Bush Life

Sevilla, Spain 2010

“Bumba! You souljah?”

“Yeah, I was a soldier.”

“When I yout’ I went to military
school.”

“Really John? You were in the…”

“I was in the Navy. Ees fun, but ees
crazy. Ya know?

John was in the Jamaican Navy
and speaks in reggae verse. I’m not sure when he is speaking and when he is
singing. He’s smoking a porro, a hashish and tobacco spliff. The sun is
setting in Sevilla and the air is getting cold.

“I always be getting in trouble with
the ganja. Late, never on time. The Bossman, he always be saying, ‘Hey Rudeboy…
why you come late?’” John hands me the porro.

“Ees hard to be Rastafari ‘n the
Navy. Ees not easy wear helmet over dread.” John laughs as he palms his dreads.
“The helmet, you know, they always be falling off I head when I run. Hey
Souljah, you shivering. You want jacket?”

“No thanks, I’m not cold.”

“I see Souljah…Always I irie, always
I in trouble. They say, ‘Hey rude boy! Why you so irie eye?’ In Navy, you need
be there when Bossman say. But Rasta no say, ‘Need be here’,
Rasta no care.”

“Working for the Man.”

“Always I in trouble… sometimes we
guard ship.” John gestures at a passing ship on the Guadalquivir river. “Why we
guard ship? Why this ship! Isn’t no one on ship. Why you tell me to guard ship?
You guard ship!”

“No one likes guard.”

“So we sleep, the Bossman, he sleep.
When Bossman no sleep he catch us, ‘Hey boy… do ten pushup.’”

“That’s his way.”

“Why I do ten pushup? You sleeping,
I sleeping. I no slave, youse big man, youse in charge. I know. Youse lion,
O.K. Why make me do pushup? It no prove nothing”

I can only nod.

“Ees crazy. Ees fun, but ees crazy”

An icy wind comes off the river.
Time for me to go.

“I miss it. ” John takes a final
drag of the porro, “I miss the bush life. Ees simple, ees hard, but ees
fun. It make a Rasta feel like a real lion. You know?” John flicks the roach
into the river.

A real lion, I miss that feeling.

“I love bush life. If no discover
Rastafari, no discover Jah I may still be Navy. But Jah no about taking life.
Jah no like Bossman tell what do. Rastafari ees simple, ees love. Rastafari, it
save me… you cold Souljah, why you no put jacket on?”

“I’m not cold.”

“Ees fun, but ees crazy. The bush
life. I miss it.”

Everyday.

“Lion be home in the bush.”

Always.

Sober Sleepless Nights

It seems like forever since I’ve had a good night’s
sleep. I stay up at all hours of the night alone and read book after book after
book. My tears well up and I am crying as I read about war. I miss being a
warrior. I read books about Vietnam and think, “I didn’t have it so bad.” And
deep down I wish I did. It all seems so far away and yet it’s all I can think
about.

I can’t be around people. There’s nothing in common.
They don’t like me, it’s plain to see, why are they even pretending. I see
pretty girls and see openings to talk to them. I don’t. It’s not that I’m
scared, I just don’t care. I know nothing will happen. I don’t want to invest
the time. I’d rather be alone.

Alone and I miss people. But there are no people. I
talked to Hunter today, he sounds happy again and I’m glad. He had another baby
girl. We laughed as he talked about ‘Hell House’. He wants to go back to Iraq
one day. Tourist visit, we’ll sleep in the IRAM holes. I do too.

Crushing solititude. I didn’t leave the apartment
all day today. Besides the phone call with Hunter I didn’t utter a single word.
I thought about how easy this was.

I sent Facebook messages to one hundred and
fifty people I grew up with. I went to school with these people. Along the way
I picked up and lost friends, not too many with bad feelings. Mostly we drifted
away and life moved on. Schoolboy crushes, smoking partners, acquaintences, legends,

nerds, jocks, people I sat next to in elementary school, people who attended my
parties in high school. I sent out one hundred and fifty messages. I asked how
they were, I asked them to check out the book. One hundred and fifty, maybe
twenty responded.

They said, congratulations. They said they’d check
it out. They said they’d buy it. Why do people say things they’re not going to
do? At least that twenty didn’t ignore me. One hundred and fifty people, not
one new reader. Not one.

I have too much faith in people, somehow this surprised
me. It shouldn’t have. I’ll see many of these people in the next few years.
Home is a small place indeed. The guys will probably shake or slap my hand,
some of the girls may hug me. I should refuse, but I won’t. I’ll smile and nod
my head and say it was great to see you.

Terrible and crushing loneliness. I’ve given up
smoking and embraced reality again. It’s hard to deal with the existential
pain, but I know it’s good for me. I go to school and get inspired and speak
out and stutter and then I am ashamed. Even when I don’t stutter the others
make me shamed at enthusiasm, at passion, and knowledge. I’m a good student this
semester. Nothing but time.

I remember not being able to sleep at Warhorse, at
KBS, in Baghdad. This was a reflective sleeplessness, an exuberance, an energy.
I embraced the loneliness then, only rarely was it painful. I had too many
brothers around. Too many, now there are none.

Holding here in Hawaii. I’m sick of being a haole
and seeing the hate in people’s eyes. I’ve done nothing to offend them. They hate
because I’m big and strong and confident and bright. So much hating because of
this. Hatred because I’m awake. Hatred because I cannot sleep.

And itching. Residual itching from the bed bugs from
New Orleans. The worst part is, I don’t know if they’ll be waiting for me back
home. Maybe they’re here. So much to do and yet nothing to do.

Five years as a warrior. Two years in the desert
wasteland. One year in my writer’s cave. Two months on the road. Now all the
energy is gone. Idealism is dead and I confront failure. You didn’t send me
letters in Iraq. You didn’t buy a drink when I made it home. I bought the
drinks. I sent out the letters. I read alone. I read about war and about
warriors and I am crying.

Sober sleepness nights. And I dream of war.

Back in Paradise

 “Back there I could fly a gunship, I could drive a tank, I was in charge of million dollar equipment, back here I can’t even hold a job parking cars.” – John Rambo, First Blood

I’m realizing that perhaps the hardest part about being a veteran is remembering all the amazing, monumental, and terrible things that happened in the past. All the struggle, pain, and remarkable overcoming; all in my past. The veteran has done extraordinary things, but his doubt is whether he can ever do it again. If the best is behind us why go forward?

How can I do great things in this mundane new life? Where is the real struggle in sitting in class for three or four hours a day or working in front of a computer or holding a nine to five? How do I make friendships based on substance abuse and debauchery? How can anyone respect me when they’ve never seen the best of me?  

So the veteran withdraws into himself. He is suspicious, aloof, and always alone. Maybe he’s proud of his accomplishments; wears a piece of camo or mentions his service offhand in a college class. It doesn’t last long. The apathy, the disinterest, the total lack of empathy, the accusations, feigned acknowledgment; it beats him down until he’s almost ashamed of his service.

Theory, it’s all theory in this “normal life”. No one does anything, no one knows anything, they just talk about how “it should work” and everyone has the answer. College professors dismiss the veteran and think that their studies in books mean something, that they know something about the real world. They talk about good philosophy, religion, and culture; but the veteran has seen these “good” theories lead to mangled bodies, orphaned children, and disabled soldiers. I have nothing in common with my fellow college students who see a college education as punishment rather than an exceptional privilege.

And now I’m back in paradise, back to the islands of Hawaii after touring the country and living rough and seeing all my former brothers in arms. I should be happy, but am I? It’s my own damn fault, no one’s but my own. I should be putting myself out there, making friends, womanizing, but I can’t do it. Everyone is soaked in substance abuse and I can’t do that any longer. The isolation is my PTSD, I cannot rejoin the herd.

“It was a bad time for everyone, Rambo. It’s all in the past now.”

“For you! For me civilian life is nothing! In the field we had a code of honor, you watch my back, I watch yours. Back here there’s nothing!”

I know there’s something out there, I can be real again. The problem is finding it.

Thoughts from the Road – Minnesota

Fourth of July—Independence Day—a uniquely American holiday, and Veteran Van is heading west towards Minnesota. Wrapping up visits with two old LTs, now Commanders—great leaders, patriots, and mentors—who remind us of why our Armed Forces, and especially the infantry, are such bastions of courage, intelligence, and strength.

Independence: It’s a word many Americans have forgotten, and some may never know.

The infantry are independent. We hold down entire cities and provinces in hostile territories half-way around the world. We live in abject squalor and yet maintain the professionalism and will to survive and accomplish impossible missions under impossible circumstances.

Independence is strapping on a heavy rucksack and walking out with your brothers in arms to distant outposts. Independence is leaving the comforts of hometown life at an early age to confront the harsh realities of the real world. Independence is casting off the shackles of colonial masters back in the day, in good old 1776, and teaching the world, for the first time, what a free society can become. Independence is heading out in a van, loaded down with books, and seeing what kind of adventures one can stir up.

Two days before arriving in Detroit, we try to schedule a police ride-along.

“Hello. Is this ___________ Police Precinct?”

“Yes. How may I help you?”

“I’m an author and Iraqi War Vet looking to do a police ride-along with your department.”

“Oh. . . just show up at any precinct a few hours before you want to go out. They’ll accommodate you.”

“Thank you, that’s too easy. . .”

Except it isn’t. We get shuffled from one station to another before being politely told that we should really only go out on Friday or Saturday (it’s Sunday); otherwise, nothing will happen.

But that’s okay, because our old LT is now a recruiting Commander and veritable Duke of Detroit, who gives us an infantry-style patrol of the once great American city. It’s better this way.

We drive along 7 Mile Road, through back streets, commercial roads, and rows of houses. An endless urban sprawl of decrepit, abandoned America stretches out before us; miles and miles and miles. Traffic lights at four way intersections aren’t working, burnt out and collapsed houses are everywhere, the only businesses are Coney Island hotdog shacks, cell phone providers, and liquor stores. Cut off the sewage, let the black water run loose through the streets, and this is isn’t America: this is Iraq.

What happened to the American Dream in Detroit? How can a child who only knows 7 Mile Road hear those words and not laugh in unknowing bewilderment? What’s happening to all of America?

Everywhere we go there’s this defeatist attitude. People cannot seem to talk enough about how America has lost its way, how the politicians have led us astray, and that we’re doomed to reenter some kind of dark age. There’s recession, China’s on the rise, perpetual threats of terrorism and endless war, and even 2012 doomsday prophecies. When did this country of optimists get so jaded?

Perhaps if we recaptured the spirit of the Fourth of July, maybe if we re-learned independence, we as a people and a country could break through this losing streak. Independence requires discipline, non-entanglement in the affairs of others, and the courage, intelligence, and will to stand alone. There are no easy answers, no simple solutions; only challenges and how we meet them. We need to remember that we’re not entitled to anything, that greatness, like respect, is not given, but only earned. It’s going to be a lot of work, but that’s what Americans do best.

Thoughts from the Road – New Orleans and Tennessee

The Big Easy was good to us. Good friends, good food, good times.

Brian (far left) and Daniel, a former Army medic and artist, in New Orleans on Decatur Street.

Local artist Daniel Garcia and his crew adopted us and made us feel like family. We set up shop in front of his Courtyard Gallery on Decatur Street and did some serious street selling. There’s nothing like selling on the streets with a whiskey drink in your hands. New Orleans is a wonderful place.

Jazz and Blues music wafted down Decatur street and we sweated through our shirts as we pitched the book. We drank almost because we had to: to stave off the heat and not by choice. The people walking New Orleans were supportive of the book and of our stories. Strangers bought me drinks and quickly became friends. Met some veterans and some current service members too, heard their stories. All in all, New Orleans has been the best stop yet.

We gave Paulie and his dog Zephyr a ride from New Orleans to Nashville. Paulie didn’t bring much to the table, but Zephyr was a cool dog.

Leaving the city, we agreed to give Paulie, a penniless traveler, and his dog, Zephyr, a ride to Nashville. Paulie had been living on the streets and panhandling to get by. A classic example of the needy hippie, Paulie brought nothing to the table. He nickel and dimed us, used our supplies, and one-upped anything we had to say. Needless to say, we were more than ready to kick Paulie out of Veteran Van the moment we got to Nashville. Not even a thank you after providing a ten hour ride, but that’s hippies for you.

We’re losing Nick at the Knoxville Airport. He was a solid member of the crew for the first quarter of the journey. Our band of three becomes a band of two. Space opens up in Veteran Van, but we lose another worker and a friend.

Veteran Van journeys on.

Thoughts from the Road – Phoenix

Driving away from Phoenix, on the road to Austin, and it’s my turn to rest in the back seat. Except it’s time for business, never enough time for business.

I thought writing the book would be the hard part. Stage One.

No way. Then I had to self-publish my manuscript. Production, with its myriad and intricate processes, collaborations, trusts, and curses. Stage Two.

Now I have to sell the damn thing, I have to sell myself, and that’s something else entirely. Stage Three.

So I find myself driving across country in a passenger van, a rock solid E-150, an American vehicle. I’ve taken out all but four seats, loaded her down with enough gear to live out of for two months, and piled the back cargo space high with boxes of books (1,300, to be precise).

I’m with my hometown friend Nick and my war buddy (and character in the book Zarqawi’s Ice Cream: Tales of Mediocre Infantrymen) Bob.

Phoenix is done and past. It was a little rough, but I think we’ve all learned a lot.

Bob learned that learning to ride a skateboard can be rough. Skating down some smooth city streets, he quickly gained speed, attempted to bail and run out his speed, and ended up crashing to the concrete and rolling to his feet.

Doctor Nick and Medic Goldsmith quickly diagnosed a dislocated or separated shoulder. Back at home base, we Googled how to fix a dislocated collarbone and quickly set to work. Check out the footage in the videos section of the website.

We would later learn that our methods to manually relocate Bob’s shoulder were not in vain. At the VA hospital the doctors said the shoulder had indeed been dislocated and put back into place, and that it remained separated.

Bob will be fine in a week or two, he’s a soldier and he’s tough, but until then he’ll be sporting a sling.

I’ve been reminded that there must be limits. We are not invincible, and there will be casualties. There will be highs and there will be lows. Like any good mission, there will be sacrifices. Veteran Van is a pretty audacious caper. Normal people don’t write, self-publish a book,  and drive ten thousand miles across country in a van to promote it. . .

But maybe they should.

I went to grade school safe and confident in Empire America, the country who fought the good fight, who fought it valiantly, and rested confidently assured in perpetual and gentlemanly victory.

Now it seems as if all is lost. We’re sunk in recession and mired in global conflict. China is set to surpass us soon as the global economic and political powerhouse of the century. My friends from high school with college degrees (and college debt) are bussing tables and living with Mom.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. Sometimes we have to let go of doubt and fear and luxury and embrace the struggle. Sometimes we have to be weird and spontaneous and irrational and just a little bit monster.

Sometimes you just have to hop in the van and ride.

It feels good.

Iraq War Stories: A Veteran’s Catharsis

Here’s the latest story to feature Zarqawi’s Ice Cream. Iraq War Stories: A Veteran’s Catharsis was written by B.L. Turek and published on Articles Base April 18, 2011:

Andrew Goldsmith was one year into community college when he was hit with a revelation:

“Join the army, go to war,” were the words that popped into his head as he sat bored in Economics class. “It never left me,” he recalls, recounting the initial epiphany. Four months later, Goldsmith enlisted in the United States Armed Forces. He was 19.

Goldsmith served in the army from 2004 to 2009, deploying to Iraq twice for year-long tours. He was a machine gunner for an Infantry fire team during the first tour; the second time around, he was a team leader and squad leader, steadily climbing the ranks from “Private” to “Sergeant” over the course of those five years.

“I thought the Infantry was going to be more hardcore, harder somehow then it was,” he admits. “Iraq was similar: I thought somehow that there would be more combat, and that it would be more glorious.”

Still, his time in the army left a deep imprint on Goldsmith’s psyche. Upon leaving the military, he moved to Hawaii and began attending school on the G.I. Bill, studying philosophy. He also began to write…and write some more. War stories poured from his mind and onto paper, compiling into hundreds of pages worth of firsthand tales. The result is Zarqawi’s Ice Cream, a personal account of Goldsmith’s time in Iraq.

“It’s not as if I wanted to write this book,” Goldsmith says. “I had to write this book.”

Writing Zarqawi’s Ice Cream was Goldsmith’s means to a catharsis, a way to make sense of what he experienced as a soldier. The book is broken down into five parts, sequentially written from the time leading up to his enlistment to military training to combat in Iraq to Ranger School to combat again and finally, to his journey home.

“Making stories out of traumatic, stressful, and extremely influential events in our lives helps us to process them, learn from them, and live with them,” he says.

Since leaving the army and attempting to reintegrate back into civilian life, Goldsmith has been faced with a number of challenges, and in many ways, feels as though he hasn’t really left at all.

“Getting used to the mundane, steady pace of normal life is hard, and so is finding people willing to listen,” he confides. “Sometimes it seems as if I have very little in common with the people around me, especially on the college campus.”

The approximate release date of Zarqawi’s Ice Cream is May of 2011. Goldsmith will then embark on a 10,000 mile cross-country road trip for two months, promoting his book on military bases as well as in book stores.

“I’m looking forward to exchanging outrageous stories [with other soldiers and veterans], meeting people and hearing their stories, life on the road, finishing this damn [book], and seeing how people react.”

Aside from writing and philosophy, Goldsmith practices Gracie Jiu-Jitsu, a passion he began cultivating nearly ten years ago while growing up in Redondo Beach, CA.

“I also like to ride my skateboard, read a lot, and take any opportunity I can to travel,” he enthuses. His impending book tour should satisfy the latter quite sufficiently!

To learn more about Zarqawi’s Ice Cream and Andrew Goldsmith’s cross-country book tour, visit www.zarqawisicecream.com.

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Read more: http://www.articlesbase.com/non-fiction-articles/iraq-war-stories-a-veterans-catharsis-4627284.html#ixzz1KJACsGZP