountaineering . . . Everest. A year later, I chronicled their preparations for the Antarctic climb, which they successfully completed just as I was leaving the Air Force. 
Rob and Graydon Muller at the summit of Vinson Massif
(USAF7Summits.com)
Rob and I have kept in touch, and a few days ago I got the news that IT'S ON. Everest or bust! As I write this,12 Airmen, including three wounded warriors, are en route to the highest mountain in the world to see a 12-year dream to completion.

I encourage you to read Rob's message below, explore the USAF 7 Summits website, follow their progress, offer support through thoughts and prayers, and, if you feel so inclined, through a donation to their very worthy cause. 

Be inspired. Be amazed.

In Rob's words:  

I'm about to depart on a huge journey.  On Thursday, March 28th, I'm flying to Nepal to lead a team of Air Force members to Mt. Everest.  Six of us will go for the summit, and six other Airmen will turn around upon reaching Everest Base Camp.  Three of these folks are wounded warriors who I invited to join us in hopes that it aids them in their emotional and physical recoveries.  No team of US military members has ever attempted to climb Mt. Everest.  If successful, not only will we be the first team of American military members to reach the summit, but we will also be the first military team from any nation to successfully climb the '7 Summits'- the highest peak on each of the seven continents.

I'm sure to most of you this isn't breaking news!  I created this climbing challenge back in 2005 with my best friend Mark Uberuaga when we were stationed with the Air Force in England.  Since then, I've been traveling the world, climbing mountains in an effort to raise esprit d' corps among Airmen, generate positive media stories, promote physical and mental health, and to honor my friends who have died since the Sept 11, 2001 attacks.  We've also been raising awareness of a great charity that pays for all the college costs for children who lose a parent serving in US Special Operations, as well as a charity that serves the men and women of Air Force Combat Rescue- the folks tasked with saving lives in the worst of conditions.  Over the last eight years, we've raised over $70,000 for the Special Operations Warrior Foundation and That Others May Live Foundation.

Suicides in the military keep going up, so I'm really hoping we can strike a chord with the Air Force and other branches when it comes to the link between physical exertion and mental health.  I've been through my lows, especially when working from an isolated area or after the loss of a friend, but I found that the best medicine for me was to get outside, get my body working, and to start sweating.  There is also something healing about forests, mountains, rivers, and oceans.  It's my hope that I can help find a way to safely get military members suffering from depression, PTSD or a similar personal issue into the outdoors and give them the opportunity to sweat, get their heart rates up, and to renew their confidence and self esteem.  Perhaps after Everest I'll get that chance!

Many of you have generously supported me and these charities throughout these climbs.  Well, this is the last of the seven!  I'm sure I'll keep climbing, but as far as our project goes, this big one is also the final one.  So I'm writing to ask for your support for this last mountain.  If you are interested in making a donation, it's real easy this time.  You can visit our website.  It's possible to donate through Amazon or Paypal on our site. 50% of your donation will go directly to the Special Operations Warrior Foundation, which is a 501(c)3.  The other 50% will go to the USAF 7 Summits Challenge, a 501(c)19 'War Veterans Organization', and be used to pay for climbing gear, permits, and logistics.  So your donation is tax deductible in accordance with IRS regulations.  However, if you want to adjust the percentages, just let me know and we'll make it happen! 

I'm happy to say that we're going to be doing daily updates throughout the expedition.  Our website has been revamped thanks to the donation of a local Amarillo web development firm, so it's looking real nice!  Visit our blog, where you will be able to follow us up the mountain and hopefully see photos every day or so.  Our wounded warriors and climbers will be writing about the journey, likely in personal ways, so I think you'll find the reading quite entertaining.

My brain is pretty tired- it's soon to be 1:40am here and I've spent the day packing dozens of medications, first aid kit supplies, climbing gear, and clothes, so I better wrap this up!  Lots more packing to do tomorrow after work.  I'm smiling, thinking about what the next 70 days are going to hold for me.  My heart is happy, as I've wanted to return to Everest ever since I stood at its base in 2001.  I had no intention of climbing it, but when I visited it on a cloudy, deserted day in June, I had the strangest feeling that I needed to return.  But it needed to be for something bigger than just me.  Well, it took 12 years, but here I am, on my way back to the mountain, and it's for a cause bigger than I could have ever imagined way back then.  It is going to be an epic adventure and I thank all of you for supporting me with your friendship, love and wisdom throughout all these years.

Feel free to pass this on to anyone you think might be interested in following our progress on Everest.  Oh, and I am planning on setting a world record for pushups on the summit of Everest.  I've done pushups on every mountain I've climbed since I went to the Air Force Academy in '97.  Some people egg me on by pledging donations to the Special Operations Warrior Foundation for every pushup I do in one minute.  If you'd like to do that, just send me an email with your pledge.  That way I'll have a little more motivation to knock out a few extra!  I'm aiming for 40 pushups in a minute, but it could be more, and it could certainly be less!

Good luck to Rob and the 7 Summits Team!
USAF7summits.com

Thursday, February 14, 2013

A Love Story

This is a bit of a departure from my usual blog content, but bear with me, it is military related. It’s a story of the loneliness and isolation that can accompany military life, and the adaptability necessary for (or bread from) military transience. It’s a story of comfort and compassion. It’s a story of a cat. And in honor of Valentine’s Day, it is, above all else, a love story.

(WARNING: The following may be sentimental or even downright mushy. But that’s okay, because it’s Valentine’s Day).

I got Annabelle in April 2007. Six months earlier I had moved across the country—literally as far as one can move in the continental U.S., from Seattle to Florida—to begin my Air Force career. I’d left home before, but it was a temporary arrangement, to a series of college dorms. This was my first time really truly on my own.

I dove into my new job, moved into my first grownup apartment, and adjusted way too easily to the Gulf Coast bar scene. But socially, I struggled. Everyone I knew was two time zones away. In an environment where relationships are rank-dependent, I was one of two young officers in my office and the only unmarried one. Without the social Velcro of a classroom or work setting, I was clueless on how to make friends.

So I did what any single, lonely girl would do: I adopted three cats.

Okay, that’s not really how it played out. I’d grown up with cats, loved them dearly, and planned to get one of my own once I was settled in in Florida. But fate had other plans. The day I called my apartment manager to ask about a pet deposit, he found a beautiful long-haired black cat and her four newborn kittens on his property. A few weeks later, when the kittens were weaned, I carried mama and two babies across the courtyard to my apartment. Annabelle, Gracie and Milo Johnson. We were a happy little family.

First family photo!
Eventually I did make friends (among whom I was the center of many good-natured Cat Lady jokes, which I thought afforded me a level of social prestige—I’d always wanted a cool nickname!). But we were all busy with stressful jobs and steep learning curves, and as with all nascent adult friendships, my connections lacked the shared history to make me comfortable enough to really open up. To cry. To scream. To cry and scream while eating ice cream for dinner in front of Sex the City reruns. To wonder what the heck I was doing with my life and why did I keep screwing up and when would I get a boyfriend already.

My cats didn’t say much, but they were good listeners. Especially Annabelle. While Milo and Gracie entertained me with their spastic kittenly antics, Annabelle comforted me. She was my lap cat. She greeted me at the door as soon as I got home. She slept on my bed every night. If I had visitors, Milo and Gracie hid. Annabelle went to the first available lap.

In my frequent absences, they liked to hang out on
"off limits" surfaces like the kitchen table
Military life can obviously be hard on people: the long and unpredictable hours, frequent moves, TDYs and deployments. We don’t often think of the toll these things must take on military pets. Less than two months after I got my cats, I was sent out of state for a six-week training session. The cats stayed with a gracious colleague (thanks Amy!).

During other, shorter trips, a series of friends rotated through cat care duty.

For base exercises, emergencies and special events, I volunteered for night and weekend shifts because I didn’t have a family at home.

When it came time to deploy, I moved out of my house and left my cats in the care of my parents . . . on the other side of the country. My parents flew to Florida to help me pack, then flew a terrified, yowling Milo and a silent, cowering Gracie back to Seattle as carryons. The airline had a two pet per flight rule, so Annabelle made the trip alone in cargo. (Her mellow demeanor made her the obvious choice—proof that no good goes unpunished).

My nine months in Afghanistan probably would have been much more pleasant with a cat. As it was, I settled for a stuffed one. My sister had given it to me before I adopted my real cats, and it just happened to look like Annabelle. The likeness slept with me on my hard Afghanistan mattress.

Back in Seattle, my mom worried about me like mothers do, and pampered my cats, fattening them up like grandmothers do. She adored them all, but said Annabelle gave her the most comfort. Annabelle sat in her lap, greeted her at the door, slept on her bed.

When I returned from my deployment, “home” was a fuzzy notion. In Florida, most of my friends had moved to other bases or were themselves deployed. My belongings were still in storage, my cats still in Seattle. I had eight months left in my military commitment, the definition of transient. Not wanting to sign a year-long lease, I bounced from spare bedroom to corporate apartment to housesitting; I took odd jobs and short term assignments at work so as not to upset the balance of operations without me.

A few months after my homecoming, my grandfather passed away after his own war: with cancer. I made it to Seattle to say goodbye and attend the memorial service. When I left I authorized the loan of “The Therapy Cat” to keep Grandma company. Annabelle took a trip to Tacoma, breaking in a new lap and getting hopelessly addicted to cat treats.

I completed my Air Force commitment just before Christmas and moved back to Seattle. I was luckier than most recently separated veterans: I had time to decompress before jumping into the next chapter of my life, and a safe, supportive place to heal. I kept to myself much of the time, holed up in my room writing about war, reading about war, thinking about war. Annabelle kept an eye on me from my childhood bed.

The following fall, I moved across the country again—not quite as far, just to Boston this time. I was excited for graduate school but hated the thought of starting over again, friendless and catless.

The transition wasn’t as difficult as I’d feared. Maybe because I’d done it before. Maybe because I found myself in classrooms with wonderfully welcoming and supportive peers. Maybe because I had a plan to bring my cats along as soon as possible. Probably because Boston has a lot of really good beer.

Whatever the reason, by the end of my first year, I was feeling happy and almost whole again. Almost. Taking advantage of the glory that is student vacation time, I flew to Seattle for a few weeks, then returned, cats in tow. Again hampered by the two pet per flight rule, and again trusting Annabelle to best handle the stress of separation, Milo and Gracie came first.

The cats brought a sense of life, comfort and coziness that had been missing from my condo. (It sounds so cheesy, but anyone who’s ever had a pet can understand). They’re just so stinking adorable and endearing.

I felt bad separating Annabelle and her babies.






They were family; they groomed each other and cuddled up together, legs and fur entwined so that it was hard to tell which cat ended where. 





I missed her too, of course. And I didn’t know it yet, but I needed her in Seattle. 

She was waiting for me when I flew home unexpectedly last fall, devastated with a broken heart. Once more, I holed up in my old room. Once more, she watched over me.

Finally, a month ago, we were all reunited. Annabelle tolerated the cross-country flight better than I did, and within 48 hours claimed her territory sprawled out on her back in the middle of the condo hallway.

On her first night, she peed in the bathtub. Like directly over the drain. Whether or not you’re a cat person, that’s impressive!

It took a few days, but Milo and Gracie decided they were glad to have Annabelle back too. The Johnson family was whole again.

Then last week, Annabelle died.

The vet said it was probably a heart condition, a common cause of sudden death in cats. But I like to think of her as a fuzzy black four-legged guardian angel. She came to me when I needed her and helped me through some of the most difficult times in my life—and did the same for my mom and grandma. She saw all of us over the holidays, checking in in turn, making sure we were okay. In Boston, she could tell I was okay; happy, healing, settled, in good hands. And she saw that her babies were okay.

Then she decided she could go. 




RIP to a remarkable cat

Gracie and Milo only snuggled when Annabelle was there
(she clearly brought out the best in everyone)
Evidence that my dad once let her sit on his lap!
(anyone who knows my dad knows what a phenomenon that is!)
She didn't mind my three-year-old nieces
As a parting gift, she gave my boyfriend a soul . . .
never before had he cried at the death of a pet



Tuesday, January 8, 2013

Good Samaritanism


Summer 2010:

It was a dark and stormy night . . . Actually, I think it was warm and clear. But it was dark and stormy inside my head. I had finished a long day of work, in a series of many long days, and was en route back to my new condo. Which wasn't really my condo; I was house-sitting for a friend who was deployed. Before that I’d been in a short-term corporate apartment, before that I’d spent a few weeks in a friend’s spare bedroom, and before that I’d been in Afghanistan. All my belongings were still in storage.

I had recently started seeing a social worker at my Air Force base’s Behavioral Health Clinic for the depression and anxiety that had been nagging me since my deployment. At work, I was good at pretending I was okay (hence the long days, time is always a good substitute for motivation), but not far below the surface, I was stressed, tired, and unsettled, teetering on the verge of falling apart.

And, as I drove “home,” I was hungry.

I wasn't in the habit of stopping at restaurants in my uniform. I was always anxious to leave base and put on “normal” clothes (ie. pajamas), to de-militarize as quickly as possible. But that night, I needed some comfort food and couldn't fathom the energy to scrounge up dinner from the meager contents of my borrowed kitchen.

The green glow of the Olive Garden sign beckoned me from the side of Highway 98. I placed a To-Go order for something creamy and smothered in cheese and slumped onto a bench in the waiting area. All around me, people were laughing and chatting excitedly. Just listening to them made me tired.

When the hostess brought out my order, I had my credit card ready. She shook her head and smiled warmly. “It’s already been paid for. The gentlemen thanks you for your service.”

Shocked, I mumbled a “thank you,” took my food and returned to my car, where I immediately burst into tears—not because I was tired or stressed or frustrated or missing my cats that were still in Seattle with my parents, but because I was appreciated.

January 2013:

As we begin this new year, a lot of people seem to be looking for a fresh start. For many, the last few years have been soured by a tough economy, political bickering and countless other personal and financial problems. Whatever you’re dealing with in 2013, I wish you strength and perseverance.

And I issue you a challenge: Sometime this year, take a moment to step outside your own crazy, busy, frazzled life to make someone else’s day. Buy coffee for the customer behind you at the Starbucks drive through. Carry groceries for the older woman in your building. Thank those soldiers at the airport, the cops directing traffic at your 5K, the firemen on break outside their station.

The Olive Garden Good Samaritan didn't know I’d had a rough couple months. Maybe I wouldn't have been as touched by his gesture if I’d been in better spirits. If he’d gone on with his meal and not given me a second glance, he’d have an extra $15 in his pocket, and I’d probably be just fine.

I don’t know the story of the soldier sitting by himself at the Conn. Red Robin last month. I don’t know what his job is in the Army. I don’t know if he’s deployed once, multiple times, or not at all. I don’t know if he saw me slip the waitress my credit card to cover his check. I don’t know if it made him smile.

I just know, for me, it felt good on both sides.

**Photo from the Flickr Creative Commons: “Buying dinner with Change” by Flickr user “Juli Crockett” (Licensed by CC 3.0)

Thursday, December 20, 2012

If the world ends, at least I'll have been in a book


A while back I wrote a poem. Or, I wrote something that maybe kinda sorta a little bit resembled a poem. (Hey, I write nonfiction. The extent of my poetic knowledge is Where the Sidewalk Ends. But sometimes content just begs to written in a different way.) On a whim, I submitted my poem-ish thing for publication in an anthology of veteran writing. And to my surprise, it was accepted!
Look! My name's in print!
Just before Veterans Day, my poem, as well as a short essay, were published along with the work of 60 other veterans in Proud to Be: Writing by American Warriors. I may be slightly biased, but it's a pretty amazing collection, featuring writing from both veterans and their families, spanning from World War I to Iraq and Afghanistan, covering the experiences of medics to infantrymen to staff officers.

I'm still reading through the pieces—I have to take war literature in small doses—but every essay, story and poem hits me in a deep, intimate way. Regardless of the era or the battlefield, there's a thread through each; a raw, emotional something I can relate to. It's once again a testament to the veteran connection. And to the power of art to bring people together. 

It's easy to feel isolated by your unique experiences; we need reminders like this to show that we're not so alone, after all.

Veterans and non-veterans alike, I encourage you to check out Proud to Be. It's available from the Southeast Missouri State University PressBarnes & Noble, or Amazon.

Since the rights revert back to me (and since I'm a shameless self-promoter), here's a sample of the content, my first published poem:

          The Soldier’s Two-Step
Barely five feet tall, she does not hunch under sixty pounds of body armor and supplies.The girls in rags run up to her, tell her she is strong. “No,” she says, “You are strong.” And she is right. And so are they.
She cries into a pink pillowcase she brought from home. For a son’s broken heart, a daughter’s birthday, an anniversary, missed. Dancing between two worlds; her partner the cold barrel of a gun, music the hollow tones of war and hollow, cheerful voices on the phone. This is the melody of loneliness.
The women ask why. Why the risk, the sacrifice? Why do you care? “All mothers are the same,” she tells them, “It doesn’t matter what language you cry in.”
The men don’t ask, they demand: more buildings, more money, more time. She carries the promise on her small shoulders; sharp-edged expectations of two countries. This is the burden of hope.
 In her absence, the broken heart mended, birthdays and anniversaries were celebrated. She is haunted by all that she missed and all that she left, unfinished, behind. The little girls’ faces in her little girl, the purse where armor should be.
From boots to high heels, from gun to spatula, from Humvee to minivan, she keeps dancing. Because they need her to. And because she is strong.

To celebrate the launch of the anthology, several contributors read their pieces for a packed house at a poetry center in St. Louis. Watch a video compilation of the event:


Check out these news stories, reviews and posts by contributors:
The Missouri Humanities Council publication announcement
review that quotes my poem! Legit!
Thoughts from the fiction contest winner Monty Joynes--who wrote his winning story, chronicling a medic's first days in Vietnam, 34 years ago!
Reflections on the anthology and launch by contributor Jan Morrill, who wrote about her uncle's World War II service

Proud to Be is the first issue of an ongoing anthology series. Submissions are now being accepted for Volume 2 in poetry, fiction, nonfiction, photography, and interviews with warriors. All military personnel, veterans and military family members are eligible. Send in your work now!

Proud to Be is published in partnership by The Missouri Humanities Council, Warriors Arts Alliance and Southeast Missouri State University Press.

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Of Ballots and Bullets: An ode to voting in America

I know it’s been a while since my last post, but did you really think I’d miss out on the opportunity to be snarky and inflammatory during election season? Fear not, my friends.

Perhaps this post would have been more fitting prior to Election Day, but I guess I was too distracted by the bombardment of political advertisements whenever I walked/drove/watched TV/listened to the radio/went online that for a while I was really struggling to view myself as an intelligent, free-thinking human being capable of making my own informed decisions, let alone writing about them.

Civic duty swag!
Anyway, all sarcasm aside (for now), in the wake of the election, I feel the need to draw some comparisons. This year was my first time ever voting at a polling station. As a college student attending school out of state, then as a military member stationed across the country, I’ve always voted by absentee ballot. My conclusion: it was easy. I ignored the campaign ads and celebrity endorsements (as much as possible), watched debates, did research online, walked half mile to the polling station, checked some boxes, got a sticker, then went home and watched Quantum of Solace until the news had actual legitimate grounds for announcing some results.

I was in Afghanistan for the 2009 Presidential and Parliamentary elections. It was only the country’s second “democratic election,” and the first election that was supposed to be completely Afghan-led. In Paktya province, my unit and the units we were stationed with played a “supporting” role—helping spread information on the election process and candidates and countering insurgent anti-election propaganda through our "radio in a box" systems, the only thing close to mass media in Afghanistan; assisting with training and mission planning for the Afghan security forces; providing reconnaissance and back-up security at the polling sites for several days after they’d been set up, during the election, and post-election while the ballots were counted and transferred to regional, then national sites; coordinating supplies, like tens of thousands of water bottles, for the security personnel at the sites.

Roughly 80% of the local population was illiterate. There were 140 presidential and parliamentary candidates. On the ballot, each was designated with a set of symbols, which had to be explained by representatives from the election committee, who traveled (or attempted to, or didn’t attempt to because they were threatened by insurgents) to outlying areas of the province on educational missions.

For weeks leading up to the election, insurgents passed out night letters—threatening messages left in homes or villages in the middle of the night warning people against voting—and broadcasted propaganda and threats on mobile radio stations that always disappeared before we could track their locations. Threats ranged from chopping off voter’s fingers, which were dyed blue after votes were cast, to chopping off heads.

In Paktya's capital of Gardez, the Taliban claimed responsibility for a coordinated suicide bombing attack on government buildings that left five people dead, calling it an attempt to disrupt the elections.

On Election Day, the government ordered a media blackout in an attempt to prevent news of violence from dissuading potential voters. I sat in our operations center biting my nails. We had teams standing by for Quick Reaction Force convoys, ready to leave at a moment’s notice to defend against an attack or provide medical support. The screens at the front of the room scrolled through threats picked up by military intelligence, and showed grainy surveillance footage of local villages. I kept waiting to see a building explode. I kept waiting to hear the whistle of incoming mortars or gunfire. I kept waiting for Hell to break loose.

It never did. We fared better than we feared. But still, there were more than 50 attacks throughout the province.

And violence was the problem we were planning for, but it wasn’t the only problem. Afghan law requires 27% of parliamentary positions to be held by females. But in conservative areas like Paktya, many women couldn’t vote without being escorted by a male relative. Not surprisingly, female voters were sorely underrepresented.

Post-election, there were widespread allocations of voter fraud, ballot stuffing and intimidation. In some of Paktya’s villages, the number of votes cast dramatically exceeded the number of citizens. The legitimacy of the election was questioned, and a runoff election was scheduled between President Karzai and his main opponent Abdullah Abdullah.

A month later, we would have to do the whole thing again.

Conveniently, in the way government operations are often convenient, the end of the election coincided almost exactly with the beginning of Ramadan. In order to observe this tradition, many of the Afghan security personnel abandoned their posts. The polling sites were left unsecured.

Ultimately, there was no runoff. Abdullah conceded because he saw the system as too corrupt with no hope of a legitimate election.

I wondered how much the average citizen knew. Were they aware of the fraud? The potential for a runoff? That Karzai had been reelected? Did they have access to enough information to even know their stake in the matter?

Though Afghan citizens are starting to gain access to outside information through mediums like our radios, much of their programming is produced by the government. And their main source remains what it has been for hundreds of years: the local mosque.
So many options . . . so little time!

I often tell people that they should never rely on a single source for news. There is no such thing as completely fair and balanced. Every organization is targeting an audience, lobbying for ratings. Every message, directly or indirectly, is communicated with the intent of eliciting a certain feeling or response. So in the wake of this election, amidst the mudslinging that is still going on not only about candidates but also about FOX/CNN/MSNBC, I just have to say that I’m grateful to have access to the full spectrum. I’m grateful to have mass media at my fingertips, in whatever format I prefer. I’m grateful to have the option to wade through as much or as little information as I chose.

And, though I certainly don’t exercise it as much as some of you (you know who you are!), I’m grateful for the opportunity to disagree, to debate, and to complain. You see, in the military you don’t have that option. Military members cannot express political opinions because they represent the military.

So because I’m no longer beholden to those guidelines, I’ll just say this: Very few people would argue that there’s nothing wrong with our current system, and there were definitely things that frustrated me about yesterday’s election. The fact that the two-party system has become paralizingly polarized. The fact that the poor economy was supposedly the #1 issue, but $6 billion was spent funding campaigns. The fact that my polling station was plastered with campaign signs for a particular candidate for senate, but not a single sign for the other. The fact that one of the local ballot initiatives lumped veterans benefits in with unemployment and welfare, and called for supporting these “assistance programs” with cuts in military spending. (Am I the only one who finds funding veteran programs by cutting active military programs ironic? “Military spending” includes troop support programs, healthcare and protective measures . . . and those—along with “excess” manpower that certainly never feels excess, especially to those who lose their jobs after serving faithfully and being promised retirement benefits—are usually the first things to go. It’s not as simple as just bringing troops home. There is necessary, and expensive, post-war support. But that’s another blog post for another time.)

I vote because I can, and because it’s my duty and privilege as a U.S. citizen. But I also know that voting isn’t enough, that one man or woman can’t make everything perfect and certainly can’t make everyone happy. And instead of complaining (or, okay, sometimes while complaining), I choose action. I choose to educate and advocate, and to look for—and make—opportunities to stand up for what I believe in, because I’m pretty damn fortunate to live in a country where I can do that.

So thank you to those of you who voted. You have earned the right to be excited/angry/vindictive/controversial. Just remember that rants and raves are usually just rants and raves. And whatever you’re ranting or raving about, please take a break on Sunday to thank those who have willingly given up their own rights to do so in order to protect yours.