A Brief Rant

I was going to post this on Facebook, but figured I owe this neglected thing some attention. Plus, if someone googles “assholes” or “douchbaggery” maybe they’ll stumble upon this little blog.

#BeginRant

I have a veteran friend who’s in grad school. She just started a new semester with a new crop of students who don’t know about her veteranness, and, like many vets, she doesn’t necessarily advertise it when making introductions. So she enters the classroom and kindly expresses her need to sit on the perimeter of the room—a need driven by deployment-related anxiety—and another student points to a seat in the middle and rudely suggests, “Why can’t you just sit in that seat?” My friend says she can’t and moves that desk to the perimeter. And the other students laugh and make fun of her

Really, people? In grad school, where everyone is supposedly at least a somewhat mature, mostly completely brain-developed adult? 

Lack of veteran context aside, so someone has a quirk—any quirk—must you be all Douchy McAsshole about it? 

I was recently a guest in my husband’s college freshman English classes, talking about narrative distance and empathy in writing memoir/personal essay. I said something that’s applicable here—a super sophisticated and eloquent analogy along the lines of: “Everyone has shit. Some people’s piles are just bigger or more smelly.”

 

People are different. Sometimes people are weird. Sometimes people have things bubbling under the surface that you know nothing about. Get over it. Or at least have the decency to save the laughter and gossip for behind closed doors

#EndRant

The Hero Debate

There’s always been semantic disagreement in the military. Many are uncomfortable with being thanked for their service or referred to as heroes. I traditionally haven’t minded—not that I consider myself a hero; working with special operations at Hurlburt Field, FL, I encountered many more deserving of that title. But I always appreciated the acknowledgement, despite its frequent lack of context, that I had volunteered as a part of something greater than myself. I gave speakers the benefit of the doubt and assumed their words were coming from a genuine place.

Recently, however, I’ve started questioning the terminology. As I witness the disconnect between those with military connections and those without. As the media glorifies combat “heroes” and condemns the “monsters” created by PTSD. As the government oozes pride in its service men and women but bumbles through attempts to follow praise with adequate support.

I’ve started to wonder, when people say “thank you for your service,” what do they mean? Do they know what they’re thanking me for? For accepting an ROTC scholarship (and the ensuing four-year contract) at 18? For working my butt off while my butt was safely in a desk chair at my FL base? For deploying? For some small contributions that maybe made a smidgeon of a positive impact on the war effort, on the lives of the Afghan people, on the lives of my fellow servicemembers? For following orders, even though I didn’t always agree? For suffering?

Is there a hierarchy of thankfulness: the KIA and WIA who made tangible sacrifices at the top, those who didn’t deploy near the bottom, and me in some murky middle ground? Are most who issue the sentiment even aware of the myriad experiences to which they’re potentially referring? The complexities of each individual experience cannot be dismissed with a trite phrase.

(For a much more in depth analysis than I could possibly provide, read David Finkel’s incredible, heart-wrenching book Thank You for Your Service.)

“Hero” is another term that’s thrown around so often it loses meaning. In summer 2012, I wrote a blog post about what I considered the mislabeling of Olympic athletes as heroes, comparing them with military members. I didn’t realize at the time, but I was essentially advocating my own form of heroic hierarchy. While I do agree that “hero” has a place in discourse, we must be aware of its implications.

A recent Salon.com op-ed by author and military sister Cara Hoffman presents a unique and compelling argument.

Hero, she writes: “sounds like praise, but it can be dangerously dismissive. The problem is that “hero” refers to a character, a protagonist, something in fiction, not to a person, and using this word can hurt the very people it’s meant to laud. While meant to create a sense of honor, it can also buy silence, prevent discourse and benefit those in power more than those navigating the new terrain of home after combat. If you are a hero, part of your character is stoic sacrifice, silence. This makes it difficult for others to see you as flawed, human, vulnerable or exploited. And it makes it even more difficult for you to reach out when you need help.”

The military is a machismo suck-it-up-and-deal-with-it culture—I’ve written about my guilt in seeking mental health care because I didn’t feel I’d earned it, merely coming from that murky middle f the thankfulness pyramid. The possibility that the hero label perpetuates those ideas within the military culture makes sense.

Hoffman discusses the effects on the general public, too:

 “Whole communities deal with the complicated effects of homecoming. With the end of military operations, we’re all feeling the weight of return, and that weight will not be lightened by “using words like “hero” as a consolation prize to gloss over the very human cost of war.”

High-five, bro! I now declare you at hero status! Good luck with VA healthcare...

“‘Heroes’ protect us from the knowledge they gained down-range,” Hoffman continues. “And the expectation is they will continue to sacrifice their humanity, even when they return home, so we don’t have to learn about their experiences.”

I thanked that soldier and called him a hero. My duty as an informed, engaged member of the public is complete. Self high-five!

I’m being snarky and simplistic, but the point is, it’s easy to issue thanks or label someone a hero. Easy, but not meaningful like we sometimes trick ourselves into believing and certainly not a replacement for inquiry and genuine engagement.

More from Hoffman: “We like to think we can have no idea ‘what goes on over there’ or ‘what kinds of risks people are taking.’ That we can’t imagine ‘the horrors they’ve seen.’ This is part of elevating soldiers to mythic status — seeing their experiences as outside of human existence, as things we can’t consider. But we actually can know, we can imagine their lives — very easily — by listening and by opening our eyes. By letting people who are returning take off the masks society insists they wear. By being a strong enough, rational enough nation to stop slapping heroic cowboy-and-Indian narratives over the sad and extremely common reality of violent conflict.”

Anyone who’s read my writing knows I’m in agreement. I stress the importance of listening to veterans, reading military writing, and viewing other forms of military art (watch Sebastian Junger’s documentaries Restrepo and Korengal). But I also believe it’s a two-way street. In order for the public to listen, read, view, veterans must speak, write, create. It’s just as easy for a veteran to think, “you don’t know what it’s like,” or “you can’t possibly understand how I feel.” It’s just as easy for a veteran to—intentionally or not—build him or herself up to that mythic status and shut others out to the possibility to learning. Yes, we bear some of the responsibility, too.

So where does that leave us, semantically? You see someone in a military uniform walking through the airport, what do you say? I personally would appreciate an attempt at (a non-political) conversation: What is/was your military job? Oh, public affairs, what does that entail? Where have you served? Ask questions that show interest and give the servicemember a chance to respond to the degree to which he or she is comfortable.

But that’s just me…I’m curious to hear your thoughts. Veterans, how, if at all, would you like to be approached? Has anyone had a particularly engaging encounter?

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. 

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

The limits of “therapy”: Some writing on not writing

I left the Air Force, I moved across the country, I enrolled in grad school, I started a blog to write about war. But I never said writing about war was easy.

I said it was therapeutic. And it was. Until it wasn’t.

I can’t pinpoint exactly when that shift occurred – I think it’s been shifting for a while – but it manifested itself in a very unattractive emotional breakdown last week. In the midst of my crying/nose blowing/self-pitying incoherent sob-infused mumbling, I had an epiphany: writing about painful experiences is painful.

Okay, that wasn’t really an epiphany… it’s pretty self-explanatory: Writing a personal account of a traumatic event means reliving, re-engaging, re-imagining said event. Of course it sucks! But writing also means processing, intellectualizing, making peace with the event, essentially ripping off the Band-Aid and exposing the raw wound so it can be treated properly. So you can heal.

Writing is proven effective in promoting healing after trauma – proven through my personal experiences and through legitimate scientific and psychological research. Cognitive Processing Therapy, one of the main methods currently being used to treat PTSD in military veterans uses writing as a key component; it’s a direct antidote to the PTSD tendency of “avoiding people or experiences that remind you of an event.” (My boyfriend, Colin, chronicles his personal experiences with Cognitive Processing Therapy in a blog series for Copaiba.org)

What I realized, though, as I writhed on the floor of my boyfriend’s car (seriously), is that there’s a limit to how much healing can take place within the delicate balance of reimagining and intellectualizing. Too much of the former too soon following the event, or within too short of a timeframe, and the brain can’t progress to the latter.

Looking back, I think I tipped the scale during my final assignment last semester. I wrote a piece about my first experience with death in the military; a friend was killed when the aircraft he was piloting crashed in Afghanistan. Understandably, it was a hard piece to write. But the event had been gnawing at me . . . I knew I had to process it, and writing was the best way I knew how. It was painful, but I had a deadline, so I gutted it out, vomited everything up on paper. As happens with vomit, the result was a bit messy.

Armed with feedback from my class, a few weeks ago, I set out to clean up the mess. But I couldn’t. Literally. Not only could I not write any more about the event, I couldn’t even think about writing without feeling physically ill. When I wasn’t feeling ill, I was feeling terrified because I was reminded of the last time my psyche forced me to stop writing – In Afghanistan, when I slipped into my own version of the Dark Ages and wasn’t sure I’d ever find my way out.

The emotional breakdown came later, when the same ill feeling crept into other efforts at other pieces. From there it was a short leap to doubting the validity of my future plans, cursing my lack of focus/motivation/organizational skills, the malicious cycle of getting upset over getting upset, dubbing myself a failure, writhing on the floor of my boyfriend’s car.

They say if life gives you lemons, make lemonade. But what if you don’t like lemonade? What if you’re allergic? What if you can only drink small doses and life just so happens to give you a crapload of  lemons?

Maybe I need to wait for my lemons to ripen a bit (though patience has never been my strong suit). Maybe I should just throw some away, try some apples instead.

Maybe I shouldn’t be mixing school (or indeed, my future livelihood) with “therapy.” Maybe I shouldn’t put so much pressure on myself to be productive (and gag the inner voice that keeps telling me it’s the whole reason I’m here!). Maybe I need to stop defining productivity in terms of numbers of pages – and numbers of pages that directly apply to my now very scattered and incoherent thesis project idea (see previous parenthetical).

Maybe I should forget about maybes and what ifs, have a glass of wine and go to bed.

If it was that easy – if anything was – this blog would be pretty lame. 

PTSD: The new four-letter word

The acronym is familiar to me, as it is to anyone who has access to mass media in the western world and can read, watch and listen to how it’s “breaking” young men and women returning from military deployments. It’s familiar to me as a veteran, who has known and worked with many whose records bear those letters. I witness every day how it colors the words and actions of someone I love.

But recently, PTSD hit me in a new way.

As of last week, I’m donating my body to science. (Incrementally, by way of Veterans Affairs research studies.) My initial study is investigating brain functioning in veterans with diagnosed stress disorders and/or traumatic brain injury. I spent a day clicking blinking computer boxes, memorizing words and pictures, and counting backwards by threes (by FAR the hardest!). The study also involved a lengthy psychological evaluation. As I prepared for that section, I settled into my chair, ready to rehash what I’ve been discussing with social workers, psychologists, and my unwitting creative writing classes for the last two years.

I talked. The psychologist nodded, scribbling notes onto a series of pages. She prompted me, I kept talking. Then there were no more pages and I had nothing left to say, and, flipping back through her notebook, the psychologist said, “Well, you’re definitely still exhibiting symptoms of low-grade PTSD.”

???????

This was not something I’d been told by the previous social workers or psychologists. This is not the diagnosis reflected in my VA disability rating, which proclaims me a sufferer of Chronic Adjustment Disorder . . . Is that the same thing?

“No,” the psychologist clarified, “they’re definitely different. What I get from you is definitely PTSD.”

Definitely PTSD. Not an official diagnosis, really. An opinion rendered in a non-treatment capacity, one of many professional opinions I’ve received. The outlier. But hearing those letters with my name brought an onslaught of emotions:

Affirmation – so that’s why I feel and act the way I do. Maybe I’m justified, after all. (Followed quickly by . . .)

Guilt – what right do I have to be linked with PTSD? I, who spent most of my deployment behind a desk, who was never shot at, who never shot at anyone, who was never blown up, who made it home safely with my entire unit. So many horrible things I didn’t experience. How can I be associated with veterans who did?

Weakness – maybe I am linked with those who suffered more, and because I suffered less but had a similar reaction, that makes me weak. They say everyone has a breaking point, maybe mine came sooner than most. Maybe I was never meant to be a soldier.

Fear – if I do have PTSD, what does that mean? There are so many things that scare me about that acronym, about the complication, the destruction it can leave in its wake.

More guilt – how can I fear the things in others that I myself embody?

Ultimately, I know I’ll be okay. I know I’ve come a long way in the two years I’ve been back from Afghanistan. In many ways, I think I’m stronger. I know I’m stronger. Those four letters are merely scribbled in a research notebook. They hung in the air for a moment over a table in a VA testing room, then disappeared.

But they seeped into my consciousness, where they’ve been gnawing at me, making me think about how we view PTSD as a society – something that has colored my perspective more than I’d like to admit.

Despite living on the fringes, I don’t understand PTSD. Most people don't. My boyfriend, Colin, had been lecturing on PTSD for a couple years before he was officially diagnosed. When we started dating, I was hesitant to get involved because of those four letters. Conversely, I was convicted by my fear. If anyone can understand a veteran’s emotional state, shouldn’t it be a fellow veteran?

PTSD is scary because it is unknown. Until recently, no one talked about it; military mental health care has always been shrouded in stigma. Now, it seems, as soon as the military is beginning to acknowledge the inevitable mental and emotional affects of war, the issue is being sensationalized outside the military, and veterans are stigmatized by the civilian community.

Lack of knowledge breeds misrepresentation and misunderstanding – two things the media is famous for propagating.

In the latest example, on April 19, “Dr.” Phil (quotations added), aired a show titled “PTSD Takes Veterans from Heroes to Monsters.” As if the title weren’t enough, it came with this melodramatic ad. Following heated response from the veteran community, the show’s name was changed to “Heroes in Pain,” post-broadcast. But the message was already out. As they stressed in public affairs training, the initial message is the one that sticks.

Before Dr. Phil’s show, military mental health advocacy faced another hurdle when U.S. Army Staff Sgt. Robert Bales became the new face of modern warfare after allegedly massacred 17 civilians in southern Afghanistan. For many, Sergeant Bales has come to represent this generation of veterans: broken, unstable, a hopeless tragedy.

Veteran unemployment continues at an unprecedented rate. There is no denying the PTSD stigma plays a role. In the minds of employers, the “impressive military resume” we were all promised upon enlistment is being weighed against an imagined mental health resume.

No one wants to hire a Sgt. Bales. No one wants to associate with the likes of those profiled on Dr. Phil: the drug addict, the husband who beats his wife, the one who set his wife on fire.

To Dr. Phil’s audience, I’m Frankenstein.

To civilian employers, I’m a loose cannon.

To the VA, I’m damaged goods.

Amidst these messages, how am I supposed to view myself? How are veterans dealing with the emotional scars of war supposed to respond to military messages encouraging them to seek help when seeking help might lead to a diagnosis, and a diagnosis might lead to labels and disenfranchisement?

A new debate, discussed in this article, questions whether a name change would help alleviate the stigma around PTSD. Replacing "disorder" with "injury," for example, communicates that healing is possible.

Whatever you call it, the truth is, PTSD can be scary. It can manifest in ways which, when sufferers don’t get needed treatment and therapy, can lead to violent outbursts like the extreme examples above. These examples are hard to ignore when they scream at us from every news broadcast. But they are the exception. There are many more like Colin and me than like Sergeant Bales.   

Mental health will always be an issue in the military. Just as combat is in the job description, emotional and mental strain are among the expected side effects. Mental health is a bigger issue than it needs to be because we either don’t talk about it, or we talk about it in the wrong way. We ignore it, or we sensationalize it.

On either end of the spectrum, the ones who suffer are the veterans. And they have suffered enough. 

Veteran-Writers and the surprising benefits of stalking

Last week I stalked someone.

For those of you who don’t know me, I do this a lot. Don’t worry, it’s not as creepy as it sounds (at least that’s what I like to think...). I’m just being resourceful! That’s what Google is for, right?

Anyway, last week my stalking victim was Colin D. Halloran, a former Army Special Forces Infantryman, Afghanistan veteran, poet and veterans advocate. I learned that Colin and I would both be at the Association of Writers & Writing Programs (AWP) Conference last weekend in Chicago, where he was signed up to lead a panel about helping veterans transition “from Combat to College” through writing programs. Because I’m in the midst of such a transition myself, and because I’m a writer, and because I get giddy when I meet other veterans, I was intrigued. So I stalked Colin. And, perhaps against his better judgment, he was receptive.

Colin and I met the first day of the conference. In the great tradition of writers (and military veterans) everywhere, we talked over drinks. We exchanged the basics: time in service, job titles, home stations and deployed locations. We discussed our respective MFA programs. I complemented Colin on his "very un-Army" blazer and bowtie. Then, for some incredible reason, he trusted me enough to bare his soul, allowing me to pick through it in the pages of his unpublished book of poetry. The fact that he opened himself up to me two hours after we met (and after I’d stalked him!) is a testament to the veteran connection.

Now, I’m first to admit that I don’t know much about the craft of poetry. I just know how it makes me feel. And reading Colin’s poetry felt like he was reaching straight into my soul. It felt like he had inserted a device into my brain that chronicled my thoughts and fears, sorted through and unscrambled them, sucked them out and fashioned them into something tangible and accessible and – against all odds – beautiful.

It was awesome! And kind of frightening. How did this unassuming guy I just met understand so much about me?

I’ve felt a similar bond with other veterans; people who “get it,” who've “been there, done that,” who can relate to all the complicatedness spinning around in my head. It’s wonderful reassurance that I’m not alone.

Meeting a veteran-writer, as it turns out, is a double-whammy. Here’s someone else who knows what it’s like to feel a piece of writing bubbling up inside you, the manifestation of an experience trapped for too long in the past. Someone who knows the wave of relief and the drain of exhaustion that comes from finally letting it out. Someone who used to deny the big hunk of his identity that’s wrapped up in his veteran status but doesn’t anymore because of his writing. Someone who understands the power writing gives him over his experiences and tries every day to harness it. Someone who writes because he has to.

Even though we’re newly acquainted, I’ll be brash and assert that Colin D. Halloran is pretty amazing. Despite suffering from PTSD and a knee injury that forced him to be medically evacuated from Afghanistan, he wants to go back to war. He wants to pick up where he left off, to complete his “unfinished business” supporting his unit and serving his country. Amazing, right? But when I told Colin that, he shrugged it off. It’s just part of the job. Such a Special Forces response.

Colin’s poetry is profound. (SPOILER ALERT: If you stick with this blog post to the end, you’ll have the distinct pleasure of reading a piece!) Beyond being a darn good writer, though, he hopes his writing will help others. I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that it already has.

A former public school teacher, Colin gives readings and speaks to teachers and student populations about the unique challenges veterans face when transitioning to a school environment. He advocates writing classes in particular as a way to create a safe space where veterans can find common ground and begin to intellectualize their experiences.

In his AWP panel, Colin stressed that civilians can’t understand what soldiers have been through until soldiers understand what they’ve been through. That’s where writing comes in. Colin has been there. I've been there. We’re still there, hovering somewhere along the spectrum of healing and understanding. I imagine we’ll be hovering for a long time. Maybe forever. Hopefully moving, slowly but surely, in the right direction.

Hovering sometimes can be disconcerting. But it’s always nice to know I’m in good company.

Shout out to Colin’s fellow AWP panelists, more amazing people doing important work:
Christine Leche, a writing professor at Austin Community College, who teaches veteran writing courses. She has spent several months teaching soldiers in deployed locations and is the editor of a forthcoming anthology of veteran writing.
Charlotte Gullick, head of the creative writing department at Austin Community College, who has taught veterans.
Kelly Dalton, a Navy veteran and discourse community specialist.

Shout out to my traveling buddies Shannon and Krysta.

Shout out to AWP for supporting the wonderful world of literary dorkdom and to Chicago for being a cool town.

Now, as promised, a poem, courtesy of Colin D. Halloran:
(Watch an Colin Read an excerpt from this poem here)

THE SECOND STORY WINDOW DOESN’T SEEM SO HIGH

Or maybe it does.

I find it hard to know just what I think these days. I cannot trust the thoughts I think I think – I think.

In war I thought it all was so uncertain, but uncertainty was guaranteed. But here, college, and of all places freshmen Psych class, where certainty should be ensured by class lists and start times, I’m uncertain once more. And this window doesn’t seem so high.

I wouldn’t think of jumping (though clearly I just did). And if I can’t trust the thoughts I think I think should I put faith in the unthinkable?

Other students are looking out the window too. This window with a perfect view of approach routes, of the roof of the buildings across the street, of the main intersection. The seventeen cars that have passed. The three that have done so twice. Are the others noticing these things too? Are they aware how high it is? Or isn’t?

My peers (though it somehow seems unfit to use that word – I never complain about the weight of my backpack), they daydream. They gaze, detached, out the window because out there is not in here and in here there is a woman talking, droning, about drinking. Alcohol.

I drink alcohol. Beer mostly, but never the cheap stuff. I was cursed with a palate. Sometimes wine. This palate is developing. But that’s out there. And out there is not in here. I cannot drink in here because in here is school and out there is not, though I learn (and maybe more). And in here, here being school, there is a woman talking about alcohol.

Some guys (boys?) have stopped looking out there and begun to pay attention to this woman. She has asked who in here drinks alcohol out there. These fellows think they’re cool. I can tell because they nudge and do the “bro-nod”. Chuckles. I indicate, more reverently, that I can be counted in this category.

She moves in.

Questioning, frowning. Why? How? Fake ID? I must be wrong. This is a class for freshmen. This is why she is here. To talk to first years about their first years and the dangers we’ve been warned of since 7th grade.

But the dangers I’ve faced did not come from college bars, from darkened street corners. The four years that separate me from those wedged into desks around me carried me to places they only see in books, on TV. No streets for corners, no college for bars. Just violence from an unknown enemy. That was always certain.

So now I sit, and think the thoughts I think or dare not to, and while those around me dream, I can’t help but notice that this window doesn’t seem so high.

YOU CAN STALK COLIN TOO!
Read samples and purchase his forthcoming poetry collection here
Visit his website
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View his blog series from Copaiba Press: "Witness", "Speak", and "Heal"

HAPPY STALKING!

A chance to say "thank you"

(This is a long one, but I think this day warrants it)

When I was in ROTC in college, I remember being angry that my school didn’t observe Veteran’s Day. More than angry; I was pissed. I told anyone who would listen (and even some who wouldn’t) how pissed I was. I was so high-and-mighty back then; a young cadet with really no understanding of what it meant to be in the military. But I was on to something . . . something that has become much clearer – and much more aggravating – in the years since: veterans are underappreciated.

I’d like to say it’s better now than it used to be. And in many ways it is. Thank God we’ve progressed beyond the Vietnam-era, when soldiers – many who were drafted into service against their wishes – came home to face angry protesters, be spit on, called “baby killers.” What a dark period in American history. Now, it seems, whether or not people agree with this country’s wars, they overwhelmingly support those fighting. I’m grateful for that.

The Post-9/11 GI Bill is a huge improvement over the outdated Montgomery GI Bill, and more veterans are taking advantage of their education benefits than ever before (I’m one of them!). There are also laws in place now to allow service members to break leases if they’re relocated or deployed (I’ve done that!), and laws that require employers to hold jobs for Reservists and National Guardsmen if they’re activated. There are more and better agencies supporting veterans both in and out of the military (I’m definitely using some of those!).

But even when the support systems work, they’re often mired in stigma and move at an excruciatingly slow pace. Organizations are understaffed, underfunded and tangled up in bureaucratic red tape.

And, if statistics are any indication, there’s still a long way to go. Last year for the first time in history the military suicide rate eclipsed that of the civilian sector. While the national unemployment rate hovers around 9%, the unemployment rate for veterans who left active duty since 2001 is a staggering 12.1% (Maze).

Many veterans return from combat with obvious, tragic wounds like missing limbs and severe burns. But many carry deep, unseen scars as well. Studies show that around 40% of OIF/OEF veterans have been diagnosed with some type of mental disorder (depression, anxiety, PTSD), and an estimated 10-20% of returning troops have at least a mild brain injury (Zoroya).

And since the economy is the “hot topic” of the moment, consider this: A new enlisted troop in the rank of E-1 earns $17,604 in annual base pay (the poverty level is $10,890). A first-year officer in the rank of O-1 nets $33,396. By comparison, the minimum salary for a rookie (now-on-strike) NBA player is $473,604 (2010-2011 data). If that’s not a sad commentary on modern American priorities, I don’t know what is.

The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan are officially the longest wars in this nation’s history. Reserve and National Guard Forces are more than pulling their weight with frequent deployments to backfill manning shortages and often don’t have the support structures active duty troops have upon return. We live in an era where, arguably, more is being asked of the all-volunteer military force than ever before.

Yet still, in the debate over national debt, military retirement benefits are on the chopping block; the benefits that were promised upon enlistment, that were paid for in 20+ years of blood, sweat and tears and unfathomable sacrifice.

I’m not asking you to run out and write your congressman (although that would be awesome!). I’m just asking you – today, any day, every day – to say “thank you.” Sometimes that’s all it takes.

I remember once after a long, hard day at work I stopped for takeout on my way home. I was still in my uniform, looking, I’m sure, unprofessionally frazzled. When I got my food, someone had picked up my tab. I thanked him and he said, “No, thank you for your service.” I cried the whole way home because it felt so good to be appreciated.

When I got back from Afghanistan, all it took was someone saying “thank you” to open the flood gates. I had felt so isolated for so long, in a place where people were, at best, ambivalent about my existence; a place so cut off from the rest of the world. That small gesture – thank you – showed me people cared.

So today I want to say thank you to those who bear the burden:

To those who have served, and those who continue to serve, THANK YOU.

To those who have been force shaped, medically discharged, prevented from deploying or in some way limited in the capacity to which you could serve, you are veterans too. THANK YOU.

To those who serve on the homefront, maintaining families, careers, sanity, LIFE while your spouses, children, parents, siblings, friends, coworkers deploy, we couldn’t do it without you. THANK YOU.

**If you want to say “thank you” in another way, the following link has a comprehensive list of organizations that support service members and their families. You can send letters and care packages to deployed troops, “adopt” a service member, volunteer with or donate to a non-profit veteran support organization, or contribute to a scholarship fund for children of service members killed in action. Check it out: http://www.military.com/spouse/content/military-life/military-resources/how-to-support-our-troops.html


References:

Fairweather, Amy (prepared by) “Swords to Plowshares Iraq Veteran Project.” Nchv.org. National Coalition for Homeless Veterans, Dec. 7, 2006. Web. Nov. 10, 2011.

Maze, Rick. “Jobless rate increases for young veterans.” Airforcetimes.com. Air Force Times, Nov. 4, 2011. Web. Nov. 10, 2011.

“Veterans’ Mental Health Concerns Rising.” Psych Central Online, July 18, 2009. Web. Nov. 11, 2011.

Zoroya, Gregg. “Troops risk undetected brain injury.” Usatoday.com. USA Today, June 7, 2006. Web. Nov 11, 2011.