What I Learned From A Combat Veteran

I got a text message calling me a [expletive] ten different ways. That could only mean one thing--Mike was back from Iraq. I called him. We cursed each other out. Then we made plans to drink. “Freedom isn’t free, mother [expletive],” he said. “So buy me beer.” It was the least I could do. He’d just spent 18 months in the sandbox, and I was dying to hear about his experiences, particularly because I was getting ready to go to the sandbox.

I had the pleasure of meeting Mike at Basic Training. We, uh, enjoyed the rustic stay at Fort Benning. One of the many highlights was a deranged Drill Sergeant who liked to force us to wear full rain gear on top of our uniforms then PT (exercise) us to death. He would always say, “We gonna make it rain up in this [expletive].”It would rain too. As we lodged our ankles in the bunk bed frames and did decline push-ups and flutter kicks and crunches and side straddle hops, the sweat would drip off the rain hood that wagged over your head and pool on the floor beneath your face. And that was only a half hour into our day at 3:30am.

Mike and I bonded for two reasons. The first was that our last names started with the same letter which meant we were always standing in line somewhere near each other. You memorize the moles, birthmarks, and skull structure of the man who is directly ahead of you alphabetically because you stare at the back of his head at least an hour every day while you stand in line for something at the position of parade rest. That means all you can do is maintain your position, blink, breathe, and stare at the noggin directly in front of your nose.The second reason we bonded was because we always used to sigh at the same time, when some senseless eighteen-year old decided to be a tough guy at the wrong time and we all had to suffer the consequences. We later found out, after earning the privilege of human speech, that we had a similar history which led up to our enlistment in the United States Army. We also had a similar future: if we made it out of Basic Training then we’d be heading to Combat Medic School in Texas. We were both in our mid-20’s and wanted to get in on the fight against the Taliban after 9/11. When I got to the bar, Mike was sitting solo, halfway through his first beer with a reserve at the side. He looked lean. I’m sure everyone in the bar was both strangely comforting as well as filling him with disgust (undisciplined civilians). I sat down next to him without saying a word, took a slug off his reserve beer, and dropped a pair of twenty dollar bills on the bar. The bartender looked at me. I glared back at him, motioned at the beers and our general direction and said: “More.” He went to work.

“I get back from 18 months overseas and you help yourself to my beer.”

“When did you start wearing panties and whining? You’re evidently transitioning back into civilized society real well. You’ll get all the beer you want tonight, [expletive].”He grinned. I grinned. It was going to be a great night.

Years have gone by, and Mike is currently headed to what he designates as "Afcrapistan" with a Special Forces Group for the latest surge in the global war on terror. In a million quiet moments I have thought of Mike and what he has seen and will face, in addition to the myriad of young men and women who have volunteered to serve in the United States Armed Forces at this point in history. I reflect on the friendship that was forged at Fort Benning while we did thousands of push-ups and experienced the circus that is Basic Training. It is a unique and unparalleled friendship, made that way by one of the strangest and powerful environments that life has to offer, that is, the crucible where human beings learn the art, science, and mentality of how to take life while efforting to maintain one's own in the face of an enemy who is trying to take it.

I learned some important life lessons that night in the bar.

No one is an island. Our decisions and actions affect others. No one is more aware of this than a team or squad of soldiers in combat. If we ignore this, people begin to resent our choices. People who harm others with carelessness gamble on the forgiveness of others and delude themselves with a false concept of self-importance. A wise person realizes that if you harm people long enough, even unintentionally, sooner or later those people are going to begin to want to hurt you back. Instead, if you want to inspire a positive response, you must incorporate respect for your fellow human being in decision-making. It also means you might need to sacrifice your solitary rate of 100mph for a team rate of 60mph. When you make the curve you didn't see coming, you'll collectively enjoy the view from the top of cliff instead of breathlessly careening toward a brutal canyon floor, wondering "What was I thinking?" or "Who have I been listening to?" just before impact.

Anger Can Be An Excellent Motivator, If Used Correctly. It can be a powerful catalyst for change if time is taken to locate its source and to deal with it. Anger often stems from a time when we were harmed, hurt, or violated and didn't have the power or understanding to stop it. If we choose to bury the reasons for our anger and refuse to face it, we might as well strap on our Kevlar and listen to the ticking. Upon detonation we won't just lose our own limbs; we will also lose anyone who has made the decision to stand beside us (including our children). If that realization doesn't spur us toward healing, then maybe the following will: if we don't deal with our anger, then whoever initially hurt us is still violating us by the power of that original wound. When you can't stop the bleeding, there's no shame in calling the medic. The only way out is forgiveness, learning from the situation, and doing our best to stop it from ever happening again. This is a chance for the warrior in you to learn one of the most powerful lessons of all: strength is not large muscles wrapped around bones. The domain of true strength is the spirit.

It really is about the guy standing next to you. The first casualty must be the ego. People like to talk. Many people consist of mainly that: mere talk. Lt. Col. Randolph C. White said in his legendary speech to a group of Fort Benning Infantry graduates: "For my money, there are two kinds of men that walk the earth. Men of action and all others." Our current society, barraged with truckloads of information, is constantly stimulated and frequently overwhelmed into incapacitation. People get steamrolled into a complete inability to assert themselves in the face of such daunting amounts of information, especially those that believe in order to have value they must be the smartest, coolest, best-looking, or most unique. This is one of the downsides of the gospel of individuality. Those who are not duped into this insecurity-fostering idea that best = worth, nestle into the healthy waters of seeing each day as an opportunity, not a gauntlet of unending failure. They are not burdened by crippling self-loathing because they understand that safe and successful completion of the mission is more important than dominating others. That's why Army Special Forces soldiers are referred to as Quiet Professionals. They don't have to talk loud about their accomplishments. Secure and brimming with confidence, they have the internal wealth of high personal standards tied to a collective reverence for the team, infused by an intensity of focus on the mission, instead of the mirror. As the Spartan proverb reads: "Many words are poverty."

Soldiers often offend short-sighted misconceptions. The uniformed people that the civilian public sends to war often grasp the most fundamental realities of the human condition better than anyone who hasn't experienced such extremes. These young men and women and their families ought to be reverenced and provided for as they face these challenges. In the end, they just might be the strongest voice of reason when international or domestic conflict attempts to instill panic and fear. These combat veterans who have lived through the most brutal and inhumane circumstances have also felt heights of nearly inconceivable self-actualization, brotherhood, and an incomparable appreciation for peace. It is their reward for offering all.

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article from Just a Guy Thing

It's A Wonderful Life: Making Lasting Christmas Memories

They are some of the most vivid memories of my childhood. We carried piles of chopped wood into the house, stacking it next to the fireplace. My father mashed newspaper and leaned kindling on it, shifting the logs into the flames until the entire room glowed and warmed. Stockings dangled on the mantle. Snow tumbled from the clouds in droves. The pines grew santa beards and moaned under the weight of the ice.

The kitchen bloomed sweet scents. Sugar cookies emerged from the oven, ready to be smeared with frosting. Cider and hot cocoa perched on the stove, ready for refills. Roasted turkey and seasoned potatoes emitted their incense into every corner of every room.

Tables, littered with odds and ends, invited us to create our own ornaments. Our little hands shaped tin foil into metallic candy canes. We painted wooden shapes into colorful messes that led to endeared glances from our parents and grandparents. My brother, cousins, and I barely noticed these glances at the time, seething in sugar rushes, entranced by the holiday spectacle. We recollect those moments now as we glance at our spouses over our own children’s busy little heads, hair messy and vertical with static electricity from stocking hats, chins sticky with frosting and flecked with crumbs.

We tore out of the garage with the family dog and leapt snow drifts like surfers entering ocean surf. Geared in snow pants, parkas, stocking caps, boots, and gloves, it was a miraculous, clumsy adventure rolling snowballs into massive boulders, stacking them into snowmen or snow fort walls, throwing ourselves on the ground and carving angels into the powder. Inevitably, the first snow ball winged through the air and wooshed passed someone’s head. A declaration of war was made and the battle began!

Naps followed. Sweaty boots and soaked gloves, coats, and scarves piled next to heating vents. Melting snow pooled underneath the stack, resembling Frosty’s top hat on the floor of the greenhouse. When our eyelids finally fluttered awake and our mouths gave up drowsy yawns, we dissolved out of sleep into wakefulness to the gentle sound of Pachelbel’s Canon, drifting down the hallway.

“White Christmas” and “It’s a Wonderful Life” flickered on the television, and Bing Crosby’s voice lifted off the album after my grandmother placed the needle. Forever will the sound of his singing kindle the comforting recollection of my grandmother’s giggling and my grandfather, looming large as a giant, at the head of the dinner table.

My family has as much dysfunction as any, but these memories are nestled in a hallowed, inviolate space. The spirit of these holidays that grace our calendar express the idea that a higher power is good, beneficent, beautiful, generous, and most importantly of all, intensely concerned about the well-being of human beings. We take this time to celebrate one another, to cherish our fleeting moments while we bear the breath of life, and to invest in the poorer, the lesser among us in order that they too may share in the blessings that the fortunate experience. In the quiet of my home, when my family is tucked into bed and the winter wind is howling against the walls, I have thought of ways to try to instill similar experiences in my family. As you plan your holiday, maybe these ideas can help you make this year a sacred memory for you and yours.

Family Quirks Can Make Some New Traditions. An elderly relative is a survivor of the Great Depression. Constantly attempting to make every cent count, she generally purchases some very interesting sweaters from the local thrift store for a quarter or fifty cents. These are our gifts. Usually they are two or three sizes too small and nowhere near the ballpark of the latest fashion. But we happily put on our new sweater, respectfully masking any laughter as we try to fit into them. It’s fine by us! We look forward to snapping the photo of our new sweater. Last year, my brother-in-law looked extremely dapper with a large cardinal draped across his chest. My wife slipped on a gold colored sweater with a wreath pasted on the front. I happily pulled my new skin-tight sweater over my head and, mildly embarrassed, listened to everyone comment on every visible contour of my upper body. I sipped my egg nog and acted as if nothing was the matter until my fingers went a bit numb from the elastic tourniquets half-way up my forearms. You don’t forget things like that!

Don’t Forget the Gag Gift! One Thanksgiving, a member of the family brought a particularly unappetizing dish to pass. By the end of the day, the dish, untouched, had congealed into an even more unappetizing entity. Another member of the family who will remain anonymous, gathered a healthy portion of this food substance, and took it home. During the interlude between November and December, this food substance spent some time in the freezer as well as some time on shelf in the garage to “ferment to ripe perfection.” Said family member then placed it in a decorative box, wrapped it, and placed it under the tree. When I had the good fortune of opening this wondrous present, I got to experience this food item all over again. I also discovered why the dog had been so interested in this little package the whole day.

Cook Together. One of the major highlights of any holiday celebration is the meal. That meal takes work. If you have a family member who lavishes in the role of the holiday chef, see if you can volunteer to be their assistant. It’s fun to watch your son or daughter help create a portion of the meal and then applaud his or her efforts during the feast. If, however, the host of your holiday is not a big fan of cooking, try to balance this burden by organizing a theme and assign willing relatives a dish to pass. After all, who says the main course has got to be turkey? Wouldn’t it be fun to have Uncle George grilling ribs or kabobs on the grill, especially if it’s only 30 degrees out?

Incorporate Exercise. With all the feasting that happens on the holiday, it’s important to give your body a break. Instead of engorging yourself into a tryptophan (the amino acid in turkey which causes sleepiness) coma, treat yourself right by including some form of physical exercise in your holiday plans. Whether that means getting out in the snow for a slippery football game or going for a hike (in locales where snow is not an option), get creative and get active. This is also handy for getting your little ones to sleep long and hard, which hopefully means dad and mom get too do the same.

Your Gift Doesn’t Need to Be Expensive, Just Thoughtful. These days there isn’t a lot of money to throw around. It’s a good thing that the best gifts aren’t always the most expensive. The beginning of giving a good gift is knowing what the receiver values. That takes time and effort. That takes getting to know the person who may or may not be all that pleasant or easy to get to know. If you listen closely though, even casual banter can shed light on where a person is at internally. If you pay attention, you might receive the gift of being able to give a gift which is not a mere item, but a blessing.

Do Something Charitable. Teaching your children lessons of gratitude, thankfulness, and humility are more and more difficult in today’s society. The holidays are an excellent time to effort at instilling these values. In a family prayer before your meal or by an act of service, your children can be exposed to adults of character and learn some powerful life lessons. If serving meals to the homeless is too scary for young children, try shoveling an elderly neighbor’s driveway or attending a church service. Take half-time of the football game to pack a gift box for a service-person overseas. There’s really no end to the possibilities when it comes to helping others. As they say: “There’s nothing to it but to do it!”

Hopefully these ideas can help make your holiday one that will live in your children’s hearts and minds as well as yours. Happy Holidays!

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article from The Father Life

Floored By Fatherhood

The instant I saw my daughter’s face for the first time, I almost fell over. Slammed directly in the chest with the proverbial two by four, I stood there enamored, trying to breathe. I stammered out her name in a near whisper. I was a completely stunned, happy idiot. My eyes watered. My knees went weak, and everything went blurry beyond her face. Prior to this she was merely the strange culprit behind my wife’s nausea and expanding abdomen. She was the reason I’d been waking multiple times in the middle of the night to whacks in the head from whirling elbows and flying pillows. My wife would grunt and sigh and mutter things like “Is it a hundred degrees in here?” as she tried to get comfortable. Once she nestled into an agreeable position, I would put my hand on her abdomen and feel my unborn daughter jab, roll, and rock. I had only been able to attempt to divine her face from the mystifying ultrasound photos. Now, after what seemed like a long strange dream, she had arrived. Seeing her actual face for the first time had me wobbling.

I steadied myself on my wife’s bedside rail and marveled at the dizziness. Prior to the birth of my daughter, I worked as a medical professional and even assisted in the births of a handful of babies. During military medic training, I crawled under live machine gun fire toward simulated casualties. I held C-spine on a man who’d been thrown from his vehicle on a road outside of Seattle, Washington, after a motor vehicle accident. I bandaged burn victims, drained abscessed wounds of homeless drug addicts, provided care to inmates who had beaten each other senseless while incarcerated over gang affiliation, and watched my grandfather deteriorate in the grip of diabetes. I thought all of these experiences would’ve prepared my nerves for the delivery of my own child. Not so. I exhaled, glanced at my wife who appeared exhausted but okay, and at the guidance of the nurse, followed into a side room where they were helping my daughter take her first breaths. Her cry filled the room like sunlight at dawn.

Soon after, we were at home, getting intimately acquainted with parenthood. I held her in my arms as she slept, bundled in our lamp-lit living room. I stared, watching her breathe, amazed at every feature. I was exhausted. My wife ascended the stairs to the bedroom an hour ago and hopefully was getting some much-needed rest. The stereo faintly played “Everything” by the band Lifehouse.

How can I stand here with you and not be moved by you?
Would you tell me how could it be any better than this?

I clicked repeat on the stereo remote and meditated in the music and the moment. What everyone had said was true.Everything had changed.

Recently we celebrated our daughter’s first birthday. As I reflected over the last year, I’ve recorded some lessons I learned that might be helpful to any fathers-to-be looking for advice.

They’re counting on you. Revel in your new role as a father. Be proud. It’s reassuring to your partner who is depending on you to be a solid rock. Look for opportunities to help as you grow into your role. Get tactically and technically proficient in all the baby gear. Study the developmental stages so you’re on top of things. Show your partner that it’s not all up to her. Every day is another chance to prove to your partner that she picked the right guy.

Logistics. You may have just grabbed your wallet and keys on the way out the door two weeks ago. Now you’ve got bottles, diaper bags, breast pumps, pacifiers, and car seats to coordinate. Get familiar with it all now, while the baby is still in utero. Trust me; it’ll minimize stress once the baby arrives. That’s when time and energy are not gold, they’re platinum.

It happens to other guys too. Try to have a sense of humor about the new situations you find yourself in. When my wife sent me out on a mission to find a breast pump and some sort of special breastfeeding bra the day after our daughter was born, I wasn’t too happy about it. But I sucked it up, humbled myself, and walked straight up to the first group of female sales associates I could find at my local department store, confessed that I was a brand-new father as of yesterday, and I had officially been given a list. I think every woman knows what that means. One of these ladies had mercy on me, walked me directly to each item, and spared me a ton of embarrassment. I nominated the saleswoman for beatification and am pushing for sainthood. Although it was really irritating at the time, it has turned out to be moderately funny to hilarious when I think back on it.

Be a team player. When facing a screaming, crying baby, a partner whose body has just gone through significant trauma and is experiencing intense hormonal changes, it’s important to work together. Add sleep deprivation to the mix and your ability to sense when your partner needs a break becomes an essential skill. Remember, you’re in this together. Present your needs to each other for the day, make a plan, then make it happen. Instead of letting the challenges drive a wedge between you, let it be an adhesive which seals your bond together.

Your freedom is not gone forever. The concept of sacrifice is foreign to our society. Although you have a child that is completely dependent upon you and your partner, be patient with these new responsibilities. Give yourself time to adjust. Keep your eyes on the reward and you’ll endure the cost. Pay attention to your child as he or she grows. As the baby grows, you just might become amazed at the miracle of life unfolding before you and find a new kind of freedom, one which comes from service. Balance this with your daily personal needs. Make the most of your time, and take your family and trusted friends up on their offers of help. Don’t confuse being a martyr or a superhero with being a father. Remember, you’re a man first, a father second.

Well, that’s all the advice I can give. I have a birthday party to clean up, a bath to give, a diaper to change, and birthday cake to clean off my baby’s face, the floor, the high chair, the wall, my car keys, the cabinets, the stairs…. Good luck!

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article from The Father Life

Hollywood Undead

CD: Swan Songs
Record Label: A&M/Octone

John Schlesinger said “Hollywood is an extraordinary kind of temporary place.” Robert DeNiro says he only goes to Los Angeles “when he gets paid for it.” Jay Leno said, “If God doesn’t destroy Hollywood Boulevard, he owes Sodom and Gomorrah an apology.” Slithering out of this cauldron like the rumored first cell from primordial soup is a band called Hollywood Undead.

If you haven’t heard of them yet, prepare to be blindsided. The day they created their MySpace profile, several thousand new users signed on. In one week they crested to the top of the MySpace music chart like a wave on the Santa Monica shore. Their first official album called “Swan Songs” was released Sep. 2 by (A&M/Octone Records). They consist of six members identified only by street aliases. Their music is a collision of hip-hop, metal, and rock and sounds like the Beastie Boy’s Licensed to Ill getting pistol whipped by Eminem.

They wear literal masks which possesses a purposeful irony—they claim Hollywood as their home—a kingdom renowned for soul slaughtering superficiality and a characterless tar of stunning beauty. When you watch their posted videos it’s like you’ve been airborne dropped into a liquor store robbery, a nightclub hip-hop show, an adult film movie set, and an alley littered with heroin addicts all combined into one massive county jailhouse burrito.

With brutal lyrics and an energy that is sure to inspire fist fights, civilized society has one more reason to fear our youth. With an intensity and aggression that befits those hell-bent on survival, their chilling anthems engage any pent-up listener rage and echo things like “Let’s watch this city burn!” “The city looks so pretty do you want to burn it with me?” “One nation destroyed under God!” and “The war has just begun!” One wonders if the souls of aborted children have united, incarnated, donned masks, and come to annihilate the living. This album makes political correctness choke on its own blood. One recollects the recent studies that claim that 1 in 4 American teenagers have a sexually transmitted disease and 1 in 5 have a personality disorder.

One certainty is this: this album is so powerful that it has the potential to incite riots. Keep it out of the prisons. Its success is sociologically significant. If the intelligencia has enough humility to get passed their own aversion to its violence and misogynist and listen closely, then it just might force Congress, public schools, and what is left of an American moral compass to do a three penny drop. If you saw them at The Annex in Madison on December 15, you were lucky. The next time they tour through Wisconsin, SWAT may be a venue requirement. This is definitely one to watch--if not for their social significance, then for your own safety.

Maximum Ink article