- As the silliness of two rich men, running for office,
goes on over events of 35 years ago, none of the pressing issues having
to do with massive layoffs, outsourcing of jobs, fuel prices, veterans
issues or homelessness; growing by the thousands is even on the radar screen.
-
- I personally don't care about Kerry emulating JFK and
coming home with a handful of ribbons/medals, or George bypassing 500 others
to make it into the National Guard. None of this has anything to do with
the issues or crisis that American families are suffering. Talk about 'beating
a dead horse', but it does distract from the despair in Afghanistan, poppies
back in a record harvest, and the ongoing mayhem and dying in Iraq. Unemployment
in Iraq is massive, oil pipelines are being blown up, and the puppet government,
put in place, just doesn't have that real ring of McFreedom about it.
-
- Medals might be important if you're running for office,
or one of those wanting to impress the boys down at the corner bar, but
the heroes that I know from war don't talk about their exploits. In fact,
the true heroes in life, be it on the battle front or home front, will
never be known. The act of heroism is sacrificing one's own life's pleasures,
wishes, desires, and sometimes one's life, for love. There's no medal
or ribbon for that.
-
- I personally am sickened of this media propaganda and
public relations hype; while veterans home from war battle for medical
benefits, find their jobs gone, no health care, and fighting for disability.
Thousands are scarred for life, blinded, limbless and suffering the effects
of depleted uranium or neurologically impaired. Armored vehicles, here
at conventions, are equipped for inter-galactic battle, while those on
the real war front, are traveling about with plastic windshields, and
putting sandbags in their vehicles for protection. What's wrong with this
picture with upwards of 200 billion being spent thus far, billions unaccounted
for by various contractors, and America's debt growing by the billions
month by month?
-
- And so, they come marching home. How do you have a man
trained and psyched up to kill chanting, "blood makes the grass grown
green", readjust to that line-painting job, clerk job, or working
on the widget line again? Watching war from a distance, slurping down
that 40 oz cold one, wiping the grease from one's jowls, turning the AC
on high; while clicking the channels from monster trucks, to mud wrestling,
screaming, "Nuk'em-turn the place to glass" if perchance- one
mistakenly clicks on a view of tanks, shattered buildings, and charred
people. War from a sweat stained armchair, or down at the corner hang-out,
with Pasty Cline wailing," Crazy", from the cracked jukebox,
with mugs of draft being slid down the bar, is a little different than
empty echoing loneliness, a sweetheart's picture, a "dear daddy I
miss you", from a first grader, gnats, fleas, tepid water, and death
waiting on every road, from every rooftop and around the corner. No fear
of this, lumbering to the frig, for a stick of pepperoni and some salsa;
all the while muttering; "Commies, faggots, yellow belly cowards,
etc.", towards those who think, after eons of killing- from generation
to generation, that there just might be a better way. Killing multi-millions
just hasn't won peace!
-
- In Foggy Bottom, the promise of perpetual war for peace,
thunders on, as the troughs of military industrialists, oil, gas, and bejeweled
sausage finger contractors, fill to overflowing. Nah, they're not worrying
if Johnny comes marching or limping home. And if Johnny comes home in a
flag-draped tube, nobody will be traumatized by its sight in McFun Land.
Of course, the eight day test pattern of President's Reagan's flag draped
coffin, on display and on tour, was a noble and heroic send off. After
all he did make military films. All those pontificating; "We'll stay
the course or bring them on" have never been to war and talk about
fighting for decades with other people's sons, daughters, brothers, sisters,
mothers and fathers. It's pretty macho to be for war behind concrete barriers,
hiding in a bunker or surrounded with thousands of Ninja dressed warriors.
-
- There are no media event send-offs for the shattered
ones who make it home. Some shut down and close off any and all memories
of war. Others not so mentally disciplined, stay trapped forever on the
battlefield, the burning village, smelling napalm, the stench of burning
flesh, and the memory of screaming buddies. Wars have long echoes. War
forever changes men-silent or otherwise. War exposed them to parts of themselves
they never knew existed and wish to forget.
-
- Once home the shattered ones, disappear into tents, abandoned
cars, under bridges, and boarded-up houses or tenements. You won't find
many veterans in a shelter system. A shelter (due to media stereotyping)
stigmatizes one as a loser, lazy bum, doper, or drunk. Lot's of rich are
dopers, drunks, and bums; but they're called "eccentric". If
you ask the veterans why they won't come in from under a bridge, where
rats scurry over rotted mattresses, they tell you it's their last no to
a system they feel that has failed them.
-
- I found the man in the picture with this article; huddled
in the back doorway of a YMCA, in a large Fortune 500 city, where I worked
with the homeless. Men from Wall Street; hurried by with their briefcases
to their opulent homes, golf courses, or to one of the numerous yacht clubs.
What did they know of Frank huddled there in the cold, who had fought for
their "freedoms-liberties-and fortunes"?
-
- Frank came back from war and he never spoke another word.
Frank was like a silent sentry. Wherever I'd go, whether to the parks to
look for the homeless, under the bridges, or cardboard cities (in the woods),
he'd be there with his hands shoved in his pockets guarding. He would nod
appreciatively when I'd bring him food everyday, warm gloves, socks or
a coat. His eyes were the color of a turquoise sea, deep; and filled not
so much with pain, but with an inner peace found in the midst of a storm.
He was terribly scarred from burns and most times wore a cap to cover them.
The night I found him shivering in the shadows of towering corporate buildings,
complete with hanging gardens, it had slipped off.
-
- One day in my travels, I was delivering food to someone,
when I heard a commotion. There was Frank and Henry, an elderly Black
man (also homeless) going at it. I pulled over and went to see what the
disturbance was about. It was highly unusual to see Frank upset at anything.
Henry was a different matter. Henry resembled a scarecrow on the lam
and was always up to some mischief.
-
- Frank had his fists double up threatening to punch Henry
for some outrage or slight. Upon seeing me, Henry started wailing at the
top of his lungs, "Miss Judy, Miss Judy, thank God youse got here
in time, Frank's gon' plum crazy and is out to kilt me". I asked,
"And what did you do Henry"? He quickly replied, "With my
hand up to God, I swears Miss Judy, I was sittin' here likes I usually
does and Frank went crazy on me". I asked Frank, who always talked
to me in pantomime, what had really happened? He acted out Henry grabbing
something from him and kept pointing to Henry's pocket.
-
- Going several rounds with Henry and his denials, he finally
confessed that, "I can't be lyin' anymore to ya Miss Judy, I'm not
goin' burn in hell's fires, for the likes of Frank". With that he
took a half eaten chicken leg out of his pocket covered with lint and a
piece of gum wrapper. Thrusting it at Frank, he muttered, "Here ya
greedy bastard, take food from a hungry man's mouth". Frank took it
and was gone with a nod.
-
- Believe it or not, humor was the most pronounced attribute
of the streets, along with the terrible suffering and brutality. Any event
could and was turned into instant theater. If, per chance, you were one
of those social workers working from a rule book, policies, and questionnaires,
you wouldn't survive. The streets are another world of genius, creativity,
flim flam, and scams that make Enron look amateurish. In the event of a
catastrophe you can count on the street people surviving. I wasn't forgotten
on Mother's Day. Entering the soup kitchen the guys were all there with
a wondrous display of colorful blooms. Of course the yellow satin bow with
the words, "Goodbye Mother We Love You"; got me to thinking
they'd gone shopping at the local cemetery. I thanked them for being so
wonderfully thoughtful. After all what good are flowers to the dead? My
dad always said, "Don't give flowers to the dead give them to the
living."
-
-
- It was a hot August day when I last saw Frank. I was
stopped at the light and saw him in the park being violently sick. As I
waited for the light to change, the thing that struck me was that with
this park in the middle of the city, none of the numerous people bustling
by with shopping bags and briefcases, even gave him a glance. Not one.
-
- I waved down a police car to call for an ambulance and
ran to Frank. He was dying-dying right there in the park this scarred soldier
who fought for all their damn freedoms and they didn't give a damn! The
vomiting wouldn't stop it was if his whole insides were coming out. He'd
survived the battlefields but not the indifferent streets of America.
I stayed with him in Intensive Care, telling them I was his daughter. Even
in dying there are rules! He opened his eyes once, smiled, gave that quirky
nod and the machine stopped beeping.
-
- I spent a lot of time in dying rooms. Nobody should die
alone-at least that's my thought. I think people, at least homeless people,
and disposable people; die of just being swallowed up by emptiness. I went
down to the park later and sat on the grass with Henry and told him Frank
had died. They really were close despite their occasional bickering. Henry
was quiet for a long time sipping on his bagged Night Train. Wiping his
lips he said, "Frank was a soldier, you knew that didn't ya Miss Judy?
Ya gotta make sure he gets a flag." Then he reached into his jacket
pocket and said, "Here put this in his casket". It was a pint
bottle of Night Train---the best Henry had to give. Henry then launched
in to his tales of growing up in the South and teaching me about making
collard greens and ribs. On the streets grief is momentary-survival goes
on.
-
- Scripture says, "I was a stranger and you saw me
not.."
-
- "He who wants to do good knocks at the gate. He
who loves finds the gate open.
|
