Throughout his memoir, Swofford makes several references to lies, deceit, and those who partake in such extracurriculars; we further realize how honest he, himself, is and how it seems he has been surrounded by those who are akin to those types of behavior (i.e. Kristina, his brother, Fowler, etc.). On page 245, Swofford closes a chapter describing how he and his comrades take fir at anything beyond the firing line in sight, using enemy weapons perhaps to prove his point that "Their weapons didn't fail. They failed their weapons". When the Americans display their firing prowess and then begin to shoot upward, Swofford seems to duck under his Humvee and begins weeping.
It is at this point he states, "I hear my screaming friends, those men I love, and know we'll soon carry that mad scream home with us, but that no one will listen because they'll want to hear the crowd-roar of victory". Since he is clearly concerned with upholding the integrity of both himself and the Suck, he takes his experiences, puts pen to paper and allows us to see inside the daily goings-on of "Active Duty" combat. What is delivered is an anticlimactic account of what I perceive to be his actual contribution to the war. Not even close to as much action as Kristina got in that hotel.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
I've always felt that it takes a certain type of person to serve in the armed forces; the fear of death has deterred me from ever showing interest in such a lifestyle. A woman in my building has a son who is home from Iraq after a two year tour. In the elevator one afternoon, she filled me in on her little secret to coping with the stress of being a parent of a marine. "As long as there's liquor on the shelf, I can sleep at night.""We're bait. And for the first time since my arrival
in-country, I feel completely dispensable. Countless other times I have
felt worthless and unimportant, but never completely dispensable".
I remember that afternoon and my first thought was what kind of idiot would put their life in danger for a country that, in my opinion, has such unclear intentions in the Middle East? Why would one throw their life away to protect a country that can't even rebuild itself after a natural disaster that happened some four years ago? Then I thought, what kind of person would make their parents miserable from worrying about their safety like that? I would never be able to imagine my sleepless mother crying every night, awaiting my safe return to the states.
For Swofford, escaping his family life was certainly a part of his decision to enlist: his father, a philanderer, his mother sighing away, his sister in her padded room, and his brother, the imaginary player of the year. I then realized that the woman in my building seems like a kook, and perhaps that's the reason he fled the country - piece of mind. But does one find that in the military? I think so. But not the way one would hope. I believe you find someone else's piece of mind, another's opinion, belief system and thoughts. You are a tire and the armed forces the air that pumps you up and ultimately deflates you, lacerated by post-traumatic stress or the list of hospital bills the miliraty's insurance plan was supposed to cover.
That being understood, why would a fresh-faced American suit up for a machine that, as Swofford put it, makes you feel worthless, dispensable? Maybe it's patriotism. Maybe it's insanity. Or maybe, it's the empty bottle of liquor on the shelf.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Egghead or Jarhead?
I remember being an adolescent and finding great joy in throwing raw eggs at factory workers from the rooftop adjacent to my backyard in my childhood home. Every now and then the idea would come to us, purely out of boredom, to ruin the day of an unsuspecting, most often Asian, sweat-shop employee. Sure, I've come a long way from that yoke-hurling ingrate to a more refined version, a twenty-something who is now aware of just how much money a carton of eggs costs. Oh yeah, and assaulting people from above is rude, too.
I guess what I loved about doing such things was that in every other situation, I was a goody-two-shoes, star student, performer, and all around kiss-ass. It was during those brief flashes of mischief that I felt like I was a part of the subsect of society that often did that sort of thing, the bad-boys, the delinquents. As I continued reading Jarhead, one of the minor characters with whom I sympathized, and not necessarily agreed with, was Fowler. He was a soldier, a self-proclaimed master marksman who never really got to display his prowess but on the likes of innocent camels trotting helplessly through the blistering dunes.
He had an opportunity to do something great, and sure, to most people serving in the Marines and coming home safely is enough. For others, like Fowler, he was deeply saddened by his lack of excitement and experience and therefore, fabricated heroic tales of war; civilians saved by his own American hands, a example for all.
I guess the reason why I understand where he was coming from is because when I look back on those shell-slamming days of my youth, I realize how boredom affected who I was as a person. A kid with nothing to do has an easy time finding countless ways to waste away an afternoon, but for a soldier who carries a weapon and ammunition and never has the opportunity to use it, that must be the pits. It's no wonder to me he used those poor camels as target practice, although I don't agree with murder being the only source of release.
As I read Jarhead, I realize how much free time these poor guys had and I'm fully aware of the insane thoughts that can run through one's mind when there is plenty of time for them to sneak in (i.e., my summer of hating myself). Fowler was a loser, and it takes one to know one. Egghead.
I guess what I loved about doing such things was that in every other situation, I was a goody-two-shoes, star student, performer, and all around kiss-ass. It was during those brief flashes of mischief that I felt like I was a part of the subsect of society that often did that sort of thing, the bad-boys, the delinquents. As I continued reading Jarhead, one of the minor characters with whom I sympathized, and not necessarily agreed with, was Fowler. He was a soldier, a self-proclaimed master marksman who never really got to display his prowess but on the likes of innocent camels trotting helplessly through the blistering dunes.
He had an opportunity to do something great, and sure, to most people serving in the Marines and coming home safely is enough. For others, like Fowler, he was deeply saddened by his lack of excitement and experience and therefore, fabricated heroic tales of war; civilians saved by his own American hands, a example for all.
I guess the reason why I understand where he was coming from is because when I look back on those shell-slamming days of my youth, I realize how boredom affected who I was as a person. A kid with nothing to do has an easy time finding countless ways to waste away an afternoon, but for a soldier who carries a weapon and ammunition and never has the opportunity to use it, that must be the pits. It's no wonder to me he used those poor camels as target practice, although I don't agree with murder being the only source of release.
As I read Jarhead, I realize how much free time these poor guys had and I'm fully aware of the insane thoughts that can run through one's mind when there is plenty of time for them to sneak in (i.e., my summer of hating myself). Fowler was a loser, and it takes one to know one. Egghead.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Lord of the Jarheads
To clarify my comparison of Jarhead with Lord of the Flies I am borrowing an excerpt from the Spark notes website discussing the boys' loss of innocence because it is concise and easier than trying to explain it myself.
Loss of Innocence
As the boys on the island progress from well-behaved, orderly children longing for rescue to cruel, bloodthirsty hunters who have no desire to return to civilization, they naturally lose the sense of innocence that they possessed at the beginning of the novel. The painted savages in Chapter 12 who have hunted, tortured, and killed animals and human beings are a far cry from the guileless children swimming in the lagoon in Chapter 3. But Golding does not portray this loss of innocence as something that is done to the children; rather, it results naturally from their increasing openness to the innate evil and savagery that has always existed within them. Golding implies that civilization can mitigate but never wipe out the innate evil that exists within all human beings. The forest glade in which Simon sits in Chapter 3 symbolizes this loss of innocence. At first, it is a place of natural beauty and peace, but when Simon returns later in the novel, he discovers the bloody sow's head impaled upon a stake in the middle of the clearing. The bloody offering to the beast has disrupted the paradise that existed before—a powerful symbol of innate human evil disrupting childhood innocence.
It is in this regard that I see a comparison between Anthony as a 20 year old just beginning his career as a Marine to the person he becomes later on in the novel (we see a slight glimpse of his new self in flash-forwards in some sections). This is why the quote "...never be young again..." set off a little flashlight in my head.
It is in this regard that I see a comparison between Anthony as a 20 year old just beginning his career as a Marine to the person he becomes later on in the novel (we see a slight glimpse of his new self in flash-forwards in some sections). This is why the quote "...never be young again..." set off a little flashlight in my head.
Youth in Jarhead
"It occurs to me that we will never be young again."
Before this summer, I 've never had much interest in any media related to war or violence in general; I've never enjoyed watching war films, reading books involving war, or anything related to gunshots, bloody corpses, or realizing the awful conditions that soldiers at war must endure. I'll always prefer a chick-flick, however, this summer I had the pleasure of studying Film with Lynne Jackson at SFC and I saw such media from a different perspective.
When I perused the syllabus and read that we would be studying "Full Metal Jacket" I was definitely a bit bummed, but "Moulin Rouge" thankfully evened the playing field. My thought? It was WONDERFUL. It was beyond that, even. I was so impressed it actually changed my opinion on that genre of film, and thankfully so. It is for that reason that reading Jarhead seemed like no big deal. And through the reading thus far, it has been a big deal - in a really good way!
The novel captivated me from the outset, and I was immediately able to sympathize with the hardships that soldiers must endure. On page seven, the above quote stuck out like a sore thumb for me and really set the tone for the first half of the novel. I became aware from that point of exactly how young the characters were and what they were being asked to do. As I wrote in my previous blog, I have luckily never experienced anything like my mother had by the time she was my age. And now having read most of Jarhead, it amazes me what people are capable of doing regardless of age when left with no other choice. For me this novel has a Lord of the Flies feel to it, and I look forward to completing the second half.
Before this summer, I 've never had much interest in any media related to war or violence in general; I've never enjoyed watching war films, reading books involving war, or anything related to gunshots, bloody corpses, or realizing the awful conditions that soldiers at war must endure. I'll always prefer a chick-flick, however, this summer I had the pleasure of studying Film with Lynne Jackson at SFC and I saw such media from a different perspective.
When I perused the syllabus and read that we would be studying "Full Metal Jacket" I was definitely a bit bummed, but "Moulin Rouge" thankfully evened the playing field. My thought? It was WONDERFUL. It was beyond that, even. I was so impressed it actually changed my opinion on that genre of film, and thankfully so. It is for that reason that reading Jarhead seemed like no big deal. And through the reading thus far, it has been a big deal - in a really good way!
The novel captivated me from the outset, and I was immediately able to sympathize with the hardships that soldiers must endure. On page seven, the above quote stuck out like a sore thumb for me and really set the tone for the first half of the novel. I became aware from that point of exactly how young the characters were and what they were being asked to do. As I wrote in my previous blog, I have luckily never experienced anything like my mother had by the time she was my age. And now having read most of Jarhead, it amazes me what people are capable of doing regardless of age when left with no other choice. For me this novel has a Lord of the Flies feel to it, and I look forward to completing the second half.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Dear Mom,
On Friday night I had the pleasure of meeting for the first time a real-life superhero. No, she hasn't ever won a gold medal, defended our country, or been written up in the newspaper.
"Oh God, Terence. When I was walking upstairs I started to realize how much I had to drink; I hope I didn't say anything stupid".
As she went on, I couldn't help but think of who I was at 24, what seems like an eternity ago. I had just begun living on my own and was making only $23, 000.00 a year teaching, forced to eat tuna fish or bagels with cream cheese each night because I couldn't afford anything else. Something clicked: I began to realize how strong-willed and special a person my mom is, even more than I ever have before. Would I have been able to handle the stress of a new born, a recent marriage, and a husband who could potentially be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life? No. Would I have been able to handle a baby that didn't stop crying for three years, a second child a year after the first, and the work schedule of a recuperated husband on the graveyard shift as an NYPD rookie, forcing her to sleep alone most nights if she slept at all? Hell no.
At 27, I haven't experienced ANYTHING close to what my mother had by the time she was my age. A memory: I remember making fun of her perm when she got home from the beauty salon that day when I was 6 because I had never seen her hair curled. Looking back, that was one of the few things she ever did for herself; I laughed at her. She was beautiful. Another thought: At times watching her argue with my father and not knowing how an easy-going optimist could become so angry with him, and with us, and now wondering how she didn't kill the lot of us all together. Incredible.
"Oh God, Terence. When I was walking upstairs I started to realize how much I had to drink; I hope I didn't say anything stupid".
On the contrary, mom. That night, hearing you dish about your past: yourSince I'm the oldest of three, I've always had a very close relationship with my mother. Maybe it's the first born son thing, but I have a hunch it's because I'm so much like her she can't help but love me as she does. Halfway through her second apple martini, the floodgates opened and mom began to talk about her pregnancies. She was recently married when I was conceived so there was little time to enjoy married life without the stress of babies crying and diaper changing. Also, my mom and my mother had received some bad news the week I was born. The week before, my father was diagnosed with a touch of MS and was completely numb on the left side of his body. He was 24, she was 21.
experiences as a young mother and wife, your years struggling to keep your
children in Catholic school while living with the pressure of making
ends meet, borrowing from Peter to pay Paul, etc, etc, etc, made me realize how
a 21 year old girl who had the world at her fingertips became the 48 year old
woman who sat before me Friday night, a hero in my eyes.
As she went on, I couldn't help but think of who I was at 24, what seems like an eternity ago. I had just begun living on my own and was making only $23, 000.00 a year teaching, forced to eat tuna fish or bagels with cream cheese each night because I couldn't afford anything else. Something clicked: I began to realize how strong-willed and special a person my mom is, even more than I ever have before. Would I have been able to handle the stress of a new born, a recent marriage, and a husband who could potentially be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life? No. Would I have been able to handle a baby that didn't stop crying for three years, a second child a year after the first, and the work schedule of a recuperated husband on the graveyard shift as an NYPD rookie, forcing her to sleep alone most nights if she slept at all? Hell no.
At 27, I haven't experienced ANYTHING close to what my mother had by the time she was my age. A memory: I remember making fun of her perm when she got home from the beauty salon that day when I was 6 because I had never seen her hair curled. Looking back, that was one of the few things she ever did for herself; I laughed at her. She was beautiful. Another thought: At times watching her argue with my father and not knowing how an easy-going optimist could become so angry with him, and with us, and now wondering how she didn't kill the lot of us all together. Incredible.
I love you, mom. I love you for everything you ever wanted to be and never were, everything you wanted to do for us and never did and most importantly,
who you have become and all that you did for us. Thank you for giving your children the opportunity to know you not only as a struggling twenty-something with the world on her shoulders but also as a 48 year old woman with a wealth of experience to share with her now twenty-something children.
I LOVE YOU, LADY.
Your oldest son, Teddy How
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Thrown into yet another locker...
I'm pretty tired of being spoken to like I'm a piece of shit simply because I'm gay.
Twenty seven years and people still can't accept I'm never going to have feelings like "that" for a woman, regardless of their opinions.
My entire life has been an attempt to go under the straight guy's radar, hoping to catch him on a good day when the need to throw me into a locker was an afterthought. In H.S. I learned that even the Honors Program couldn't save me from the torture that ensued throughout my four years held prisoner in an all-boys Catholic high school. I initially thought the concept of travelling from classroom to classroom with the same group of kids all day would allow me to blend in with the crowd, but alas, as I discovered, I'm the poor man's "Where's Waldo?"
As an impressionable frosh struggling to identify why I felt different, reluctant to grasp the thought of "my feet not touching the ground" for the rest of my life, as my father would say. A remedy?: I followed my instincts and auditioned for the Spring musical, for some reason thinking it would renew the confidence that had been violently stripped from me by innumerable shouts of "fag", "queer", and "homo" in between classes. Well, you can imagine the rest.
Now at 27, an employee of the Department of Ed., having somewhat recovered from the years of incessant name-calling, I once again feel bullied every now and then! In reality, not much has changed besides my age; schoolkids are still shitty, and I'm still just as gay as I was when I pranced across my H.S. stage proclaiming my love for "Rosemary" in "How to Succeed in Business...".
On any given day, a possible conversation with a kid goes something like this:
~"Excuse me, can you please pick that paper up and put it in the trash?"
~"Why?"
~"Because you threw it on the floor and it doesn't belong there."
~"You pick it up. Faggot."
Lovely.
This year, the mayor has begun a school wide anti-bullying program that protects kids like me from being harassed, assaulted, and threatened. Where was Bloomberg the Monday after the talent show after strutting my stuff for the herds of oblivious mothers who thought I was being "cute" and the disgusted blue-collared fathers who went for a bathroom break as I started shuffling off to Buffalo? Each time I walk down the hall of my school I notice the newly posted "Respect for All" initiative posters adorning the walls; I hope and pray, for gay students and teachers alike, that we will someday truly be safeguarded against those nasty, most likely closeted, bullies. Until then, I must do as I learned in Catholic school, to turn the other cheek and dance like no one's watching.
Twenty seven years and people still can't accept I'm never going to have feelings like "that" for a woman, regardless of their opinions.
My entire life has been an attempt to go under the straight guy's radar, hoping to catch him on a good day when the need to throw me into a locker was an afterthought. In H.S. I learned that even the Honors Program couldn't save me from the torture that ensued throughout my four years held prisoner in an all-boys Catholic high school. I initially thought the concept of travelling from classroom to classroom with the same group of kids all day would allow me to blend in with the crowd, but alas, as I discovered, I'm the poor man's "Where's Waldo?"
As an impressionable frosh struggling to identify why I felt different, reluctant to grasp the thought of "my feet not touching the ground" for the rest of my life, as my father would say. A remedy?: I followed my instincts and auditioned for the Spring musical, for some reason thinking it would renew the confidence that had been violently stripped from me by innumerable shouts of "fag", "queer", and "homo" in between classes. Well, you can imagine the rest.
Now at 27, an employee of the Department of Ed., having somewhat recovered from the years of incessant name-calling, I once again feel bullied every now and then! In reality, not much has changed besides my age; schoolkids are still shitty, and I'm still just as gay as I was when I pranced across my H.S. stage proclaiming my love for "Rosemary" in "How to Succeed in Business...".
On any given day, a possible conversation with a kid goes something like this:
~"Excuse me, can you please pick that paper up and put it in the trash?"
~"Why?"
~"Because you threw it on the floor and it doesn't belong there."
~"You pick it up. Faggot."
Lovely.
This year, the mayor has begun a school wide anti-bullying program that protects kids like me from being harassed, assaulted, and threatened. Where was Bloomberg the Monday after the talent show after strutting my stuff for the herds of oblivious mothers who thought I was being "cute" and the disgusted blue-collared fathers who went for a bathroom break as I started shuffling off to Buffalo? Each time I walk down the hall of my school I notice the newly posted "Respect for All" initiative posters adorning the walls; I hope and pray, for gay students and teachers alike, that we will someday truly be safeguarded against those nasty, most likely closeted, bullies. Until then, I must do as I learned in Catholic school, to turn the other cheek and dance like no one's watching.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
It has been a few days since my last blog so I apologize to all my fans who have been holding their breath; may you rest in peace. There's really no excuse for why this second blog has taken so long other than the fact that time has become less available over the last few days. After working with middleschoolers all day, attending classes three nights a week, and playing in the New York City Gay Basketball League, the time I have is most often spent doing things such as showering, eating and sleeping. Blogging is really new to me, so hopefully it will become second nature and my readers will have more access to my rants.
So I finished the play "The Mercy Seat" in what seemed like fifteen minutes yesterday and I have to say, it wasn't particularly the best quarter of an hour of my life. Truth be told: I was immediately put off by the bickering I understand was near impossible to avoid under those circumstances. I grew tired of reading all the (beat)s that were added to Abby's lines to blatantly express her, for lack of a better word, bitchiness. I didn't want their relatyionship to work from the outset of the play because there were so many words in "quotes" that their conversation offered a view into the falsity of their relationship. I was never truly convinced and ultimately proven right, of their love for one another. Furthermore, the Doggy style conversation sent me over the edge.
The teacher with whom I cohabit a classroom lost her older brother in the 9/11 tragedy. Hearing her stories and seeing the pain in her eyes this past week when she recounts that day and the years of therapy brought on by her loss made this play seem trite in the grand scheme of things. It was a well written play that does offer insight into the darker side of tragedies and the exploitation that may ensue. But overall, it made me feel pretty shitty.
So I finished the play "The Mercy Seat" in what seemed like fifteen minutes yesterday and I have to say, it wasn't particularly the best quarter of an hour of my life. Truth be told: I was immediately put off by the bickering I understand was near impossible to avoid under those circumstances. I grew tired of reading all the (beat)s that were added to Abby's lines to blatantly express her, for lack of a better word, bitchiness. I didn't want their relatyionship to work from the outset of the play because there were so many words in "quotes" that their conversation offered a view into the falsity of their relationship. I was never truly convinced and ultimately proven right, of their love for one another. Furthermore, the Doggy style conversation sent me over the edge.
The teacher with whom I cohabit a classroom lost her older brother in the 9/11 tragedy. Hearing her stories and seeing the pain in her eyes this past week when she recounts that day and the years of therapy brought on by her loss made this play seem trite in the grand scheme of things. It was a well written play that does offer insight into the darker side of tragedies and the exploitation that may ensue. But overall, it made me feel pretty shitty.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
What "Back to School" blues?
As my first week back to work after the summer off comes to a close tomorrow, I am grateful that I finally have something more to do with myself other than stalk Michael Phelps and sleep until 3 p.m. Don't get me wrong, everyone needs a vacation now and then, especially those who work with children. But two months? Most people are clearly envious when I'm the last one to leave Thursday Happy Hour in the middle of July; others wish they could have the tan I acquired naturally in lieu of their ten minute sessions at the tanning salon. Sadly, what they fail to realize is that having too much time on one's hands can be compared to a person with poor vision finally getting glasses - that first look in the mirror is a startling one, a Monet from a nose-length away. Inevitably I began to hate myself.
Something is terribly wrong when the only items on my daily agenda are clearly listed for all to see on my DVR. Sure, occasionally I'd take out the trash and polish my furniture. I had to eat. I had to drink; not as much as I did, though, but what else is a Kennedy to do? Meaningless walks around my neighborhood only made me long for the sound of MiddleSchoolers cursing each other out. By mid-August I developed a routine of looking at myself in my bathroom mirror and helplessly spouting Yo' Mama jokes; to no avail, I was only offended.
Last night in class as we discussed Time, I thought about my summer. I realized how much time I wasted these past two months: my feet never felt sand, museums were left unvisited, and my liver now hates me. One positive, however, I took from this summer was the realization that teaching isn't for me - I'll soon hand over my vacation and affection for adolescent disrespect to someone else. I probably should have realized that earlier, but as they say, there's no time like the present. And presently, I think I need a vacation.
Something is terribly wrong when the only items on my daily agenda are clearly listed for all to see on my DVR. Sure, occasionally I'd take out the trash and polish my furniture. I had to eat. I had to drink; not as much as I did, though, but what else is a Kennedy to do? Meaningless walks around my neighborhood only made me long for the sound of MiddleSchoolers cursing each other out. By mid-August I developed a routine of looking at myself in my bathroom mirror and helplessly spouting Yo' Mama jokes; to no avail, I was only offended.
Last night in class as we discussed Time, I thought about my summer. I realized how much time I wasted these past two months: my feet never felt sand, museums were left unvisited, and my liver now hates me. One positive, however, I took from this summer was the realization that teaching isn't for me - I'll soon hand over my vacation and affection for adolescent disrespect to someone else. I probably should have realized that earlier, but as they say, there's no time like the present. And presently, I think I need a vacation.
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