My Seekrit Christmas

So last week, I spent a few days thinking about what to do with some extra money. Lately, I've taken on some bills (mostly not for necessary items), but I had a little chunk of change fall into my lap. Seems the reimbursement for Official Government Travel executed in October finally posted to my account.

I'm having the GTO tidied up some - which will set me back a bit - but was still daydreaming. More GTO stuff? A new firearm (or two)? Tires, suspension, seats for my Jeep? What to do?

After about the fourth day, I googled up "children's hospital Charleston". Sure enough, there is one there.

I'm heading down to see my sister & her family there, and mom's flying in from Colorado. This has been planned for a few months. What happened next was totally impulsive and emotional hip-shooting on my part.

I got on the hospital's website and spoke with their PR director. I introduced myself and asked if she knew of any Marines that had visited or planned to visit the hospital as art of the annual Toys For Tots campaign. She said there were none... which is PERFECT.

Next I called the director of Child Life. I explained that I was calling neither on behalf of my unit nor the Marine Corps, but as a private individual. I asked if it would be possible to come by the hospital on Christmas day and give a few toys to the kids there. She said that yes, Santa would be in their common play area on Christmas day handing out gifts for a few hours, and I was welcome to stop by then and hand out my gifts as well.

I also asked her if - and explained it was a slim chance - one of my sister's kids might be allowed to help me carry toys and hand them out. Normally, she said, outside children under 18 aren't permitted in the hospital... but she could make an exception.

So, on Christmas day, I'll be going to the children's hospital with my nephew Micah - who I hadn't realized was a guest in that same hospital a couple of years back during a bad spell in his battle with Crohn's - and we will hand out a bigass gang of toys to the kids there. Just because.

I'm so stoked, I could just about pee all over myself. Seriously, I don't know where this idea came from so suddenly, but after thinking about it, rethinking it, coordinating, planning, and spending a chunk of change on it... is just seems so damn RIGHT that it makes me wanna hug something.

I work daily with Marines who have been injured in combat or combat operations who will never be the same. Most of them fight through their recovery and rehabilitation process every step of the way, gutting it out while still being able to care for their families and children. It's impressive as hell and makes me proud of what I'm part of every day... but I also know that it's something they signed up for. Most of them will be the first ones to point that out as well.

The kids in that hospital, though... God, it blows my mind to think about them fighting through illness and injury as bad or worse than some of my Marines, having it thrust upon them, not having any help with it except their families. Waking up scared every day, not knowing or understanding fully what's happened to you, just knowing that it hurts really bad or you're tired all the time from the chemo or the dialysis. Parents who might not know how the hell they can afford the next round of treatment, but will do whatever they can to get the best care for their kid.

It goes on and on, and I know I could never do half as well as most of those kids if the shoe was on the other foot. This might be their only Christmas in the hospital, or the last one in the hospital... or their last one, period.

If I can go in there and hand out some teddy bears and games in my dress blues and make them smile for a minute, and have them remember that a Marine cares that much about them... shit, that's worth a few hundred bucks of extra beer money any day of the week.

It almost makes you wonder who's gonna come away more changed by the experience, huh?

Remedial Action - Part I

So yeah, some associate VP at UGA denied my application for admission a couple of weeks ago.

As of today, I have letters of recommendation in hand from my Company and Battalion Commanders. They were written the SAME DAY that I formally submitted a request for them. Highlights:

"SSgt D....is a huge asset to this command." "I was personally surprised to hear that he was not accepted to your university." "Attending UGA has been a goal of his since I've known him and I am willing to help this Marine obtain this goal any way I can."

Thanks, Captain! And from the Bn CO:

"I agree with the Captain's statement that SSgt D.'s present demeanor & qualifications do not marry up with his past GPA snapshot. I would have thought that his initial package to your university would have been a slam dunk approval and that is why I am writing this recommendation to ask for reconsideration."

Next step: I'm speaking to a local UGA alumnus this week for advice and a gameplan. Should he decide to pull a string or make a phone call, that's purely out of the kindness of his heart.

After that comes the campus visit, and I will have firm appointments with t1) the admissions counselor who told me the soonest I could appeal is June of 2009, and 2) the Associate VP for Admissions who signed off on my rejection letter.

I'll still be shopping housing, jobs, and speaking with University VA and financial aid reps while I'm there. I'm going to be fucking well admitted, and likely enrolled, for the Fall 2009 semester. I might as well plan accordingly.

At the end of that week, should the Admissions retards still be telling me "no", I will get that from them in writing.

After that, I'll route a formal request through my chain of command for recommendation letters from LtGen Coleman, the first flag officer in my chain of command, as well as General (four fucking stars) Amos, who was heavily involved in making the Wounded Warrior Battalion (my unit, if you recall) a reality. And, uh, also happens to currently be the Assistant Commandant of the Marine Corps.

On the side, I will also write Zell Miller a nice letter explaining my situation - with my admissions essay, letters of recommendation, rejection letter(s), and current SAT scores enclosed. I will politely ask if he knows how I should proceed.

Take a gander at Zell's biography. I'm pretty sure he is not only able to help me out, but would be seriously predisposed to do so. Call it a hunch.

I'm reasonably certain that if it even gets to that point, this here four-generation Georgia native will be personally guaranteed a place at the table with the UGA Class of 2013.



Failing all that, I'll shame my entire family name and heritage, selling out my own personal honor and good name like a cheap whore, by enrolling at Emory. Or (God help me) worse yet, Georgia Tech.

Or some shit.

Song of the Moment - "I Got Loaded", Los Lobos

Quotation of the moment: "Heaven knows its time; every bullet has its billet." - Sir Walter Scott, 1862

Why I Love Navy Medicine

My funniest story involving Navy "medics", which we call Corpsmen:

It was back in 1996, I'd only been at Lejeune a couple of years or so. LCpl Dugger went to one of the satellite clinics for a scheduled pre-commissioning physical. Part of that physical was an EKG.

Come time for the EKG, a young female HN (Paygrade E-3, equivalent rank to me) walks me back to the exam room, has me strip from the waist up and lie down on the exam table. She attached a few little pads and leads around my chest, then flipped on the EKG machine. One the bep-beep-beep rhythm was established, she hit the button for a printout.

GARRRBZZZGARRBZZT - *RRRIP!*

She tore off the printout, squinched up her eyes for a second, and said "Hmmm. That's weird."

GARRRBZZZGARRBZZT - *RRRIP!*

"Hey, um... are you feeling alright?"

"Yeah," I said. "Just fine."

"Wait right here for a minute," she said, then walked out.

A couple of minutes later, she returned with an HM3 (E-4), who also walked over to the machine and hit the button for a printout.

GARRRBZZZGARRBZZT - *RRRIP!*

"Hmmm," he said, peering at the prntout.

GARRRBZZZGARRBZZT - *RRRIP!*

Staring more intently now, he looks at it, asking me "Do you feel okay? Experiencing any pain or anything?"

"No,", I said. "Just a little sore from PT this morning."

"Well, just relax and wait right here, we're gonna take care of you!" Then they both walk out, whispering to each other.

A minute or two later, in walks the doctor - and I don't just mean an MO, or any ol' Navy doctor - it's a Captain (equivalent to a Marine Colonel!), the commander of the clinic, strolling in with the HN and HM3 in his wake.

"Good morning! How are we feeling today, Lance Corporal?"

"Just fine, sir!" says I, fighting the urge to jump up and stand at attention.

So now, the Captain took his turn with the machine - GARRRBZZZGARRBZZT - *RRRIP!*

Reading the EKG intently, he asks me "Are you in any pain, son? Feeling light-headed or anything?"

"Um, no sir... I feel just fine," I replied, although I was actually sweating a bit at this point.

Well, you just lie right there and relax, son. Everything is going to be alright!" They all three moved out of the room with a definite sense of purpose as I watched, wondering WTF was going on.

A minute later, the HN walks in again. GARRRBZZZGARRBZZT - *RRRIP!*She took another printout sheet and starts to head back out before I stop her. "Excuse me," I asked. "Is there anything wrong?"

She stopped midstride, turned around to look me in the eye, raising her hands, and said "I'm NOT ALLOWED to tell you!", then scurried off.

At this point, I am seriously wondering how and why I have screwed up the insides of my 21-year-old body so badly that nobody can figure out what my problem is.

Three minutes later, an HMC (E-7) walks in, appearing businesslike but not overly concerned. "Hey, man. How ya doin' this morning?"

"Ummm... okay so far, Chief."

GARRRBZZZGARRBZZT - *RRRIP!* The Chief looked at the printout for a moment, glanced at me, then did it again. GARRRBZZZGARRBZZT - *RRRIP!*

"Ah, Jesus, you gotta be SHITTIN' me!" He reached over, pulled one lead off my chest, then another one, switched their locations, and snapped them back onto the pads.

GARRRBZZZGARRBZZT - *RRRIP!* He looked at the printout, laughed, rolled his eyes, then sauntered out of the room. shaking his head.

Within five minutes, the HN had returned, made the proper entries in my record, and I was out the front door with my physical passed and complete. I guess sometimes, humorous though it might seem, the Navy Medical Corps doesn't really like to dwell on their mistakes...

Why I Fight

Before you get the wrong impression, this is nothing to do with why I am proud (and enjoy every moment) of my martial profession. This is about why I flat out refuse to take "no" for an answer anymore.

August, 1992: I had been awarded a 3-year Army ROTC scholarship out of high school. I knew that I wanted to pursue some sort of military career as well as a college degree - in that order. I had begun shopping schools months earlier, and had decided on Norwich University in Vermont. They'd offered to take my three-year ROTC scholarship and make it a four-year (75% tuition each year) as well as paying for room & board all four years. For a $22,000/yr. private military college, you couldn't really beat that deal - especially given what a crap student I was in high school.

Mom and I drove out to visit the campus all the way from Colorado Springs. We met some faculty & staff. I got fitted for uniforms. We paid my deposit. Everything was locked on, and I was to report for my first day of classes on September 2nd.

Eight days before that, I received a form letter (and I CLEARLY remember that it was printed on perforated computer paper, almost dot-matrix style) signed by a Colonel at the US Army Medical Review Board, stating that the Board had decided to rescind my scholarship offer based on the fact that the specific refractive error in my corrective lenses was too great.

15 months later, after sliding by a year of college out of pocket (and still not applying myself), I shot 323 out of 350 on the Marine Corps Entry-Level Rifle Qualification Course with my M-16A2 at distances up to 500 yards. I wanted to take my "Rifle Expert" badge and mail it back to the Colonel, telling him to stick it up his ass.

April, 1996: After becoming a reasonably "salty" Lance Corporal, I came across some notification or order that solicited applications from enlisted members of the Navy and Marine Corps to apply for appointment to the U.S. Naval Academy. I'd tried the academies in high school, but had a shit GPA, great test scores, and zero extracurricular activities. With almost three years in the Fleet Marine Force, it seemed I'd have better odds. I was correct - Congressman Joel Hefley made me his primary nomination for the Class of 2000.

After all the other pieces were in place, my ACT score of 32 (of 35) was not good enough. Maxed out the reading, English, & science portions of it, but I scored a 26 on the math bit. Minimum required math score was a 27. I called the Chief Yeoman at the Academy and asked if there was any chance of a waiver. She told me there was not. I took no for an answer and kept on truckin', for better or worse - mainly, I think, because I was a complete moron and/or total wuss at the time.

December, 2008: I've applied to the University of Georgia, as alluded to in my earlier writings, because there is no other school I'd rather go to for completing my degree. With the new Post-9/11 GI Bill, I'll be more than able financially to attend full-time, and I feel reasonably certain that I will in no way take the opportunity for granted.

Less than two weeks after submitting my completed application and fee, I recieve a letter saying: "We regret that the credentials which you have submitted with your application do not meet the requirements for admission to the University of Georgia. On the enclosed summary of admissions policies, please note the specific reason, blhablahblah I'm a dirty whore.

(Overleaf)

"You have 30 to 59 transferable hours, and your GPA is less than the required 3.20. Your transfer average as calculated by standard UGA procedure currently is 2.08 on 40 total semester hours, 35 of which are transferable."

I'm already writing. I will respond - first personally to this particular minion, and (if required) later formally to whomever I need to above her head. Fact is, the last time I took any college-accredited course, Bill Clinton was a little over halfway into his first term in office. Also of note is that my tuition is more or less guaranteed for four years (albeit at the meager in-state rate) thanks to my legal Georgia residency and the GI Bill.

This is Setback Number One. I'm full-on looking forward to further setbacks, because I will face them head-on and crush them like a bag of stale Chee-Tos.

The sentence fragment "...somewhat preoccupied for the past few years executing the Global War On Terror both stateside and abroad" will likely appear in future correspondence at some point. FWIW, that is.

I had leave approved specifically for a campus visit last month, and I neglected to take that leave because my NCOs were not on hand for a few days, and I did not want my Platoon running around with no leadership. I'm resubmitting that request tomorrow, and come hell or high water (or Hezbollah, for that matter) I will be in Athens, Georgia in front of someone's desk in about a month's time.

"The Marines have a way of making you afriad - not of dying, but of not doing your job." - Captain Bonnie Little

Holiday Flashback, Episode I

It isn't often that I have very detailed, strong memories of a particular day or event. I personally count that as a failing of mine, yet I chalk it up to my dissociative nature and the way I bounced all over the place (literally, geographically) as a child growing up. But a conversation at work today triggered a memory that I knew I just had to put in black & white as soon as possible, if for no other reason than the hilarity of it all.

It was late 1995, and I had been at Camp Lejeune for a whopping nine months, and had two years in the Corps under my belt. I was beginning to feel a bit experienced, though God knows I certainly wasn't at that point. In point of fact, I was working in the Company office for a few weeks since my particular style of heavy equipment operation didn't quite jive up with that of my supervisors. And yes, that's putting it very mildly.

One afternoon in early December, the Company Commander was hanging out in the office doing routine Captain-type stuff. I vaguely remember him asking those of us in the office if we wanted to "help out with some things for the Battalion Christmas party". Being the lowest-ranking Marine in the office, and not seeing how this could be anything but helpful anyway, I offered to pitch in.

Had this been a Star Wars movie, someone would have told me otherwise.

So, cometh the day of the party, and I'm already a bit cheery. All units aboard the base were being released at noon for a four-day weekend (a "96" as we call it) to go home for Christmas - everyone except the recently-returned 24th MEU. They were to stay an additional day so that the President could come down and personally award them the Presidential Unit Citation for their efforts in rescuing a downed Air Force pilot in Bosnia.

I arrived at Goettge Memorial Field House about a half-hour before the scheduled 1000 kickoff time for the party, dressed in camouflage utilities since that was the prescribed uniform. Within literally 90 seconds of walking through the door, Mrs. Company Commander swooped in on me and said "Ohhhhh, you must be the Lance Corporal that William told me would help us out! Thank you for being here a bit early! Here, take this, and I'll see you over by the Christmas tree in a bit", as she hands me a brown paper grocery sack. "You're going to be helping Santa!"

Well, thought I, no biggie. I got a sack of toys or candy or some shit to hand out to some ankle-biters. But lo, my friends, I was mistaken. So very horribly, irreversibly, catastrophically mistaken.

As I peered down into the bag, I saw parts and pieces. Parts and pieces of a costume, that is. Among these parts and pieces were a green, felt, pointy hat - complete with feather. There were also green, felt curly-toed boondocker-style shoes, complete with little dingle bells on the tips of the toes. There was a green felt skirt-lookin' thingy, as well as a pair of tights. TIGHTS, I tell you! Red-and white hoop-striped tights, no less! Topping it all off were some pointy rubber ears. Some sadistic bastard had, apparently, thought of EVERY last detail for this particular holiday soiree.

Resigned to the fact that I 1) could not back out since I was the proverbial minion, and 2) that I'm a complete retard for ever volunteering for anything in my life, I trudged back to the locker room which, thankfully, was completely empty.

After laying out all the goddamn Elf parts on the bench beside me, I began to disrobe, unblousing my trousers, kicking the boots off, and sliding into a near-suicidal state of depression, hatred, and resentment. The icy coldness of the hard wooden bench registered clearly when I sat my bare ass down, as I haven't owned a pair of underwear since 1993 (due to a painful lesson learned in Boot Camp, which story is told another day).

I had just gotten the goofy red & white tights on, as well as the culry-toed dingle-bell shoes, and was getting ready to put on the Elf-uniform-cum-dress that was provided when, unexpectedly, the door to the locker room slammed open with authority.

I stood there, completely bare-assed and balancing on one leg, trying to slip on that horrendous costume, and glanced up ant the entourage that had suddenly appeared. There was a tall, good-looking Marine Colonel (and God alone knows why, but I recognized him as the Assistant Chief of Staff for Intelligence [G-2] of the 2d Marine Division) standing about eight feet away from me, flanked on either side by two or three tall, good-looking, well-dressed gentlemen in three-piece suits with slight bulges on the left side of their ribs. Apparently the 2d Combat Engineer Battalion Christmas Party coincided with the 24-hour advance site survey and security assessment being conducted by the US Secret Service for Mr. Clinton's visit to Camp Lejeune.

There was a moment there - a very brief moment, hamd'allah - where everyone's eyes were fixed directly on the poor, half-naked 21-year-old Marine. Once it was abundantly clear that I posed no threat, they moved onward, sweeping through the locker room and checking all the details that security teams check before wandering farther off into the field house and forgetting about me completely.

To be quite honest, the rest of the day was a hell of a lot more embarrassing for me personally. In hindsight, though, I knew at that very moment that I would never apply - or even be eligible for - a job with the Secret Service.

To this day I wonder if there's a note somewhere about my naked ass and whether or not it posed a threat to the President. Maybe that's just me my own personal shame talking, though...

Thanks, JT...

Coded, ancient the crease
Unlock the timers
And strike the chimers
In my sleep

Grab the coat, steal the fleece
From behind the curtain
It will most certain
-ly bring peace

To those with countless numbers
No longer cold nor hot
Like things that I will keep
And hide them in my sleep

Then even countless numbers
No longer cold nor hot
Like things that I will keep
And hide them in my sleep

Coded ancient
Oh brightness we shall see
Loaded up and at night when
We shall flee
Not to tread through the heavy life
Sink in the dream
On the right night
You'll find her waiting

Selling things for cheap
The things that I will keep

Bama, The Southern Thing, and Obama

I finally got to to to The Rock Show and see Drive-By Truckers live this past Monday night. It was a great night for me personally, as I'll detail sometime later. Right now, I want to share one small slice of my feelings and emotions about this Presidential election.

I didn't vote, straight up. The reasons behind that are many, but I'm at peace with how things worked out, generally speaking.

I have my misgivings about where this country - and I mean the people, not any institution - is headed. I hope and pray (Yes, to God, believe it or not) that things will get better for America. I do this despite being a realist and a cynic.

I came across a news article today that took me right back to northern Alabama and my Georgia home, though. In the context of last night's events, as well as how I feel in my heart, I felt compelled to juxtapose this essay next to one of my favorite DBT works.

I don't hold out much hope for Obama helping the economy, fixing our national defense strategy or foreign policy - at least not in the next 24 months. But I do know that reading (and understanding) everything below does give me hope and pride that our country has come a long way in 40 years.

Race and racism is still an issue in the USA, and it's probably bigger than many folks care to admit. It is the one thing that I believe will improve - hopefully MUCH more noticeably - in the coming four years.

If you ignore anything I've ever said or written, I beg you to read what follows. Then re-read it. Think about it, and take it to heart. Better yet, let me know what you think afterward.

I guarantee you'll come away better for it. I know I did.


I grew up in North Alabama, back in the 1970's, when dinosaurs still roamed the earth
I'm speaking of course of the Three Great Alabama Icons:
George Wallace, Bear Bryant and Ronnie Van Zant
Now Ronnie Van Zant wasn't from Alabama, he was from Florida
He was a huge Neil Young fan
But in the tradition of Merle Haggard writin' "Okie from Muskogee" to tell his dad's point of view about the hippies 'n Vietnam,
Ronnie felt that the other side of the story should be told.
And Neil Young always claimed that "Sweet Home Alabama" was one of his favorite songs. And legend has it that he was an honorary pall bearer at Ronnie's funeral
Such is the Duality of the Southern Thing
And Bear Bryant wore a cool lookin' red checkered hat and won football games
And there's few things more loved in Alabama than football and the men who know how to win at it
So when the Bear would come to town, there'd be a parade.
And me, I was one a' them pussy boys 'cause I hated football, so I got a guitar
But a guitar was a poor substitute for a football with the girls in my high school
So my band hit the road
And we didn't play no Skynyrd either
I came of age rebellin' against the music in my high school parkin' lot
It wasn't till years later after leavin' the South for a while that I came to appreciate and understand the whole Skynyrd thing and its misunderstood glory
I left the South and learned how different people's perceptions of the Southern Thing was from what I'd seen in my life

Which leads us to George Wallace

Now Wallace was for all practical purposes the Governor of Alabama from 1962 until 1986 Once, when a law prevented him from succeeding himself he ran his wife Lurleen in his place and she won by a landslide
He's most famous as the belligerent racist voice of the segregationist South
Standing in the doorways of schools and waging a political war against a Federal Government that he decried as hypocritical
And Wallace had started out as a lawyer and a judge with a very progressive and humanitarian track record for a man of his time. But he lost his first bid for governor in 1958 by hedging on the race issue, against a man who spoke out against integration
Wallace ran again in '62 as a staunch segregationist and won big, and for the next decade spoke out loudly
He accused Kennedy and King of being communists. He was constantly on national news, representing the "good� people of Alabama"
And you know race was only an issue on TV in the house that I grew up in
Wallace was viewed as a man from another time and place
And when I first ventured out of the South, I was shocked at how strongly Wallace was associated with Alabama and its people
Ya know racism is a worldwide problem and it has been since the beginning of recorded history
and it ain't just white and black
But thanks to George Wallace, it's always a little more convenient to play it with a Southern accent.
And bands like Lynyrd Skynyrd attempted to show another side of the South
One that certainly exists, but few saw beyond the rebel flag
And this applies not only to their critics and detractors, but also from their fans and followers. So for a while, when Neil Young would come to town, he'd get death-threats down in Alabama
Ironically, in 1971, after a particularly racially charged campaign, Wallace began backpedaling, and he opened up Alabama politics to minorities at a rate faster than most Northern states or the Federal Government.
And Wallace spent the rest of his life trying to explain away his racist past, and in 1982 won his last term in office with over 90% of the black vote

Such is the Duality of the Southern Thing

And George Wallace died back in '98 and he's in Hell now, not because he's a racist
His track record as a judge and his late-life quest for redemption make a good argument for his being, at worst, no worse than most white men of his generation, North or South
But because of his blind ambition and his hunger for votes, he turned a blind eye to the suffering of Black America. And he became a pawn in the fight against the Civil Rights cause
Fortunately for him, the Devil is also a Southerner...

- Patterson Hood

Now, in that same vein, something that stirred my Southern heart, despite the fact that (as one of my best friends put it) Obama is definitely not my guy:

By Peggy Wallace Kennedy
Special to CNN

Editor's note: Peggy Wallace Kennedy is the daughter of George C. Wallace and Lurleen Wallace, who both were governors of Alabama. She lives in Montgomery, Alabama, with her husband, Mark Kennedy, a retired state Supreme Court justice. They have two sons, Leigh, a decorated veteran of the Iraq war, and Burns, a college sophomore.

Peggy Wallace Kennedy says her father sought absolution for his segregationist views.

MONTGOMERY, Alabama (CNN) -- I heard a car door slam behind me and turned to see an elderly but spry woman heading my way.

The night before, a gang of vandals had swept through the cemetery desecrating graves, crushing headstones and stealing funereal objects.

My parents' graves, situated on a wind-swept hill overlooking the cemetery, had not been spared. A large marble urn that stood between two granite columns had been pried loose and spirited away, leaving faded silk flowers strewn on the ground.

I was holding a bouquet of them in my arms when the woman walked up and gave me a crushing hug. "Honey," she said, "you don't know me, but when I saw you standing up here on this hill, I knew that you must be one of the girls and I couldn't help myself but to drive up here and let you know how much me and my whole family loved both of your parents. They were real special people."

I thanked her for her kind words as we stood side by side gazing down at the graves of Govs. George Wallace and Lurleen Wallace.

After a few moments, the woman leaned into me and spoke almost in a conspiratorial whisper. "I never thought I would live to see the day when a black would be running for president. I know your daddy must be rolling over in his grave."

Not having the heart or the energy to respond, I gave her bony arm a slight squeeze, turned and walked away. As I put the remnants of the graveyard spray in the trunk of my car, I assumed that she had not bothered to notice the Barack Obama sticker on my bumper.

When I was a young voter and had little interest in politics, my father would mark my ballot for me. As I thought about the woman in the cemetery, I mused that if he were alive and I had made the same request for this election, there would be a substantial chance, though not a certainty, that he would put an "X" by Obama's name.

Perhaps it would be the last chapter in his search for inner peace that became so important to him after becoming a victim of hatred and violence himself when he was shot and gravely injured in a Laurel, Maryland, shopping center parking lot. Perhaps it would be a way of reconciling in his own mind that what he once stood for did not prevent freedom of opportunity and self-advancement from coming full circle; his final absolution.

George Wallace and other Southern governors of his ilk stood defiantly in the 1950s and '60s in support of racial segregation, a culture of repression, violence and denial of basic human rights.

Their actions and the stark images of their consequences that spread across the world galvanized the nation and gave rise to a cry for an end to the American apartheid. The firestorms that were lit in Birmingham, Oxford, Memphis, Tuscaloosa, Montgomery, Little Rock and Selma were a call to arms to which the people responded.

And now a new call to arms has sounded as Americans face another assault on freedom. For if the stand in the schoolhouse door was a defining moment for George Wallace, then surely the aftermath of Katrina and the invasion of Iraq will be the same for George W. Bush.

The trampling of individual freedoms and his blatant contempt for the rights of the average American may not have been as obvious as an ax-handle-wielding governor, but Bush's insidiousness and piety have made him much more dangerous.

Healing must come, hope will be our lodestar, humility will reshape the American conscience, and honesty in both word and deed will refresh and invigorate America, and having Barack Obama to lead will give us back our power to heal.

My father lived long enough to come to an understanding of the injustices borne by his deeds and the legacy of suffering that they left behind. History will teach future generations that he was a man who used his political power to promote a philosophy of exclusion.

As his daughter, who witnessed his suffering in the twilight of his years and who witnessed his deeds and heard his words, I am one who believes that the man who, on March 7, 1965, listened to the reports of brutality as they streamed into the Governor's Mansion from Selma, Alabama, was not the same man who, in March of 1995, was welcomed with open arms as he was rolled through a sea of African-American men, women and children who gathered with him to welcome another generation of marchers, retracing in honor and remembrance the historic steps from Selma to Montgomery.

Four years ago, the young Illinois senator who spoke at the Democratic National Convention mesmerized me. I hoped even then that he would one day be my president.

Today, Barack Obama is hope for a better tomorrow for all Americans. He stands on the shoulders of all those people who have incessantly prayed for a day when "justice will run down like waters and righteousness as a mighty stream" (Amos 5:24).

Perhaps one day, my two sons and I will have the opportunity to meet Barack Obama in person to express our gratitude to him for bringing our family full circle.

And today, the day after the election, I am going to ride to the cemetery so that if asked, I can vouch for the fact that the world is still spinning but my father lies at peace.

They Came In Peace

241.

Marines killed. Families affected. Trees planted in their honor along NC Highway 24 here.

It's all the same number.

Twenty-five years ago today, a terrorist truck bomb leveled the barracks of the 24th Marine Amphibious Unit (as it was then known), based here at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina.

I barely remember seeing news reports the day it happened. Marines and sailors, barechested, scrambling over the massive pile of rubble and digging, clawing, tearing away the dirt and debris with a sense of urgency I'd never seen before - hours after the blast. A reporter who, after asking a Marine why they were doing it - and hearing the response "Because my brother's in there" - couldn't comprehend that he was talking about anyone lying under that pile of concrete and steel.

There's been volumes written about why it happened, where the failure was, where the blame should lie, and dozens of other circumstances surrounding this tragedy (travesty?) that quite frankly just don't concern me. What does concern me is that the men who fell that day are remembered.

That being said, I'm also mindful of the 85 French paratroopers who were killed minutes later by another bomb. "For he who sheds his blood with me this day shall be my brother."

I do my best to take a moment every year, on the day, and remember what happened in 1983. I can never fully understand what it means for the families of the fallen, Marines who were there, unable to save their brothers and unable to fight back. Those here stateside who heard the news and were also helpless to do anything about it.

There's nothing I've ever been through that could even compare to any of those situations... but about ten years later, my thoughts of those Marines and my vague impressions of that day were a significant factor in my decision to enlist in the Marine Corps.

I know I can honor the comrades, families, and memory of those 241 men. I only hope that my service in this uniform is a credit to them all as well.


Quotation of the Moment: "Valor is of no service, chance rules all, and the bravest often fall by the hands of cowards." - Tacitus, The Histories

Election 2008: My Little Narrow View

As of yesterday, several major news outlets were reporting Barack Obama as leading John McCain in the polls by anywhere from five to eight percentage points - perhaps even more, depending on your source.

I will go ahead and cop out by saying that I was away on business from February 2007 until February of this year, learning more than you would ever care to know about local and Provincial Iraqi politics. And I freely admit, I spent the subsequent 4-6 months just fucking well enjoying being home and unscathed. I'm pretty greedy like that sometimes.

So yeah, that's my excuse for just feeling completely apathetic to the entire process of primary elections and anything to do with Presidential elections until about July or so.

That being said, and based on what very, very little I know about U.S. politics in general, here's my take - with a bit of a preamble:

When Bush II was elected, I did actually vote for him. What I saw in the news following Election Day numbed my little walnut-sized brain after about 48 hours, although I do know that both political parties involved conducted some shady-ass, crooked last-minute desperation deals behind closed doors. DON'T EVEN think about correcting my impressions there - I don't care which side you were on, the Dems and GOP were each using unconscionable tactics that were absolutely NOT in this nation's best interest, simply in order to get their man elected.

So, whatever. Hanging chads, Supreme Court, blahblahblah. Bush II comes out on top. Good for him.

Fast forward to 9/11 - and again, I admit that at the time I took that day at face value, though I've since had some questions. At the time, and based on what little I knew, I felt like the President was doing a pretty good job, all things considered. Yeah, I was pissed about him not responding IMMEDIATELY on the day, but I have also seen firsthand in the past that sometimes key leaders in my Chain of Command will take action that I don't understand until well after the fact - justifiably. That's a Marine thing that takes far more explanation that I can give just at the moment.

So things kicked off in Afghanistan. It seemed like the right thing to do. At home, I was raging at the backlash some Americans were on the receiving end of because of their ethnicity or religion. I wanted to split Pat fucking Robertson's skull wide open with a cricket bat for even claiming to believe in the same God that I do. And mostly, I wanted to get into the fight and get some payback.

Once the rumblings about Iraq started... well, again, I'm a bit of a moron. I surely didn't take a broad view at the time and question the rationale. WMDs are one thing, and I do admit that it never occurred to me (until much later) that the only true justifiable reason to roll into Iraq would be if Osama were there.

What I did know is that thousands of my brothers were pouring out of the main gate in charter buses every damn day as I watched, and that I wanted to be there with them. I'm a narrow-minded, naive bastard (was then; still am), and that's just where my heart was and is.

Back to the point: yeah, shortly after that - and the great "faulty intel" ruckus concerning Bush, Blair, et al - I pretty much thought the President had screwed up.

By that point, a lot was being discussed about Constitutional rights, Camp Delta, and detainees.

Quite honestly, I didn't give a damn. There are certain things that I believe the military and her loose-knit associated organizations should, under certain circumstances, have the ability to do without anyone outside the circle ever finding out about - it's the Jack Bauer in me.

Then again, that's a damn slippery slope. It's also reason #19,738 why I Will Never Be In A Position of True Authority. And yes, a damn good reason for a Constitution in the first place.

Then came Abu Ghraib.

My first reaction was to have everyone who'd ever worked at that place or been in charge of it since day one flown right down to GTMO immediately - on the "orange jumpsuit" side of the resort. As the weeks and months dragged on, though... well, it turned into a big campaign to rip up Rumsfeld, Bush II, et al. Nevermind that to some extent - and please, again, I beg you: don't even try to deny it - the military in general took a beating in the press.

I know whose head(s) I wanted to roll right then. They were generally overlooked and ignored in favor of jailing the jailers and sacking some Cabinet members. There should have been a LOT more officers and senior Army NCOs thrown in jail right that minute - and not just Karpinski as the Token General.

Then came time for Election 2004. Everyone in the country had heard enough Bush-bashing by then that it seemed pretty obvious how dissatisfied the populace was, and what the outcome would be. Even if the best opponents mustered were Kerry and Dean... it seemed pretty inevitable.

AND YOU REELECTED HIM, AMERICA!!! WTF???

At that point, I really, REALLY just wanted everyone to quit their bitching. Honestly, I didn't vote that year because I did not care who became President. Honest to God, I didn't. I had certain job security and a roof over my head, and I love what I do. Again, me = greedy.

Yet the bitching has continued, nay, intensified, since the 2004 election. Yes, again, more shadiness with voting and/or voting machines in certain districts that year.

(Side note: if you were one of the party officials or Diebold engineers or other supposed "experts" that jumped on the problem in 2000 and assured us that "this can never happen again"? Kill yourself right fucking now. Ritual harakiri in front of your family and friends, televised live on CNN so that the entire nation can witness some small token gesture of your uselessness and duplicity, if not genuine regret. You are all TOOLS and should burn in hell.)

I won't even get into our current economic crisis, because I have an absolute dearth of knowledge about even basic finance and economics. I do know that 1) it seems like a very bad idea, in the long term, for the government to buy bad paper from bad lenders, and 2) it's as if the current Administration *and* Congress are just trying to shit the bed as many times as possible before Election Day. Not that I'm a cynic or anything.

All this, in an exceptionally roundabout fashion, brings us to our current Presidential race.

Again, I look up at the candidates, and again, I see a couple of morons.

Barack Obama seems to me fairly genuine (or at least as "genuine" as any politician at his level can be) in wanting change, and a break from the status quo. I also believe that he has as much experience and as many connections at the federal level of government as I do at the post-Doctorate level of Rocket Surgery.

Had he chosen someone with proven Cabinet-level experience and military credibility (thereby offsetting McCain's grand claim of leadership), someone like, oh, maybe Jim Webb as his VP? I'd have been the first one to mail in my absentee ballot in his favor. As it stands, he picked someone that I've never heard of and can't be arsed to learn about. If anyone can point out something of significance that Biden brings to the table - aside from a career in politics - pray tell, let me know.

John McCain was a war veteran and POW. I have much respect for that, and it is good to know that someone besides that asshole John Murtha* is currently serving in Congress with the experience of genuine, active-duty military service to this nation during a time of war.

That being said... his military credibility is woefully outdated (although he does have a son currently serving in the Marine Corps - as does Jim Webb), and for pretty much my entire lifetime he has been a rich-to-ridiculously-wealthy businessman and career Beltway Boy.

Yeah, now *there's* a recipe for change. Somebody I can relate to, for sure!

I won't even address Palin. That's what English football commentators call a "sitter" right there. I am mildly interested in seeing the forthcoming novelty video based on her political career... otherwise, meh. Brilliant stratagem: McCain flies under the radar and picks a WOMAN nominee for his veep. Gasp.



Now, back to the anti-Bush sentiment that's been predominant for the past five or six years:

It would once again seem like a no-brainer - lately, the economy is ass, just adding to the list of "Bush catasrophes" - that the Republicans have no chance. Again, the current poll numbers, and any other indicators I can think of, all point to it.

But unlike 2004, if the GOP's man gets elected this time, I won't blame my countrymen (or countrywomen, even) for tanking the play.

The more I think about it - and I'm not very well-educated on any subject, just adequately educated on a lot of things - the current state of our allegedly democratic and justly representative government won't allow for a truly honest election this time, either.

Two words: Electoral College.

Unless and until that shambolic relic goes completely away, my vote won't count worth a damn. Neither will yours. Hell, the whole statistic about 100,000 votes (one from each voting district in the nation) making the difference for JFK to get elected? Pipe dream, thing of the past, fairy tale, deader than charity.

The votes that count - at the Electoral College - are already bought and paid for. So why bother? Particularly when I've got two yutzes like this sitting in front of me trying to convince me of...

Hell, I don't even care what they want me to believe. One will win, one will lose, and it won't make a damn bit of difference what I think.

What will make a difference to me, personally, is that my tribe will continue to thrive. Google "Helmand Province MEU", and you'll see we're a growth industry for the next four years, minimum.

Not that I'm totally jaded or anything. My call sign for political (and mathematical) matters is "Ostrich", but I am a realist. Or so I like to think, at least.

If nothing else, though, I'm getting a lot more Tina Fey time this year, which pleases me greatly!




*Please do NOT get me started on John Murtha, or I will completely lose my shit. Seriously.

Song of the Moment: "The Laws Have Changed", The New Pornographers

Quotation of the Moment: "A hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is brave five minutes longer." - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Yom Kippur

Blatantly palgiarized from a newsletter I receive occasionally:

"Dear friends,

Thirty five years ago on the holiest day of the Jewish faith, the armies of Egypt and Syria attacked the State of Israel. The IDF military intelligence failed to predict the war and the attacks came by surprise. Although taken by surprise, Israel repulsed the invading Armies and carried the war deep into Syria and Egypt territories. Only heavy diplomatic pressure from the UN, the USA and the Soviet Union saved the armies of Egypt and Syria from another total defeat.

Egypt and Syria realized that they will never be able to defeat Israel in the battlefield. Six years later Egypt signed a peace treaty with Israel which lasts for almost 30 years. The Israeli-Syrian border is the most peaceful border of Israel during the last 34 years.

On Thursday the Jewish world will celebrate and observe Yom Kippur. On this holy day we also remember the 2,688 fallen soldiers of the Yom Kippur War. Their sacrifice gave us life.

We will also use this opportunity to wish [you] a Happy New Jewish Year and that all of you will be written and sealed in the Book of Life."



I respect the hell out of the Israeli Defense Forces. One of the top five military organizations in the world, bar none. And (as far as I'm concerned) they have some of the most beautiful women I've ever seen in uniform. Moreover, their policies permit and even encourage both women and homosexuals to serve openly in their military (as do the armed forces of the United Kingdom, but I digress).

And while I do admire the IDF to a fault... I truly wish that my government hadn't chosen to continue being the largest, most high-profile supporter of Israel in all of recorded history. Yes, they needed some help getting their homeland and it's government and armed forces off the ground in 1948. But it's been 60 years, and I think they'll do just fine with much less than the $60 Billion (or whatever it is) we give them in defense aid every year. I won't even get into the fact that more than one American has been threatened or even killed outright because of our close alliance with Israel. (e.g., Robert Dean Stethem. I will remember the images of that incident for the rest of my life.)

Here's my bottom line: look back on the history of Israel, militarily. The Six Day War. The Ten Day War. The Yom Kippur War.

They are SURROUNDED geographically by a half dozen enemies who have threatened to "push them into the sea" since they first established the nation of Israel 60 years ago.

And they've stood their ground and kicked ass more times than I can recall offhand, doing it all on weekends and holidays (or so it seems, at least). The latest big shootin' match with Lebanon in 2006 dragged on for... jeez, six whole weeks, was it? The notorious Bekaa Valley Turkey Shoot of 1982 saw IDF pilots down 82 Syrian MiG fighters without a single Israeli F-16 lost!!!

All joking and exaggeration aside, though: on this, the Jewish New Year, I tip my hat eastward to all those veterans and currently serving in the IDF, as well as the people of Israel. Your dedication, commitment, and - above all - faith, is an inspiration to us all.

I might not like any of the politics at all... but I'd get to scrappin' with any of you on my left or right at the drop of a hat. Sincere blessings and best wishes to you on this holiday.

Milestones

Age 3 - First date, Chattanooga, Tennessee.

Age 5 - First (and only) broken bone(s), right forearm. First time outside the US (3 years, six or seven countries).

Age 6 - First stitches at the ER, West Berlin, Germany.

Age 9 - First memorable death in the family; great-grandfather. Wish to God I'd had time to know him better.

Age 12 - First fight; very short, Woodland Park, Colorado.

Age 14 - First inkling of sexual awareness.

Age 14 - First, last, and only time I laid hands on a girl/woman; punched my sister in the face. Hard.

Age 16 - First car wreck; first speeding ticket. Less than 10 months apart, both in Colorado Springs.

Age 17 - First kiss & sexual experience with a girl, Parents divorce.

Age 18 - Entered college.

Age 19 - First Major League Baseball Game; Braves vs. Rockies at Mile High Stadium. Left college, enlisted.

Age 20 & 11.5 months: First time drunk, ever - Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

Age 22: First road trip over 1000 miles - coastal North Carolina to Colorado Springs; 26 hours.

Age 23 - First time living on my own & paying all my own bills.

Age 24 & 9 months: Lost my virginity, along I-25 in Colorado.

Age 25: First & only DUI. First time fired from a job. (Oddly, neither correlated.)

Age 27: First job with full benefits (military excluded). First (and only) marriage (Dubai, UAE). First (and not the last) overnight stay as a "guest of the County".

Age 30: First visit to a combat zone, Ramadi, Iraq. First time a personal friend was killed (one of them mere hours after we'd been working together).

Age 31: First (and only) divorce - Orange County, NC.

Age 32: Second visit to a combat zone (Haditha, Iraq). Only lost one friend that time.

Age 33: First attempt at fatherhood; failed. Miserably.

Age 34: First major psychological issue of adulthood - oddly, non-combat-related. First bout with functional alcoholism. First major purchase on credit.


So, yeah.... them's just the highlights that I can jot down offhand.

Much like my military career, my life has been colorful, though definitely not distinguished.

Song of the Moment: Little Wonder - David Bowie

Quotation of the Moment:
"We go to gain a little patch of ground
That hath in it no profit but the name."
- Bill Shakespeare, Hamlet, 1601

Remembrance

I overslept that morning. I awoke fifteen minutes before my usual showtime at work, 45 until I had to be there, and a 45-minute drive. I looked at my alarm clock - 6:45am Mountain time.

I rushed through scraping my mug, brushing my fangs, and getting dressed. On the way out the door, I saw something on TV about an airplane hitting the WTC. My only fleeting thought was "WOW... that guy fucked up!" I ran out the door, hopped in the truck, and started heading down the highway.

I'd been listening to a new CD I bought for the previous day or two, Lions, by The Black Crowes if I remember correctly. About twenty minutes into my drive, the CD ended, and I ejected it to change CDs. That was when I heard live news broadcasts in DC, and knew there was something big going on. It was also the time I began speeding as fast as that little four cylinder engine could carry me safely.

Less than fifteen minutes after I arrived at work, went through security, got the bus into the tunnel and walked into my office, the main blast doors at NORAD were sealed behind me for the first "real world" event in decades. And of course, nobody in the building did any actual work... aside from the poor souls in the Air Warning Center, where I would wind up a few months later, back in uniform.

No TV, spotty internet two or three times over the course of the day, and lots of phone calls. Friends from all over calling to see if I was alright - even my Mom. All the airliners in the world would just leave a black streak on the 1700 feet of granite over my head, I told them. Being deaf and blind was the tough part.

I hated myself for leaving the Corps, thanked God I had at least gone back to the Reserves three months before. Had I been a bit wiser, I'd have found something to do that very day. For weeks, I watched cleanup crews, wishing like hell I could be there with them on a Caterpillar D7 or a J.I. Case 1150E - better yet, a 1155 - moving rubble, helping out by doing something I can do damn well. Every single day, I watched and wished I could be there on a piece of gear, lending a hand.

My unit got orders to deploy to Afghanistan, which I was calling daily for three months asking about. If I couldn't help at home, I wanted to go set some payback. Finally, in January, we got our deployment date - summer of 2004, we'd ship out. I couldn't wait that long. I jumped ship and put in for immediate mobilization orders, which I've been doing pretty much ever since.

Looking back... I think now that the day wasn't necessarily everything it originally seemed. But I know how I felt, what I wanted to do, and I know it brought me back to the Corps full-time.

I've put a lot of distance behind me since, too. I know a few friends who were in DC and New York that day, and thank God they all got through it. I've also stopped watching news at all on the day, although I make a point to take my own time and remember. And I know that I never did have the chance to help out, and I never will. I'm strangely okay with that, even though it's a genuine regret of mine.

That day and the weeks afterward put dozens of unimaginable and gruesome images, stories, and thoughts in my head. Like everyone else, there was the cycle of shock, disbelief, terror, helplessness, guilt, rage, and depression - some of those emotions went deeper than others, and for a very long time. And probably everyone went through that to some extent.

The big question for me, with several years left to formulate an answer, is how I'm going to explain it to my children when I can't even explain it to myself.

On M*A*S*H...

Well, I hate to be a jerk about it... but here's where we're going to sort the wheat from the chaff.

I know that most of you saw "M*A*S*H" in this title, and perked up a bit. Or perhaps not, whichever.

What I do know for a fact is that there was a TV show that aired in the 70s that greatly affected my general outlook on life, the military, war, death, and dying. M*A*S*H was that show.

Granted, to this very day, I grudgingly admit that both of my parents were "in the Army". Let's face facts: mom kicked dad right out of the house two weeks after I was born and told him to get a job, or get lost. That's some pretty heavy dope for a 21-year-old to deal with.

As it turned out, dad did four years enlisted, got out, got his degree, and came back in as an Officer. By the time he was my age right now this day, he'd been a radio operator, Company Executive Officer, and Company Commander of an active duty Army unit in West Berlin during the mid-80s at the height of the Cold War (while managing a wife and two kids, even!).

All that being said...

I do remember distinctly a "vacation" to Aviano air base, Italy. Early 80's. A Captain in the 509th P.I.R. who was college buddies with mom & dad. Yes, we got an Italian traditional Christmas. Yes, we got to see a bunch of Army dudes jump out of C-130s. BUT... utmost in my memory (and keep in mind, youngsters, this was before the VCR became widely available).... we all got to watch the final episode of M*A*S*H, with about a three week delay, courtesy of AFRTS. (Google it, kiddo!)

Don't get me wrong - the TV show ROCKED. I have more than once blamed my parents for 'forcing me' to watch too much M*A*S*H, thereby turning me into Hawkeye Pierce and probably not Chuck "The Iceman" Lidell.

But when I was about 22 years old, I watched the feature film for the first time. Directed by Robert Altman? Starring Donald Sutherland, Tom Skerritt, Elliot Gould, Sally Kirkland, Robert Duvall? Oh, SCHNAPP! It changed my life - truly, it did.

FYI, young'uns: BJ Honeycutt was never mentioned in the film, nor was Colonel Potter, nor his wife Mildred, and Frank Burns was played by a completely different (and highly competent) actor. Hell, for that matter, so was Major Margaret O'Houlihan!

(And lest we forget Gary "Radar" Burghoff. I swear to God, if I ever meet him I will bow at his feet.)

Let's just end all this by saying that the TV show is for youngsters and amateurs. Okay, well, not entirely. But if you can't rattle off a few facts about the film? You're pretty much useless to me. I'm just sayin'...

The movie is for those who have been around for an American war or two, and those who have the right attitude about it. Or perhaps those (of any age) who would like an insight into America's attitude towards war and the military, circa 1972.

Yeah, yeah, I admit - it's not a Marine flick. But I have no doubt in my mind that M*A*S*H did help shape my life, and the military mindset that I have to this very day.

Take the serious things very, VERY seriously. Otherwise, sip a Martini and enjoy your present company...



Quotation of the Moment:
Why in hell can't the Army do it if the Marines can? They are the same kind of men; why can't they be like Marines? - Gen. John J. "BlackJack" Pershing, US Army; 12 February 1918

Song of the Moment: Corpus Christi Bay - Robert Earl Keen

"Done, sir, done!"

So it's been a busy week for me - not to offer any excuses - but I've had something on my mind over the past few days that really should have drawn everyone's attention. Of course, it went nearly unnoticed because everyone is trying to dig up more info on some hot chick that dominated the headlines last week, and we all watched the kickoff of the college football season.

Not very many people I've talked to realize that on September 1st, MNF-W (Multinational Forces - West) turned over provincial authority over al Anbar Province, the largest in Iraq, to Governor Ma'amoon at a ceremony in Ramadi.

Anbar is roughly the size of South Carolina. Early on during Operation Iraqi Freedom, the powers-that-be (powers-that-were?) tasked the Marine Corps with overall responsibility for the province. In 2004, I Marine Expeditionary Force from Camp Pendleton relieved the 82nd Airborne Division in that AO, starting the first of five back-to-back 12-14 month rotations between I MEF and II MEF, based here at Lejeune.

April of 2004 saw the first "siege" of Fallujah, which had become a hotbed of terrorist activity - the burning, mutilation, and hanging of four American contractors on Blackwater Bridge across the Euphrates helped trigger the initial buildup on the outskirts of the city. After surrounding the Fallujah, the Marines - let by then-Major General James Mattis and James Conway (our current Commandant) - were ordered to stand down and allow the Iraqis to return to their homes. Over the summer, many attempts to resolve the situation with tribal leaders ensued, to no avail. During one such leadership engagement, General Mattis was quoted as saying "I come in peace. I didn't bring artillery. But I'm pleading with you, with tears in my eyes: if you fuck with me I will kill you all."

In November of that year, the second siege of Fallujah ended with the Marines entering the city. After giving notice to all civilians and innocents to leave Fallujah, and inviting anyone who wanted to get some to stay and fight, six infantry battalions stormed in from the north, spending several weeks fighting door-to-door and clearing every inch of the city.

During November and December of 2004, many Marines were killed in Fallujah... as were several hundred terrorists, bandits, and insurgents. There are countless awe-inspiring stories of Marines who fought fiercely and selflessly, giving their utmost to protect each other and carry on with their mission. One Marine in particular showed us that even after being shot eight or nine times, getting hammered by a grenade or two is not a big deal if it means protecting one of your Marines so they can make it home. It's even better when you're able to kill a few of the assholes who wanted you dead.

In 2005, I was in Ramadi, at a small camp on the Euphrates just outside the city. Across the river, I could see the even smaller, dingy little "base" where 1st Bn., 5th Marines (1/5) and later 3/7 would each do their third combat deployment as a Battalion. My camp took incoming rockets (usually the 122mm Katyushas) and mortars on about 70 or 80 different occasions in eleven months - once or twice even killing Marines from my unit. In June, a convoy of female watchstanders who had been sent to Fallujah for a month of duty was attacked by a suicide bomber. The resulting explosion was catastrophic, killing almost all of them. We had snipers working the oustskirts of our camp constantly, and a Sergeant friend of mine was shot in the face by the driver of a BOLO (be on the lookout) vehicle - and of course, his patrol later nailed that guy, with the young Sergeant leading the way in his bloody mess of a flak jacket.

Fast-forward to 2007. I made my second trip to al Anbar, knowing that things would be different from my first visit. I was eventually pushed up to Haditha, where in November of '05 there had been a running firefight during which Marines had allegedly killed innocent civilians. The incident didn't fully come to light (i.e., the media didn't catch wind of it) until April of 2006. I wasn't sure how things would be when I arrived in Haditha in late April of 2007, but I was pretty sure that grudges were being held.

During my first foot patrol through the city with 1/3, it was a pleasant, sunny summer's day, with temps hitting 110 or so before noon. And even though I tried to be as mentally prepared for anything as possible, I totally did not expect the squad leader to halt the patrol in the middle of the souk, set half the squad in 360-degree security, and let the other half go into a shop to get some shade and ice cream cones.

That was just the beginning, though. During 2007, I sustained my supply of comfort items (cigarettes, snacks, soft drinks, etc.) mainly by halting while on patrol and going into the shops along the way, using Iraqi Dinar instead of dollars to get a better price on things that I wanted to buy. On nearly every patrol I went on, we would stroll up to the front door of someone's house, ask permission to enter, and then be served hot chai and snacks at a minimum; as often as not the man of the house would invite us to stay for lunch, discussing any issues or concerns he and his family had.

I was able to sit in on city council meetings in Haditha and Haqlaniya, and I could enter just about any major water treatment facility, police station, power plant, or gas station in the area and recognize some names & faces. People on the street or in their homes regularly thanked us for the security we were providing their city, and we had to keep reminding them that someday soon it would be the IA (Iraqi Army) and IPs (Police) protecting them. They grudgingly accepted the notion, but eventually started trusting their own forces to get the job done well enough.

To give another measure of success, 1/3 wound up being the first Marine infantry battalion to return home with no KIA or WIA over a 7-month OIF deployment. 3/23 followed suit during their subsequent deployment to AO Triad.

When I saw Governor Ma'amoon on the front page of the local paper last Monday, I was reminded of a conversation I'd had three or four times last year with city council members, contractors, and two or three other Iraqis that I like to think are my friends. We'd talk about the future of al Anbar, and they'd tell me "Meestah, you should come back in a year or two, and that we can sit here and eat lunch again. You can see the new water plant/railroad station/police station then, and it will be finish! Aloss!"

And each time, I told them "Oh, na'am - I will definitely come back here someday. And when I do, I won't have to wear all this armor and helmet and carry a gun. I can be a tourist, in shorts and a t-shirt, and I will be able to see your whole family here enjoying life."

Last Monday brought that day a lot closer, I think.

It also means that the Corps can pull our boys out of Anbar now, and start pushing them over to Afghanistan to wrap up that mission as well. 1/6 and 2/7 are there right now, and those boys have a reputation for finding a fight if there's nothing going on. They've found it there, and they're getting results.

I'll sure hate it if I miss the chance to go to Afghanistan completely. At the same time, though, I'm damn proud that we've finished our part in Iraq, and I know it's just a matter of time before we reach that critical tipping point in Afghanistan as well.

It'll be nice to see all the guys back home once we get that done.

Muscle

Your Daddy was mad as hell
He was mad at me and you
As he tied that chain to the front of my car and pulled me out of that ditch that we slid into
Don't know what his problem is
Why he keeps sendin' me away
Don't know why I put up with this shit
When you don't put out and Zip City's so far away

Your Daddy's a deacon down at the Salem Church of Christ
And he makes good money as long as Reynolds Wrap keeps everything wrapped up tight
Your Mama's as good a wife and Mama as she can be
And your sister's puttin' that sweet stuff on everybody in town but me
Your brother was the first-born, got ten fingers and ten toes
And it's a damn good thing cause he needs all twenty to keep the closet door closed

Maybe it's the twenty-six mile drive from Zip City to Colbert Heights
Keeps my mind clean
Keeps me from having to deal with my seventeen-year-old mind all alone
Keep your drawers on, girl, it ain't worth the fight
By the time you drop 'em I'll be gone
And you'll be right where they fall the rest of your life

You say you're tired of me taking you for granted
Waitin' up till the last minute to call you up and see what you want to do
But you're only fifteen, girl, you ain't got no secretary
And "for granted" is a mighty big word for a country girl like you
You know it's just your Daddy talkin'
'Cause He knows that blood red carpet at the Salem Church of Christ
Ain't gonna ever see no wedding between me and you

Zip City it's a good thing that they built a wall around you
Zip up to Tennessee then zip right down to Alabama
I got 350 heads on a 305 engine
I get ten miles to the gallon
I ain't got no good intentions

Day of Days

Tuesday was pretty eventful for me. Nothing like a Band of Brothers episode, but I was on the move constantly and making things happen. I think what made it stand out in my eyes is the fact that it's a good example of what's becoming a "typical" workday for me.

Mornings are usually a madhouse from about 0700 until sometime around 1030 or so. Basic Platoon Sergeant business: checking accountability on your guys, ensuring an accurate morning report, checking that the barracks Duty NCOs are posted and relieved, responding to taskers from the Battalion or the Company Commander... it all just turns into a non-stop hit parade most mornings.

That afternoon, the Battalion Executive Officer (XO) bought me a Pepsi... then proceeded to announce to the entire Company that I'd won a bet with him about a specific aspect of uniform regulations. He then shook the bottle furiously and handed it over, giving me a pat on the back and a handshake. I'm not sure if the announcement won me respect from anyone, but every Marine in the building damn sure knew about it.

An hour or so later, we had a celebrity visitor drop by (which isn't as rare as you'd think). John Mayer played in Raleigh last night, and had contacted the Public Affairs office here to see if he could make an unannounced, low-key visit Tuesday to meet some wounded and injured Marines to thank them for their sacrifice and just hang out for an hour or so. Personally, I haven't really heard any of his music, but I did recognize his name. Apparently he's pretty popular, because there were MANY Marines and others from outside the Battalion that mysteriously appeared just before he showed up.

Right after he arrived, one of the Sergeants who was playing tour guide for him and his crew named me specifically as one of the platoon sergeants who takes care of the Marines and runs the Company daily. I shook John's hand, talked to him for a bit, and later answered a couple of his questions about different wounds and injuries that many of my Marines have. He seemed genuinely interested, and even asked if we had a unit t-shirt he could get hold of. 45 seconds later, after an NCO had magically located one in his size and given it to him, he was smiling like it was Christmas. He read the back of it - a helmeted skull and crossed crutches with the words "Sweat dries, blood clots, bones heal, chicks dig scars" - and joked that next time he slept with a supermodel, he'd wear it. At least the guy has a sense of humor!

Later that afternoon, we secured the Company and I went back to my barracks room to unwind a bit and grab some dinner. Just as I arrived at the SNCO Club and ordered a gigantic greasy burger, my Company Commander called. One of my Sergeants (call him Sgt C.), who was in a call-in patient status due to the strength of his medications, had apparently showed up drunk for an appointment that morning. Later in the afternoon, he missed a different appointment altogether. Already, alarm bells were ringing. I like C. a lot, and when he first checked in he struck me as a good to go Marine who wanted to take care of himself and make a full recovery. I was also concerned since his medical issues are all psychological, and VERY deep.

Cutting to the chase, by the time I'd tracked him down an hour later, he was on his way to the Naval Hospital in a Sheriff's car. He'd tried to check himself into a civilian rehab facility because he's been drinking a LOT more than usual over the past two weeks, as well as acting out some. The drinking ramped up right after his doctor yanked all the meds out from under him, and a close friend eventually convinced him to check himself into rehab. As soon as they heard the "S" Word at the civilian facility, the slapped a court order on him mandating his admission to Naval Hospital. I'd known that C. was going through a really rough patch - he's called me just to talk a few times, and he told me about a setback he had a week or two ago - but I still felt like I'd let him down by not being there sooner. Staying there with him in the ER for a few hours didn't count for shit in my book, because I might have been able to help if I'd taken that time days or weeks earlier. At least that's how I view it.

He's a good Marine, and he's even told me that he really would love to get back to his unit and deploy again because "they're my boys, you know?". I believe him when he says that, and what's more, I actually trust him. I know I can't help him work through his issues - frankly, I don't want to. That's not my job, and something that will take a LOT of time and effort. But C., this total Southie from Boston who loves his Harley, rides in a motorcycle club, and has been through God knows what in the past four years... I think he trusts me as well. To me, that's more important than what questions are asked about how this happened, who dropped the ball, or why he wound up doing what he did.

Someday, I really do hope that someone figures out how to treat severe PTSD effectively. When that happens, I will go to the ceremony in Sweden in full battle rattle and jack someone's Nobel Prize at gunpoint so I can award it to that guy. If modern medical science can ever crack the code on that one, millions of veterans from the past forty years or so could regain control of their lives. Friends and loved ones who feel the second- and third-order effects of PTSD would have a great burden lifted off their shoulders as well. Sadly, this is one rare problem that I can bitch about all day long and still not even begin to propose a solution for, and I hate that.

I got back from the ER around 2200, changed back into utilities, and made my rounds as Officer of the Day. I went through the motions, toured my assigned areas, filled out my logbook, and got back to the crib around 2300. Even then, C. was still on my mind. Since that night, nobody in my chain of command has even asked me for a detailed explanation (I briefed my Captain on the phone as events unfolded), much less questioned my actions as a leader over what went down with Sgt C. Maybe I'm seeing a problem where there really is none... but if nothing else, I know I've learned a valuable lesson and I thank God that he's getting some help instead of face down in a ditch somewhere.

If there is such a thing, I guess sometimes I care way too much about my Marines.


Quotation of the Moment: "If you ever get bored with your life, try risking it." - Albert Camus

Song of the Moment: "Medication" (acoustic) - Garbage

I have a dream...

So... back in June, Congress finally passed the Post-9/11 GI Bill, which my main man Jim Webb co-sponsored back in 2006. I won't lie, I took notice. I had been vaguely hearing a thing or two about this for a while now, and as a guy who paid in his $1200 for the Montgomery GI Bill way back in the day, I was somewhat interested. Not paying close attention, mind you... just vaguely registering a change on my radar.

I won't lie, I've been going through some major changes lately. What SSgt Sykes would call "some pretty heavy dope". But eventually, I pulled my head out of my ass and figured something out: this is a lifelong dream that's essentially plopped in my lap, screaming "TAKE ME! Carpe Diem, you big retard!"

The MGIB pretty much sucked, no doubt. It gave you something like "$28,000 towards college", which ain't a lot of return for a four- to thirty-four year investment by a guy like me who joined the Marine Corps. Granted, I never once for a moment made that decision because of the college money - belive me, a million times please believe me, when I say that. I'm just sayin', if you enlist at all, it's a minimum eight years of your life you've put on the line. And, yet again, I digress.

The Post-9/11 GI Bill is a HUGE improvement. If I ever meet Jim Webb, I'll probably give him a hug - but not in that gay way. I just owe him one, because the new GI Bill offers:

• Full tuition price paid for four years at the highest-priced public university in each state
• $500 per semester for books, etc.
  
• BAH at the rate of an E-5 with no dependents - per month!

After vaguely kinda-sorta thinking about it for a while (again, I was distracted from June until this week), I realized that I could finish my current assignment next June, pop smoke, and move to Athens to get my Bachelor's as a full-time student while doing reserve drills - probably as a Gunnery Sergeant very soon - thereby maintaining my line on a military retirement, with 10 years already vested.

Let me tell you a thing or two about the University of Georgia. I was born in Dalton, as were my mom, dad, and sister. Mom's got four sisters, five brothers, and each of them have at least two kids. I can't swing a dead cat in North Georgia without hittin' someone who's kin. Seriously, I have stories to back that up.

And nobody in my family has ever enrolled at UGA, much less graduated from there.

To me, this is kind of like realizing you just won the goddamn lottery two or three months after the fact. I can get my stupid degree paper from a pretty damn good school while maintaining my status as a United States Marine. Once that's done, I have two options:

1) Go out into The World and get a civilian job making big fat stacks of paper, or

2) Head back into the Corps, active duty, likely approaching the zone for promotion to Master Sergeant (with my degree), and get back into the fight.

Because yes, folks, if I forego the whole "big money civilian job" thing to come back to the Corps... I want to go to Afghanistan and do some Marine Shit there. If I didn't want to do things like that, I'd have joined the friggin' Air National Guard.

Remind me next time, I'll have to spout off about The 'Stan. For now, though, I'm just thrilled (and stunned) that one year from now I'll be in Athens smoking all of those 18-year-old freshmen in anything they can try academically. I'm so focused on this dream, I can't think of anything else until I get there.

Well, maybe a new car. But again, I save that for later.



Quotation of the moment: "Sober thoughts become drunk words." - My Neighbor

Song of the moment: "Whiskey Without Women", Drive-By Truckers.

More specifically, the line "Think I'm gonna tell her that I'm gonna go away for a while,
'Til I can get this demon out"

Crohn's

I don't know where to begin with this one, really. Let me just go ahead and dive in.

I love my sister dearly. She has been stronger in many ways over the past fifteen years than I probably ever will be.

She got married early - and yes, the proverbial shotgun wedding - to an Army dude she had been dating right there in Colorado Springs, where she and I went to high school. That was 1993 - and now she's still married to the same guy, living in Charleston, three kids (17, 14, & 11), and a really nice life. Nice big house, nice schools, nice church... everything you can think of that a family needs - or even just wants - they have. I've never been jealous of that, but I have been proud as hell of how things have turned out for her.

Her youngest, Micah, was diagnosed with Crohn's Disease a few years ago. Needless to say, it's made things tough for the family. And poor Micah... God, sometimes I really have to struggle just keeping my shit together when I think of all he's been through this early in life.

He's undergone several different treatment regimes since he was diagnosed, each with success... for varying lengths of time. The thing with Crohn's, I guess, is that eventually the treatment becomes inneffective, and you have to search for a different solution. There's one out there that could fix things for Micah, and he's in line to get it soon at Duke University... but I digress.

In June, Micah got to take a trip to NYC thanks to the Make-A-Wish foundation. He (with mom & dad) got to go see My Chemical Romance in concert, and go backstage to meet the band. After talking to them for a bit, the guitarist asked if Micah would play something for them... so he did.

Three or four minutes and a kickass rendition of Ozzy's "Ironman" later, there was much applause being rained down on little Micah. After which, said guitarist told him "I'm so jealous of you, dude. I couldn't play "Ironman" until I was, like, nineteen!"

Fast forward to this month. My brother-in-law had been on some bereavment leave from work, due to his father's recent death. They were very close, and I have no doubt that he was in A Very Bad Place, mentally. The day he returned, he was given two weeks' notice and shitcanned. His employer cited skyrocketing costs of insurance for him and his family, to wit: Micah's medical expenses.

Before you ask: yes, they're already talking to a lawyer!

But for now... it's been a few weeks. Charleston has no real market for a man with his skills, and the "desired endstate" (to coin a very Marine Corps phrase) is to avoid relocation at all costs. Zach, the eldest kid, is a Senior in high school this year. The family has been in Charleston since 2004 - they've all established friends and networks, and it would just be too traumatic to uproot everyone to, say, Sheboygan.

I'm deeply concerned, no doubt. But I'm not horribly worried.

If you're the prayin' type, maybe you could start throwin' her and her family in your rotation.



Micah, February 2007, Camp Lejeune. I was happy as hell to have him help see me off on Iraq deployment #2.

On a separate (but closely related) note: you may or may not know that my current job has me supervising combat-wounded and ill or injured Marines. I've got what might be the most job satisfaction I've ever had in my life doing what I do right now. I don't personally know what it's like going through the entire limited duty/physical evaluation process - and what can I say? I zigged when I should have zigged - but I do feel like I have credibility, given my two year-long tours in Iraq. No, I wasn't kicking in doors and killing bodies... but I volunteered each time and GLADLY accepted the chance to get in the fight.

All that aside... I feel honored and privileged to have the job I do rigght now. The Mission of my unit is twofold: Ensure each Marine/patient is accounted for at all times, and ensure that they have every tool, resource, and benefit available to them on their road to recovery. In short, we get them out of there quickly and in the right way as they head back to their unit or head home medically retired or discharged.

As it turns out, I do have a Marine (let's call him Corporal D.) under my charge. He's also been diagnosed with Crohn's. It fucking wrecks me deep down inside to know that a 21-year-old is stuck for life having to deal with a colostomy bag. It wrecks me even worse to know that this guy enlisted post-9/11 and never got to deploy or get into the fight because of his condition.

All I'm sayin' is... someday, I'm going to make sure that Micah gets to spend a day with Corporal D. I think it could do them both a lot of good... and I'm damn sure it'd do me a world of good.


Quotation of the moment: (Overheard at work yesterday) "I wish my grass was as emo as you, so it'd cut itself."

Song of the moment: "Na", Zazie

OIF Flashback #1 (Why I hate kids sometimes)

Time: Early November, 2007

Location: SW Haqlaniya, Iraq

A routine foot patrol with Lima Company

This was only about the eighth or ninth time I had been out on foot in Haqlaniya, the city I'd recently been assigned to for routine Civil Affairs matters. Oh, I was at the goddamn city council meetings every week for four hours or more - they'd only appointed a mayor and established the council in August, so personalities were emerging in that inexorably roundabout Iraqi fashion. But I had been neglecting to get out and see the town, meet the people, and see the faces, the routine of the city. I was glad for the excuse of a "site survey/progress check" on the Iraqi Police (IP) station as an excuse to get out with a squad and take some pictures that afternoon.

Typically, we'd depart out the back gate of the FOB (Forward Operating Base) after the squad leader had briefed the mission, turned in his kill sheet to the Watch Officer, and issued pyro (grenades, flares, etc.) to those in the squad who needed it. All the rifle squads in Lima Company also had an unfailing, almost mandated habit of huddling up in a circle, touching gloved hands, and repeating The Lord's Prayer. All that happened this day, and we left along the dusty street leading out on the high ground outside the back gate.

The patrol went well, and despite an unusually cool afternoon - 85 degrees, tops - we were all pretty drained from humping up and down hills most of the time. One thing I never liked about Haqlaniya was the hilly terrain; it was virtually impossible for you to know at any given moment whether or not any house within sniper range had line of sight on you from a window or rooftop.

I took note of the faces in the souk, noticing which shops were filled with people paying us no mind as we passed, and which had men sitting or standing in the shade, arms crossed, giving us the evil eye. At one end of the souk stood a mosque we always referred to as the JTJ Mosque, after one of the prime terrorist orginizations in the country - its members had frequently been granted refuge there after engaging friendlies, and the Imam wouldn't budge when we politely asked the men inside to come out and play. Whether that was out of an obligation to the Q'uran or his complicity, I never knew.

When we were only about ten minutes from the back gate, I had one of the most terrifying moments of my life. Instead of taking the usual route back - up a hill 500 meters or so from the gate, then back along the same street - we had gone down an alternate route into a small valley, which would bring us in about 100 meters outside the gate. Nothing unusual; I trust the infantry squad leaders I roll with, and aside from changing routine it was just good to change the scenery as well.

Just before we started uphill again, the ground levelled out. There was no activity in the street, nor in any of the houses and yards nearby. There were four Marines about 30-50 meters in front of me, so I didn't shout out to them when I saw the perfectly straight line of small rocks sitting across the road about 8 feet ahead. I called out to the squad leader, two men behind me, and held up my left hand in a fist. The patrol stopped in place - probably a bad thing to do, but right after "Oh, fuck!", my next thought was "Well, too late for me anyway - 'specially if it's a *big* explosion."

The squad leader moved up to my position and stood right behind me. That was probably the only smart thing anyone had done up to that point. I spoke to him over my right shoulder in hushed tones, describing exactly where to look instead of pointing to the rocks. When an IED triggerman sees someone point, that's usually the time he picks to pop his little surprise.

Keeping my eyes on the rocks as I spoke, I followed the line to the edge of the road.... where there were more rocks lined up perfectly parallel to the road. Looking back, it was the same on the other side as well. Then another line across the road about fifteen meters further up. And... well, shit. Another one fifteen meters further. If I hadn't been sweating so much the past three hours, I'd probably have pissed myself.

The squad leader confirmed what I saw... but then I noticed something else that made me feel like a dumbass - an immensely relieved and much safer dumbass than I had been about thirty seconds prior. The line of rocks closest to me, as well as the one farthest from me, both had a little arc of rocks arranged curving towards each other.

I immediately recognized it for what it was - an impromptu soccer field, where kids had likely been playing just minutes before we passed by. I was 1) mentally kicking myself for not seeing it sooner because I was too busy scanning windows and yards for movement, and 2) thrilled that I recognized it that quickly by virtue of being a huge soccer fan. My squad leader and I would have felt like assholes reporting strange rock activities to Razorback 6, who already knew about the "Ghetto Stadium" that had been there for weeks.

But yeah, if I'd seen any of those kids there right about then, I'd have been throwing out all the curse words I know in Arabiac at those little fuckers. Maybe even their damn rocks, too...

Legacy

(Banged out at 5:27PM EDT, 15 August)

Some people wanna be rich or famous, loved, or just happy where they are in life. Me? I just want to leave a legacy, no matter how fleeting, after I'm gone.

I know friends, family, and loved ones will have that for me - there's no doubt in my mind. I just know I could do better than I have so far at leaving something meaningful behind - aside from general worldwide hate & discontent, that is.

In my line of work, let's face it: when I'm doing my job well, at the pinnacle of my profession, in a way that everyone in my tribe strives for... people want to kill me. And there's a fair chance of it happening whether or not you find yourself in that exact situation. Hell, half the time, just getting to that point, you're subjected to a lot of risk. In this world, risk can kill you as surely as a bullet aimed at your head.

I guess that's why I'm aware that I could go away forever at any moment. And knowing this as well as I do now - having had several friends who have done so suddenly - it's probably not viewed by the general populace as a healthy thing to listen to the same song (which deals directly with mortality) on repeat for eight hours at a stretch.

But this one got to me somehow. Normally, I'm not the guy to hop on board whatever band is popular, or even attempt to keep current with music nowadays. But the song I've been listening to all day... I don't know what bad place the songwriter was in mentally when he scribbled it down, but I can relate - at least to some degree.

These lyrics, they could be a conversation I want to have with one particular woman who means a lot to me. I kind of doubt that conversation can ever happen... but I don't think I'll ever wind up closing that door.

And in a broader sense, these words represent a lot of feelings I have towards the Marines I've served with from day one - every single one.

I'm not sure what else I can say, but sometimes you get an earworm for a reason.


I dreamed I was missing
You were so scared
But no one would listen
Cause no one else cared

After my dreaming
I woke with this fear
What am I leaving
When I'm done here

So if you're asking me
I want you to know

When my time comes
Forget the wrong that I've done
Help me leave behind some
Reasons to be missed

And don't resent me
And when you're feeling empty
Keep me in your memory

Leave out all the rest
Leave out all the rest

Don't be afraid
I've taken my beating
I've shared what I made

I'm strong on the surface
Not all the way through
I've never been perfect
But neither have you

So if you're asking me
I want you to know

When my time comes
Forget the wrong that I've done
Help me leave behind some
Reasons to be missed

Don't resent me
And when you're feeling empty
Keep me in your memory

Leave out all the rest
Leave out all the rest

Forgetting
All the hurt inside
You've learned to hide so well

Pretending
Someone else can come and save me from myself
I can't be who you are

When my time comes
Forget the wrong that I've done
Help me leave behind some
Reasons to be missed

Don't resent me
And when you're feeling empty
Keep me in your memory

Leave out all the rest
Leave out all the rest

Forgetting
All the hurt inside
You've learned to hide so well

Pretending
Someone else can come and save me from myself
I can't be who you are
I can't be who you are