This weekend I ended up at house party in San Francisco, filled with a truly random assortment of characters whom I had never met before. There was a group of dirty hippie boys who spend most of their time working at a camp for disadvantaged youth, and the rest roaming around, living mostly off the grid. They happened to be high on acid, after having attended the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival. There was a group of single lesbians, the crew I had come with. We were also joined by some drunk Irish immigrants, all with thick brogues. A game of hitting empty beer cans with a cricket bat and a hurler ensued. Luckily nothing was broken, including people.
I found myself in conversations about the Irish rugby national team, the power that comes from giving away prized possessions to kids who had never had anyone act selflessly and listening to some good old fashioned dyke drama. But the one that will stick with me for the rest of my life was the conversation I had with two Army reservists from a unit in Fresno. They were battle buddies, having served in Iraq together. We talked about a range of subjects, from Blackwater, to recruiters falsely luring kids with promises of education money, to the difference between how veterans are treated now compared to Vietnam. Then we started discussing the impact their service had on their lives and mental states. They both repeately urged me to pass on the message to everyone that they need more support. They need the VA to get its shit in order. They need for PTSD classes to be more than a shrink passing out his business card, then peacing out. They need us to find a way to not have their buddies die in their arms.
One, of the two, let’s call him “Javier” was diagnosed with at least a partial case of PTSD. The other, “Oliver” who I talked to at much greater length, clearly could have had the same diagnosis. He seemed eager to talk, so I kept asking questions, wanting to hear all that he was capable of sharing. It was such a rare, special, humbling, opportunity to hear from a veteran who was actually wanting to talk with someone they just met about the most emotionally shattering moments of their life.
Oliver, when the subject of PTSD came up, started telling me about a trench clearing training mission he went on. One soldier was to throw a fake grenade into a hole, then another would pop a few live rounds into the hole. Only one soldier tripped. His gun discharged into Oliver’s best friend. He sat down cradling his friend, while the man repeatedly pleaded not to let him die. Oliver, his arms outstretched, as if he was still holding his friend in his arms, with pain in his voice, recalled that his eyes closed just before the rescue helicopter touched down. After Oliver was done with his tour, he headed up to Alaska, eager to earn some good money fishing. One of the first days they were cleaning fish, with his hands covered in blood, he flashed back to his dying friend in his arms. Oliver broke down and had to leave the plant and Alaska and a good job.
As I was struggling to come up with something to say, Oliver launched into another story. This time it was Iraq and Javier was serving along side him. A female soldier in another unit had been blown up. They were assigned to clean up the body. And as they were scraping brains off the floor, Oliver turned to Javier and said “I am just glad it was not you.” Javier immediately replied “me too man”. There was shame in Oliver’s voice as he repeated again what he told Javier, struggling to reconcile in his mind that he said it and still stood by it years later. Oliver started to break down emotionally, as I tried to reassure him that it was a perfectly understandable thing to say. He had to excuse himself to get his emotions under control, heading into the dark kitchen. Oliver stuck his head in the fridge, playing like he was grabbing another beer and working hard to become again the strong soldier, playing it cool at a party. It was a few moments before I could gather my thoughts and join another conversation.
As I head into another work week, I could not write anything until I wrote about our conversation. Oliver is my motivation and inspiration. It is our proud soldiers like Oliver who deserve well paying jobs, not mercenaries like Blackwater. They need people in office that will stop this war, so they don’t ever have to feel shame about living when others do not. We need leadership that keeps our soldiers from ever having to scrape another soldier’s brain off of a floor. Oliver, Javier and hundreds of thousands of other soldiers are counting on you and me. I will carry that burden. I will affect change. I will not forget.
