Would You Like Some Perspective With That?

Something that I've come to with age is the realization that things are not black and white. That also includes things and people and positions that we align ourselves with. Too often we're encouraged not to talk about them-I'm told that for the sake of the anti-war movement, I shouldn't talk about disagreements in it.

This is nothing but blatant hypocrisy. If you're going to be telling soldiers that they should be able to feel safe speaking out against the camouflage wall of silence in the military, I think you need to be telling peace activists that it's also okay to speak out against the tie-dyed wall of silence in the peace movement.

Emerson has some interesting words about those who have become bound by communities as surely as anything else:

"Well, most men have bound their eyes with one or another handkerchief, and attached themselves to some one of these communities of opinion. This conformity makes them not false in a few particulars, authors of a few lies, but false in all particulars. Their every truth is not quite true. Their two is not the real two, their four not the real four: so that every word they say chagrins us and we know not where to begin to set them right. Meantime nature is not slow to equip us in the prison uniform of the party to which we adhere. We come to wear one cut of face and figure, and acquire by degrees the gentlest asinine expression. There is a mortifying experience in particular, which does not fail to wreak itself also in the general history; I mean "the foolish face of praise", the forced smile which we put on in company where we do not feel at ease, in answer to conversation which does not interest us. The muscles, not spontaneously moved but moved by a low usurping willfulness, grow tight around the outline of the face, with the most disagreeable sensation."

I'm going to practice this courage by speaking out not just about the problems in the military and with the war, but also the problems with individuals with blinders on.

I believe that the war in Iraq is wrong. It was unnecessary, illegal, and it hurts America. That's why I'm a member of IVAW, Iraq Veterans Against the War. But that does not make the insurgency right. The insurgency is not noble. They are not, as some would have you believe, just like the Americans fighting the British for their freedom. This isn't a popular opinion, because many peace activists fear that by talking about the evils of the insurgency, we'll arouse sympathy for the war. Some even call it 'racist', saying that they don't have the right to 'defend themself'.

This is morally disingenuous. The Iraqi insurgency bears little similarity to our revolutionary fighters. Our revolutionary fighters never went around cutting off people's heads, or killing women for talking to soldiers, or throwing acid in children's faces. We didn't target civilians in the revolutionary war. They weren't full of religious fundamentalists-and since when has the activist community supported religious fundamentalists?

We do not have to beatify evil men in order to say that the war is wrong, or that it hurts America, or our military, or our national defense, or even that it hurts innocents. And any peace activist that mourns and condemns the death of Iraqis while refusing to mourn and condemn the death of soldiers is a hypocrite.

I remember once holding a fellow soldier as he cried about the young kid he had to kill because the kid was aiming a weapon at the soldiers. It's a terrible thing. Is it the soldier's fault? No, it's not. It's whoever put a weapon of lethal force in the hands of a child and told them to go hunting Americans. And we have to condemn that equally as much as we have to condemn the officer who gives the order that there is a free-fire zone in effect. We cannot pick and choose.

I would like to end this post with the following:

I condemn the war in Iraq, and politician's willingness to sacrifice innocent lives.
I condemn the insurgency in Iraq, and their willingess to sacrifice innocent lives.
I condemn anyone who would try to whitewash evil for the sake of political expediency.
I condemn anyone who thinks that the United States government is so wrong they have to destroy it by force.
I condemn anyone who tries to destroy the civil rights of another by force.

And I encourage everyone else in the activist and anti-Iraq war community to take, post, and share via email the following pledge:

"My opposition to the Iraq War does not translate into support for the violent actions of the insurgency. American soldiers did not create the war, and are not my enemy. Though I disagree with the war, these soldiers deserve and have my support. I will neither encourage nor tolerate any actions against them, and will refuse to work with any individual who does."

For a friend, a Good Times Post

Alright. A few things combined to make this post...first, a friend was a little down and I figured a decent post might help, and two, I was reminded by someone elsewhere about a guy I served with once, whose name was Braxtan. He was a wild and crazy guy, and had this obsession with film that wound up being catered to by everyone in the unit because it was just so damn funny and awesome.

Here's one of his films, about a captain everyone knew, kind of a parody of the commercial going around, but pretty awesome.

(A disclaimer: No, this guy is not in the IVAW, last time I checked, and to my knowledge, doesn't even know I am, since we haven't talked in over five years. Please don't hassle him.)




There's also one about Bush and Darth Vader, which I think is funny, if of course very old. However, I didn't find out about it until yesterday. The funniest ones are the Army ones, like "How CPT Z Stole Christmas" and the one about the Curse of the Army Ball. However, Braxtan didn't upload them to youtube, so you have to settle for this.

Contradiction

Sometimes I envy the people who have the luxury of black and white ideals.

I used to have that once. I used to think things, people, ideals, nations were either all good or all bad. And of course, mine were all good. The things I loved, the people I trusted, the ideals I believed in, the nation that I had a deep and abiding pride in. They could do no wrong. They could be no wrong.

I grew up on military history. I learned about sacrifice. About men who gave their lives, their bodies, their hope of family in order to protect others. I devoured books of bravery and honor, of people making the right choices even when it meant their deaths.

And then I joined the Army.

Like every other enlistedman in the Army, I mock West Pointers. It's what you do, as an enlisted troop, as an NCO. You save stories about them, about their utter inability to face reality, about how all they know comes from books, about the way they cradle and cherish regulations that have no meaning to anyone else. The phrase "West Pointer" are two of the easiest words to condemn an officer to a special place in an NCO's heart, and it's not a good one.

But in many ways, I am just like them. Just like the West Pointers I try to separate myself from. No, I didn't finish college in a military academy, but I was well-read in military history and tactics before I even entered high school. I could sing every patriotic song and recite half of the patriotic speeches and believe them with all of my heart. Like an officer. Like a West Pointer. Like someone who hasn't yet figured out how dirty, how ugly, how unashamedly awful conflict is, and how many terrible things we do in order to win.

I joined the intelligence field because I was quick witted and smart and wanted to give the best gift I had to my country. The thing that pleased me the most, the thing that shone above all else, I wanted to give it to the ideals I believed in. I didn't realize, then, that the intelligence field is no place for idealists.

And I, like so many of those officers once the shine has worn off, saw too much. I saw my country betray its ideals, and it hurt worse than any lover's betrayal ever had. I saw the Army itself betray the concept I had had of it. You see, though I grew up, again, on the St. Crispins Day speech, among others, I never really understood 'be he never so vile, this day will gentle his condition'. I didn't understand then what I do now-that I could both hate and love. That some of my fellow soldiers truly would be vile-racist, sexist, homophobic, bigoted in every possible way, with no ideals and no desires past earning a paycheck. That I could hate them for their tiny minds and love them because they were my brothers. That I could love them for their loyalty to me, even as they waded through every whore in a fifty mile radius. That the same men who would say that no meant yes and they would kill 'any faggot who dared touch them' would treat me like their little or big sister, depending on the age, and I would love them like my big or little brother no matter how many people they broke or destroyed or how awful their words were.

It is in that same feeling that lets me both be a member of the military and a member of IVAW. That lets me cry when I watch old war movies about honor and sacrifice and also feel nauseous when I look at the newspaper and see the terrible things my country has done in its name.

I love the military but I love more the military I thought it would be. A military of honor. A military where you never did the wrong thing, and you were never asked to. A military where you fought your enemy because you had to but you didn't have to despise them.

I wonder if that military exists. I wonder if it ever did. I wonder if it ever could. I wonder if I was just deluding myself.

And a New Story for a New Year

Another car bit the dust yesterday in an accident which was both nasty and nice all at the same time. No one was seriously injured, so that was fantastic, but my car was totalled to the point where I'm not even sure it's worth repairing. It would have been a really terrible day, but I heard the most fantastic story from one of the MPs on the scene, and it was so great, I thought I'd share it with you.

The MP and I were chatting while we waited, and he mentioned something about being an NCO. Well, my eyes were fairly sharp when corrected, and I noted the specialist rank he was wearing on his uniform. We'd been talking for long enough that I felt it would be okay to ask, "So what'd you get busted down for?"

He gave a bit of a sheepish grin, then laughed a bitter laugh. "My dog bit someone he wasn't supposed to."

Maybe it's my ignorance about how precisely canine units work that made me ask, "A prisoner?" We'd already talked about his four deployments, and I could see something like that. A situation with intense emotions, a dog picking up on them and doing something he shouldn't. A dog that lives and loves as his handler lives and loves.

But no. He said, "My dog bit someone nobody but the President's allowed to touch."

Of course I questioned him. That was way too good an opening to let go. "Someone you didn't like?"

Another bitter smile. "My dog bit Donald Rumsfeld pretty good." Another pause, another beat. "In front of the sergeant major of the Army and four generals."

Obviously, I don't know the truth of the story. I won't swear to it, only that I heard it from a man who claimed it was his, and I doubt he'd a reason to lie, to me of all people. He had no idea what my views on the war or Rumsfeld were. I hadn't mentioned him. The only hint he had was my tattoo with the helmet and rifle and the Ishtar Gate-but it's a little subtle on first glance to really tell the story of all of my thoughts and ideas. He didn't know who I was. And it has the ring of the unlikely truth.

I believe the soldier. I believe in a soldier, full of resentment for a man he felt was responsible, whose dog picked up on it and did something it shouldn't. I believe in a man busted down because he couldn't control his emotions, with a dog that he was utterly responsible for every move of.

And I feel for him.

So there's the story. Was it worth the thousands of dollars to my car? Maybe not. But did it make things better than they would have been otherwise? Definitely.

Merry Christmas.

I don't like this video completely, and it's kind of old (ignore the call at the end), but I woke up with this song in my head and figured I'd share it. Christmas is always heartbreaking as it is beautiful.

DWI-Driving While IVAW.

There is something about being an IVAW member, I will say, that gives you a healthy respect for the amount of bullshit that police officers can pull on you if they want to. I've seen "the rules" ignored so many times that I no longer believe in the inherent righteousness of every cop and MP. Instead, I believe cops very well will pull you over if they don't like your bumper sticker, or the way you look through a window. Whether this is good or bad, I don't know.

I got to experience this fresh fear today. While driving off post after my Krav Maga class, I suddenly noticed flashing lights behind me. Please don't let them be for me, please let them be for the guy in front of me. It was nonsensical, but I hadn't thought I'd done anything wrong. I was too exhausted to have done anything wrong, having just spent the last hour and a half beating and being beaten on. Of course, they were for me. This kind of thinking is nonsensical. It's like that scene in Kent State when the black kid turns to the white one and says, "The guns are always loaded." The guns are always loaded, and they are always coming for you. And they may just smash a friend's face while they're at it. I have no inherent faith anymore.

A thousand things flashed through my mind. Was I going too slow? MPs love to look for people going too slow. They assume they're drunk, and we had another DUI just last night. Yes, a Monday night. Yes, there was one the Sunday the day before that. That's just how this post rolls, especially with the 1AD back. I wondered what kind of sobriety test they would have. Would I be able to pass it in my exhausted state? I could barely lift my hand above my head, and my walk had been kind of a slow stumble to my car. Would they ask me to get out of the car? I was in gym clothes, so I breathed a sigh of relief, that I might be safe. Then I remembered what gym clothes-black Army PT bottoms and my IVAW tank top. Would he recognize the logo? How much trouble might I be in?

The MP strode up to my window and asked for my license. My hands were clumsy as they reached for it, but it was not with fear. He assumed it was, of course, as he told me "not to be nervous". I wondered what mysterious sin I was going to be down for. What my nervousness translated to in his head. If he would spy the pack of SITREPs on the seat next to me. Instead, he just leaned in my front window, and said, "You know your headlights are out?" I felt like the biggest idiot in the world. In my hurry to get home and to my hot shower, I had turned lights on, but the ones that only provided a little light. I immediately flipped to that and the MP thanked me and let me go. It wasn't about me. It wasn't about my politics. It was about headlights. This time. And I wish I could say that this incident let me relax, let me think that there's never going to be a jerk MP who's going to ask "What the hell is this Iraq Veterans Against the War shit you have on your bumper?" But it didn't. It was a reprieve, but not a permanent one.

I got home, and enjoyed the hottest shower I could possibly stand. One thing I will say for the Army is that they really make you appreciate a few of the simple things in life. Like hot water. Until the end of my life, I will cherish a truly hot shower with good water pressure. I've had many a time without it. I've lived, but I've hated it. A truly hot, good shower, especially after an awesome workout, is almost as good as sex, just for the initial minute.

On a random sidenote, WWII combat vets are awesome yet very strange. I ran into a retired one who I suppose still lives in the area of post (didn't ask him why) Old as the hills, but still looked wiry and alert. I was making conversation, just to pass the time, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, he popped out with something about us surviving Bush, and something about how people who hid in the Air National Guard at home while everyone else went to war shouldn't get to send other people into combat. Of course I shook his hand and continued the conversation, but (and I know you'll be surprised) it got too much even or me. He continued on. "And it was one of the assassination cycles, too. I was so disappointed. You know, the twenty year assassination cycles..." And on that point, my dear readers, I was off. That was definitely not the conversation I needed to be in, so I smiled, said goodbye, and headed for the door. I have apparently found the point beyond which I won't go in my dislike for our current president. It's small, but it's there.

No Christmas For You: Three Years!

I know how pay is supposed to work. I know the processes of how it and paperwork are supposed to function. I know its crafty ways and means. But like anything with enormous power that you are powerless against, I've begun to impart it with the flavor of a certain rude mythology. It's not that somewhere in the chain, a link has been broken. No, it's that the gods of S1 have somehow decided to make my Christmases a personal hell.

I haven't had a lot of pay problems in the Army, really, as things go. Really, I've been fairly lucky-only four or five over eight years. Why am I so bitter? Because out of those four or five, literally three of them have hit or culminated in a slim Christmas paycheck. Not in my wild single days, no, that would be too easy. No, literally every one of those three slim Christmases have hit while I've been a parent.

Once, because somehow in the mysterious world of paperwork, the Army decided that I didn't really have any dependents, and had been cheating them out of BAH for the past nine months. It was fixed, alright, and I got some hefty back pay-but still, my kid got a watercolor set for Christmas and some stocking stuffers, because it was already bought.

Then came the time when the dreaded Government Travel Card struck. There was a backlog getting travel claims settled while I was on a five month long TDY, and I was on paper rather than DTS. Well, my shop wasn't able to straighten it, and the card got turned off, leaving me to pay with my own cash or get kicked out of the hotel. That was a very, very expensive time-and guess when it started? You got it. December.

As I write this, I am now three months in to the worst Army pay problem I have ever had. One of those Army pay problems that really kicks you in the teeth and bends you over, without even so much as the courtesy of lube, or a reach-around. By my count, I'm now $6900 down. I've had to take out one personal loan and one AER loan just to keep myself and my family afloat. And the worst part is that I'm not ever going to see any of that money. The best I can hope for-the absolute /best/- is that things will be fixed and I'll stop actively being shorted. Hopefully this month.

How did it happen? That's the worst of it. I may as well curse the nebulous Finance Gods, because it's a culmination of a lot of small shit. Including my stupidity at trusting Finance, which is a thing that you never, ever, should do. They told me what I needed to get, and I got it, stupidly trusting that everything would go smoothly. Then came the hitches. They needed another piece of paper. I dug around and got it. Then they needed it submitted on a different form. Not a big deal. I wasn't discouraged just yet, because I knew that I'd get the backpay all at once, and I'd be able to pay back the loans.

It was two months after the entire paperwork runaround that they really dropped it on me. They had been telling me the exact wrong process. What I had wanted required an entirely different process. It would have taken an exception to policy to do it the other way, and despite my battalion commander looking into it, no one was having any dice. Oh, and then came the other shoe: there wouldn't be any backpay coming. When it got straightened out, the pay would only start from the specific date that something else happened.

Thanks, Army.

So now the paperwork has been resubmitted to start the process to get my pay issues fixed. It got sent last week to brigade, but somehow brigade waited a week to find something missing. They just sent it back. It's being sent up from battalion this week.

Who wants to take bets with me that it gets lost again?
Oh well. At least I already ordered and paid for the major Christmas presents already. Take that, Finance Gods!

Anyone military who wants to commiserate over the specific details is welcome to email me, it's a bit too technical to explain all in one long post.