[stylist] 'Crying' prompt response

Wed Mar 7 20:40:19 UTC 2012

>What can I say? Whether it was actual, or fictional, or a mix, it felt real.

Brad

>-----Original Message-----
>From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On
>Behalf Of Chris Kuell
>Sent: Wednesday, March 07, 2012 10:19 AM
>To: Stylist
>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
>
>
>
>
>_______________________________________________
>Writers Division web site:
>http://www.nfb-writers-division.net <http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
>
>stylist mailing list
>stylist at nfbnet.org
>http://nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
>To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
>stylist:
>http://nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/newmanrl%40cox.net
>
>
>_______________________________________________
>Writers Division web site:
>http://www.nfb-writers-division.net <http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
>
>stylist mailing list
>stylist at nfbnet.org
>http://nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
>To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for stylist:
>http://nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/lists%40braddunsemusic.com

Brad Dunsé

"Inspiration is sweating over the pen...
  then smiling at  what was written." --Capt'n Frank

http://www.braddunsemusic.com

http://www.facebook.com/braddunse

http://www.twitter.com/braddunse