Tuesday, May 24, 2011

How Not to Interact With a Veteran: A Story

All four of us rode down in the compact car, hips against hips, shoulders pushing shoulders. My roommate’s friend, Megan, was visiting from Connecticut. And together with our unofficial third roommate, our dude on the couch, Ryan, we were headed down to historic Fells Point, Baltimore for a wild, raucous time.

Megan (a law student) and me didn’t get along from the beginning.

I commented thusly on the homeless people who were walking without looking into the middle of the street, almost getting hit by ours and other vehicles: “These guys don’t care. They just want to get hit and then sue.”

“They couldn’t sue for that, Dario.”

“Sure they could. They might not win since they’re not on a crosswalk but you can sue for anything.”

“No you can’t.”

We went back and forth like that for a bit, and my pulse became a slow boil. I was more ready to drink than ever.

When we arrived at the bar, the first bar of several (and the first shots and beers of many), Megan continued goading me.

“So you’re in the Marines right? You’ve been to Iraq?” she questioned as I hunched over to take a shot at pool.

A long corner pocket shot. Missed. “Yes. I’m in the Corps.”

“What did you do?”

“I would really prefer not talking about it with you.” And it was true that I meant specifically her, especially since she seemed like a stereotypically snooty New England know-it-all, but back then I hadn’t really processed my experiences in a way that I wanted to talk about them with anybody at all, really.

“Why not?” She continued her questioning.

“I just don’t feel like arguing.” I had learned after being home from Iraq for a year and a half that to civilians, war was nothing more than a political topic, and they couldn’t relate to or understand the human cost or the mental traumas that were what I knew of it. So I would keep my mouth shut when pressed, usually.

“Well I think you’re a coward if you don’t want to talk about it.” And at this point just the very sight of her disgusted me. I contemplated cracking her skull with the pool cue.

Ryan (another veteran) and I kept to one side of each different bar we went to, while my roommate, Hollywood, and her friend Megan kept to another. Ryan kept trying to talk me down but each shot, each beer just intensified the fire burning inside me.

When we left that night to finally return to our car, Megan still prodded me, and I couldn’t control my emotions anymore. “What do you know, Megan!? What the f*** do you know!” I screamed at the top of my lungs as I started walking in the middle of the street.

“C’mon, f***ing hit me, f***ing hit me!!!” I yelled, fire-throated, at the cars that careened out of the way, honking their horns, trying to avoid me. “Am I still a coward? Huh? HUH!!??”

And after entering the car, I leaned into the window and cried the entire way home. The memories of my dead friends darted from side-to-side in my mind, stabbing my thoughts, punctuating my psyche. I couldn’t stop.

“I’m sorry,” I wept and slurred. “I’m sorry.”

To her credit, after that very awkward and emotional night, Megan did apologize later, too, and if she saw me now I know she’d comment that I’m an entirely different person.

Turns out, she met a Marine some years later and told him this same story, and he said he would’ve reacted just the same. “He was horrified when I told him how I treated you,” she told me then. And I said that was okay.

You never know what anybody’s been through or where they’ve been. That seems like an obvious thing to say, but sometimes, here in America, we feel like we know everything because of the sound bites we hear, and the dozens of online news articles and commentaries we read. But unless you’ve been there, how can you really empathize? How much can you really know?

Or more simply, if you’re some chick who’s from some insulated town in one of the richest and safest states in America, honestly, what do you really know about war?

Some sympathy is all it takes, people. And just a little love and a little consideration. Don’t treat people like s*** because of what you think you know. Unless they’ve told you, you might never know.


THANK YOU GROUPON.COM FOR SPONSORING NOT ALONE. With their support, we can help 3,000 Warriors. 


Connect with Dario online:
Personal Website (Free Writing, Podcast, Dario in the Media, Biography, Books, Blogs)
20 Something Magazine (Editor-in-Chief, Creator)
JMWW Literary Journal (Senior Nonfiction Editor)
The Veterans Writing Project (Instructor, Nonfiction Editor)
LinkedIn (Professional Stuff)
Facebook (Be my friend?)

Monday, May 23, 2011

Dario's Op-Ed for the Washington Post

Hello, all! Here’s my op-ed on bin Laden's death for the Washington Post in its entirety if you would like to read it all! I think it speaks to the important and unique connections veterans maintain even after war.

“...When the news came of bin Laden’s death, I felt numb at first. Rather than exult, I could only mourn my friends and the other Americans who lost their lives. My roommate — my best friend and another Marine veteran — suggested we do a shot to celebrate bin Laden’s killing.

We had only imported alcohol on hand, so we chose a couple of ounces of rum from Puerto Rico instead of French liqueurs or vodkas. We continued watching the news: the slips in verbiage that confused “Obama” and “Osama”; the bold, galvanizing speech of the commander in chief; the crowds gathering on the streets of New York and at the gates of the White House. I knew, despite living in Towson, that I had to be at the president’s home, too.

I raced down I-295 in my Lincoln and scanned the different AM stations. Yes, he is dead. Shot in the head. SEAL Team 6. A good and historic day.

I parked several blocks from the White House and could hear the cheers reverberating. I saw cars zipping through the cross streets, honking their horns, sometimes a passenger’s hand holding the American flag out the window.

The scene outside the White House felt like a big hug. It didn’t matter that I had come alone; I was here with a thousand of my fellow Americans. And we were wild with patriotism, even cheering the cops who were trying to corral us away from the fence...”

Again, here's the full story.

Much love,

Dario



Connect with Dario online:
Personal Website (Free Writing, Podcast, Dario in the Media, Biography, Books, Blogs)
20 Something Magazine (Editor-in-Chief, Creator)
JMWW Literary Journal (Senior Nonfiction Editor)
The Veterans Writing Project (Instructor, Nonfiction Editor)
LinkedIn (Professional Stuff)
Facebook (Be my friend?)