[stylist] 'Crying' prompt response

[Samara Raine]

I'm not very good at reviews. But I just had to say something about this.

This was absolutely beautiful. I, too am pleased at how you portrayed men 
with emotions. So many people seem to think they should not have any. So 
many men try to live up to that expectation.

The other aspect of this narration that touched me was that it was real. 
Fiction can be truly magical, but nothing packs a punch like real life.

Thank you for sharing. This was truly an eye opener and certainly makes me 
think.

Samara



----- Original Message ----- 
From: "Chris Kuell" <ckuell at comcast.net>
To: "Stylist" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Sent: Wednesday, March 07, 2012 11:19 AM
Subject: [stylist] 'Crying' prompt response


>
>
>
> Johnny Get Your Gun
>
>
>
> By Chris Kuell
>
>
>
> I sat working at my computer on the morning of April 4, 2011. When the 
> phone rang, I listened to the caller ID, which gave a familiar 423 area 
> code. My friend Susan in Tennessee.
>
>
>
> "Hey Susan-how's it going?"
>
>
>
> Susan answered with her usual, "Hey Chris," drawing out Chris with her 
> Southern twang until it was almost a three-syllable word. Then she sniffed 
> and I knew something was wrong. "Jonathan. Jonathan stepped on an IED."
>
>
>
> I can't say with any certainty what she said right after that. It's 
> absolutely amazing to me how fast the human body can react. Within the 
> course of a millisecond or two, tears filled my eyes, my blackened visual 
> cortex turned a translucent gray and a sheen of sweat covered my back and 
> chest
>
>
>
> ".two days ago. He's alive, but he's hurt real bad."
>
>
>
> I steadied myself enough to try to give my friend some comfort over her 
> son. I learned that Jonathan had been flown to Germany where doctors were 
> trying to stabilize him. Despite the military's suggestions that she sit 
> tight and wait, Susan was getting on a plane to Germany later that day. 
> She asked that I pray for her son, and to please ask everyone I knew to 
> pray for him too. I assured her I would, hung up, then fell to pieces.
>
>
>
> In June of 2003, I talked my family into driving me to West Virginia for a 
> three day writing conference. I had been toying with the idea of trying 
> freelance writing, and decided to attend the conference to learn, to 
> network, and meet other writers. My wife drove the 680 miles, and as I got 
> out of the car and stretched my back, a woman got out of the car next to 
> us.
>
>
>
> "Hi," she said. "I'm Susan."
>
>
>
> We exchanged pleasantries over the course of the conference, Susan being 
> one of only a handful of people not put off by my blindness.
>
> And then she sat across from me at the Saturday evening banquet and we 
> really got a chance to chat. She was working on a novel about a strong 
> Southern woman in a bad relationship, and after attending a seminar for 
> first time novelists, I felt juiced up to start a novel about a 
> working-class family dealing with Alzheimer's. I learned that Susan had 
> two kids, a boy and a girl like me, and our sons were both eleven.
>
>
>
> After the conference we emailed each other and critiqued each other's 
> work. We developed a weekly writing challenge to urge each other on, and 
> became good friends in the process. I saw Susan again at the 2004 West 
> Virginia Writer's conference, where I consumed a little too much authentic 
> West Virginia moonshine and she helped pilot me back to my room. We talked 
> on the phone, and I heard about her husband losing his job, her daughter's 
> pregnancy, and her son Jonathon advancing belt by belt through his karate 
> classes. At the 2007 conference, we both pitched our novels to a New York 
> literary agent. He shot me down, but Susan was one of only three people 
> out of 52 to get a full manuscript request.
>
>
>
> The following year, as summer approached, Susan called me in tears. Her 
> son's best friend had been found that morning dead in his room. He had 
> died from something called Robo-trippin', which I'd never heard of. 
> Apparently, he and Jonathan had both downed an entire bottle of Robitussin 
> cough syrup, which is purported to give the consumer a buzz. He was fine 
> when Jonathan and he parted ways the previous evening, but his heart 
> failed in the night.
>
>
>
> This was the start of a downward trend for Jonathan. His grades dropped, 
> he quit karate, he started staying out late and partying with the type of 
> friends Susan and her husband wanted him to stay away from.
>
>
>
> He managed to graduate high school, barely, and was continually fighting 
> with his parents. As a graduation gift I sent him a copy of Cormack 
> McCarthy's 'The Road' and 'What Color is My Parachute' in hopes he might 
> get some direction in life. I also sent him a seven page personal letter, 
> which he probably threw out without reading. The truth is, I wasn't all 
> that different than Jonathan when I was his age. I once talked my best 
> friend out of killing himself on a long, dark night, and I always had the 
> drive to get myself through college, but I wasn't exactly law-abiding with 
> Rhodes Scholars for friends.
>
>
>
> Jonathan went to the University of Tennessee at Knoxville for a semester 
> in the fall-his parent's choice, not his. He was sent home after one 
> semester and asked not to return.
>
> The following spring the cops pulled him over and busted him with beer and 
> an ounce of weed in his car. He spent the night in jail, then Susan and 
> her husband bailed him out. In court he was found guilty of possession 
> with the intent to distribute, driving under the influence, possession of 
> alcohol while underage, and a handful of assorted traffic violations. The 
> judge fined him $2500 plus 100 hours of community service. Jonathan told 
> the judge that what he really wanted to do was join the service. The judge 
> agreed that if Jonathan did, he'd waive the fine. Jonathan completed his 
> community service, and a month later was a United States marine.
>
>
>
> This seemed to have a positive impact. When he came home from boot camp, 
> he was a changed man. He was proud and respectful and except for picking 
> up the habit of smoking cigarettes he was the perfect son. When he 
> returned for more training, he found, as is the case with many a country 
> boy used to shooting squirrels out of trees with a .22 at a hundred yards, 
> he was a good shot. A real good shot. Uncle Sam decided to turn Jonathan 
> into a sniper.
>
>
>
> He trained, learned about the latest weaponry, laser scopes and where to 
> place a kill shot. On January 18, 2011, he and the rest of his regiment 
> left the good old USA and landed in Afghanistan. Seventy-four days later, 
> as Jonathan himself said, "I was walking a path where 200 other guys had 
> walked before me, and I was the unlucky sum-bitch to step on the mine."
>
>
>
> Although I'd never met Jonathan, I couldn't get the image of him out of my 
> mind. Susan had said he'd lost most of his left foot, and all the bones in 
> both legs and his right foot were shattered. As I dwelled on that image, 
> the sadness would hit me like an iron mallet and I'd find myself crying 
> again. When my wife came home from work, I couldn't get through the story 
> without losing it yet again. Why was I having such a powerful reaction to 
> this kid, this punk really, who I'd never even met?
>
>
>
> Firstly, it wasn't just any kid, but it was the son of a good friend. He 
> was my own son's age, and while they were walking very different paths in 
> life, I could still imagine the pain of every mother and father who had 
> lost or nearly lost a son or daughter in this terrible war. As of August 
> 2011, there were 4,700 deaths and nearly 33,000 American troop casualties 
> in Iraq and Afghanistan, most of them soldiers between the ages of 18 and 
> 22. And for what? Is the world a better place? If so, only slightly. Any 
> gains are precarious at best, and certainly not worth the cost.
>
>
>
> As a parent, I can imagine no greater pain than the suffering or death of 
> my children. Give me cancer, Parkinson's, muscular dystrophy, chop off my 
> legs, but please God, leave my kids alone. I know that tragedy knocks on 
> everyone's door, but I'd bargain anything I could to keep it from my kid's 
> porches as long as possible. As I'm sure most parents would.  And when I 
> open my heart to it, I can feel all those parents pain and sorrow.
>
>
>
> I thought about Jonathan, a mere nineteen years old, and the entire trauma 
> that he's already experienced. First was the death of his best friend, 
> which he must feel guilty over, yet never received the mental health 
> therapy he undoubtedly needed. This caused him to act out, and his folks, 
> being Bible-belters, tried the 'spare the rod and spoil the child' 
> approach to parenting-which of course, failed miserably. Jonathan 
> rebelled, got into deeper trouble and took what I thought at the time was 
> a reasonable step by joining the Marines. Then, just as he was feeling 
> like his life was on track again, he found himself thrust into the horror 
> of war. By early May, he was at Walter Reed Medical Center in Washington, 
> his left leg amputated below the knee, his right leg full of screws and 
> rods, both legs and hips encased in plaster while he healed. At least, 
> physically.
>
>
>
> There is a small ray of sunshine amid the bleakness of this story. By all 
> accounts, the medical attention Jonathan has received from the US Military 
> has been superb. Unlike the horror stories of wounded soldiers lying in 
> their own waste, infected wounds left untreated at Walter Reed during the 
> bush administration, Susan was invited to come and stay with her son, 
> which she did for three months. That gave them time to heal their personal 
> wounds and grow closer. Despite his protests, Jonathan had long sessions 
> of physical therapy every day. Two custom prosthetics were made for 
> him-one for everyday use and one for doing athletic activities. When he 
> was able, a group of wounded soldiers and their families got to sit in the 
> first row behind the plate at a Washington Nationals game. They went to 
> New York City for a weekend to tour and see a Broadway show. They were 
> flown to Las Vegas for a weekend. Jonathan has had his picture taken with 
> a dozen or more celebrities. Tim Allen makes it a practice to stop by 
> Bethesda Naval hospital (Walter Reed was officially closed last August) as 
> do Holly Hunter and Gary Sinise. They walk around and chat with the 
> wounded soldiers, which really makes their days. I can't say how proud I 
> am that my tax dollars are used to help and care for our wounded veterans.
>
>
>
> Three weeks ago Jonathan was skiing in Colorado when he got a phone call 
> from one of his Marine buddies. At boot camp, during training and for his 
> short stint in Afghanistan, Jonathan had made two close friends-Harrison 
> and Mathews. Harrison was the first person to get to Jonathon and applied 
> the tourniquet which probably saved his life. The other guys had completed 
> their yearlong tour and returned to Camp Merrill in Georgia in early 
> February, 2012. A week later, safe on US soil, Harrison shot himself in 
> the head. The phone call was from Mathews. Jonathon caught the first plane 
> he could and attended the funeral in full military uniform.
>
>
>
> At this point, Jonathan is patiently waiting for his discharge. Despite 
> his parents urging, he doesn't believe he needs to talk to a psychiatrist 
> or therapist. He is thinking again about attending college, or perhaps a 
> trade school to learn to be an electrician.
>
>
>
> What happened to Jonathon, who turned twenty last fall, wasn't ordinary
>
> y. Yet, it was truly devastating, and I'm not sure he's dealt with all the 
> ramifications. It's also not a huge leap to worry what might befall my own 
> son, although there's no danger of him stepping on an IED. Last year two 
> students died at UConn (where he goes to school); one was stabbed at a 
> party and another was hit by a shuttle bus. A few years ago my friend 
> Becky's son died at 19 of a drug overdose. A few weeks ago another 
> friend's son was hit by a car while riding his bicycle home from a party. 
> He's still in a coma, but doctors have said they anticipate he will be 
> fully paralyzed. He's just twenty-four years old.
>
>
>
> These kids, these beings we love into existence and then give them our 
> hearts. We do our best to watch over them, to teach them, to urge them to 
> be smart. but there's only so much we can do. Entropy, or chaos, is part 
> of what keeps this planet going no matter how much I fear or loathe it. 
> Tears will come, they'll be wiped away, and somehow we have to find the 
> strength to carry on.
>
>
>
> 7 March 2012
>
>
>
>
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