Of Those So Close Beside Me
Dianna Skowera
Published by World Audience, Inc.
303 Park Avenue South, Suite 1440
New York, NY 10010-3657
Phone (646) 620-7406; Fax (646) 620-7406
Edited by Kyle David Torke & M. Stefan Strozier
ISBN 978-1-935444-97-8
$20
© 2010, Dianna Skowera
Copyright notice: All work contained within is the sole copyright of its author, 2010, and may not be reproduced without consent.
World Audience (www.worldaudience.org) is a global consortium of artists and writers, producing quality books and the literary journal audience, and The audience Review. Our periodicals and books are edited by M. Stefan Strozier and assistant editors. Please submit your stories, poems, paintings, photography, or artwork: submissions@worldaudience.org.
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Of Those So Close Beside Me is a work of nonfiction. The events within the text have been retold to the best of my memory and with the help of several others involved in the events. Names of Iraqi and U.S. citizens, as well as location names, have been changed within the text.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements………………………………………………...……5
CHAPTER 1 The Heart Is Where The Home Is………………….….7
CHAPTER 2 The Way We Were…………………………………....26
CHAPTER 3 Friend Of The Devil……………………………….…47
CHAPTER 4 The Army Wants You, You’ll Figure Out Why Later…65
CHAPTER 5 Don’t Mess With Texas…………………………...…..87
CHAPTER 6 And The Waitress Is Practicing Politics……………...100
CHAPTER 7 Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better………….…106
CHAPTER 8 Lost In Translation………………………………….110
CHAPTER 9 The Summer Of Like…………………………..……118
CHAPTER 10 Next Stop, Desert – No Returns………………….…140
CHAPTER 11 Bewilderment, Belligerence, and Bruises………….…153
CHAPTER 12 Learning The Ropes………………………………....169
CHAPTER 13 Mine Eyes Have Seen…………………………….…185
CHAPTER 14 Won’t You Beat My Neighbor?…………………...…195
CHAPTER 15 My Schweinfurt…………………………………...…209
CHAPTER 16 Hail To The Chief………………………………...…220
CHAPTER 17 One Meticulous Woman Equals Nothing Else……....229
CHAPTER 18 My Friend, The Terrorist……………………………247
CHAPTER 19 Cold And Lonely………………………………….....258
CHAPTER 20 Know Yourself, Know Your Enemy……………...…265
CHAPTER 21 The Light And The Heavy………………………..…274
CHAPTER 22 Public Enemy Number One………………………....285
CHAPTER 23 All Alone, Together…………………………………300
CHAPTER 24 No Place For A Woman…………………………….310
CHAPTER 25 Read Immediately………………………………...…334
CHAPTER 26 A Cane And A Cadillac……………………………...342
CHAPTER 27 War After War……………………………………....365
Dedication
in loving memory of Laura Drew
and the people who fight for our freedom
Acknowledgements
I would like to give my thanks to my publisher and editors, Mike Strozier and Dr. Kyle Torke for their support and tireless work that made this book possible. Special thanks to my family and friends for their support throughout my life and military career, without you I wouldn’t have found out who I could become. Mom, I would not be where I am today without your steadfast example and unconditional love. Dad, I wouldn’t know a thing about life, literature, or history if it were not for your examples. Justin MacClanahan and Katina Graves, thank you for supplying your photographs for use in this memoir. Ken Drew, thanks for offering your advice, experience, and support even in retirement-I hope the fish are always biting for you!
To my fellow soldiers, thank you for the abundance of optimistic support throughout this adventure and for entrusting me to tell our story. I hope I make you proud and that you know what an honor it was to serve with all of you. To my friends still overseas, I pray for your safe return and support your selflessness in your choice to return to combat zones to protect freedom when others would not.
To the Iraqi people: It was a privilege to be a visitor in your country and to be allowed to learn about your culture, country, and language. For those who were detained, I hope for the safe return home of those who were victims of insurgent activities and that you can one day recover from the traumatic experiences you’ve endured in your country. To the insurgents I spoke to: I know that every person fights for a reason, but I hope you will strive to protect the lives, consciences, and futures of children by teaching them diplomacy and compassion rather than killing as a necessity. Your culture and religion is beautiful with many valuable lessons for children and adults of all cultures, but becomes vilified and terrifying once it is imposed by force. I pray for the Iraqi people to one day find a common ground, free of corruption and outside influence, where Shiites, Sunnis, and Kurds live in peace making laws that govern each sect equally.
For those who serve in the American military, thank you for giving up your freedoms to defend those of people you may never know. Many will never understand the sacrifices you make, but I believe that is the blessing of being an American citizen-to live free of terror. Those sacrifices are reserved for us as well as reserved for us to deal with long after they have happened. Please stand together to support your fellow soldiers even after you no longer wear a uniform, respect the soldier from another country, and remember what you do effects every other soldier who wears the American flag on his shoulder.
If you are an American citizen who did not support the Iraq Wars I would like to tell you this: war is not solely fought with violence and I feel no American supports the engagement of war. The Iraqi citizens I spoke to while deployed were grateful for the removal of Saddam Hussein. They were also living in fear and uncertainty each day as the civil war in their country grew causing significant loss of Iraqis lives. I do not support war, yet I do not support the killing or oppression of innocent people, which left me with a choice-do nothing or help. Opposing any of the Iraq wars would not have stopped the loss of Iraqi lives.
If you do not support how America was founded, I ask you this: why do you live in America? Above all, do not live with the delusion that America will never be attacked. When it is it will be by those who do not believe you should have the rights you live with. When this happens, don’t worry, a soldier will be there to protect you, even if you don’t support him.
CHAPTER 1
THE HEART IS WHERE THE HOME IS
There’ll be no more pay-per-view movies in these economy motels. No more trash in my back seat-from Burger Queen or Taco Hell, no. No more playin’ my trump card for the ladies in the lounge. Think I’ll leave a little somethin’ for the next travelin’ man to scrounge.
-Martin Sexton, Freedom of the Road
September 2007
Several weeks before I was to deploy to Iraq, our unit was given two weeks of leave to visit with our families. Many of my fellow soldiers took elaborate vacations to tropical regions. They asked me where I planned to spend my last two weeks of freedom before we went to the desert.
“I’m going home,” I said.
“Why?” people said.
“Where else would I go?”
“Uh…let’s see, Cancun, Vegas. I don’t know. Take a vacation. Go see something,” they’d say.
“There’s only one place I want to see,” I said.
I flew from our base in Texas to my family’s home in Illinois. My usually conversational family was quiet and we’d often sit in silence at dinner. I’d catch my parents staring at me several times a day. I imagined them memorizing my face and possibly what they worried were last moments with me. I, however, did not worry I wouldn’t come back, yet felt the same need to memorize as many happy moments as they did.
My parents and I took a drive out to Iowa, where my eldest sister, Leanna, lived. Leanna’s husband had passed away a year earlier. She’d tried to manage their newly purchased home on her own income, but was not able to keep up financially or emotionally in the quiet rooms that had once held newlywed laughter. So my parents and I got in their van and headed out to Iowa to bring home one daughter, in the midst of the other departing on a long journey.
My mother drove as I sat in the back seat of my parents’ van staring out the window watching the lush green fields blur by. I didn’t want to miss a single plant. The images would keep my memory fresh no matter how dry or desolate Iraq and Kuwait would be. M mother interrupted my meditation.
“What are you going to do for showers?” She said. She’d been asking me questions for a half an hour. She’d pause for about five minutes, then come up with another question.
“I don’t know, mom. They’ll have something set up for us,” I replied as we passed a round wooden corn crib. They didn’t make those anymore-it was a relic.
“Oh…well, I suppose,” she thought aloud. She was in Mom-mode. After almost five years of me being in the Army, she still couldn’t get past the habit of asking me questions she knew I didn’t have the answers for.
“Well, how are you getting from Kuwait to Baghdad?” She tightened her hands on the steering wheel.
“Flying, I think.” The corn and rolling plains blurred past my window. All I saw was green. I imagined the desert would look nothing like this.
“What kind of plane is it?”
“One that flies, I hope,” I said. My father chuckled. I felt embarrassment for not humoring Mom. I sighed. “I’m not sure, Mom. Sorry I can’t tell you more.”
Mom remained silent, brewing another question. She swerved around something or possibly nothing. “Damnit Debbie!” My father yelled and gripped the handle of his door.
“Well, I know!” Mom said adamantly. Mom was a scary driver, but my father never offered to drive. I felt my heart rush and realized that the sound of the firing range was soothing compared to Mom behind the wheel of a car.
“Well, I’m glad you know!” Dad said sarcastically, as he always did. Mom righted the van quickly and I looked back out the window. The oak trees we passed felt comforting and I felt my heart sink as soon as they were out of sight.
“What are you going to do about toilet paper?” Mom said excitedly, sure she had finally asked a pertinent question.
I sighed tearing my eyes away from the sight of some new born calves on a hill. “I don’t, Mom. I’ll probably wipe my ass with it.” My father erupted in laughter.
“Oh, all right,” My mother said sourly.
“Well, she got you there, Deb.” My father continued to chuckle.
“I guess they’ll have that, too,” she added quietly, still thinking aloud.
I never swore in front of my mother. I felt awful for embarrassing her. Mom didn’t know how I was feeling, I didn’t know how she was feeling, and frankly, I wasn’t sure what I was feeling myself. While on that visit home, I felt like an unopened soda can. If I sat still and made no noise, I’d be fine. If I said too much, thought too much, or did too much, I worried I’d explode, which was the last thing I wanted my friends and family to see. I didn’t want anyone to misconstrue my heart ache of leaving home as unpreparedness or worry for going to Iraq.
“I’m sorry I don’t have any answers for you, Mom, but you know how it is. We just show up and figure it all out somehow. They never tell us anything,” I said sympathetically and leaned forward between their seats.
She patted my hand. “I know how it is, I just worry. I’m a mom, I’m supposed to worry. That was a stupid question though, huh?” she smirked.
My father laughed again with his hand up to his mustache. “Oh shut up, Michael,” my mother warned in her second generation Swedish brogue. It amused me how she drew the name Michael out, who’d been her husband for 34 years. It made me realize there was one more thing to miss about home-the colloquialisms of the way that people spoke.
“Awe, come on. I know you’re worried, but it was funny.” Dad reached for Mom’s hand.
“You’re just like your father, that’s the problem,” my mother chuckled to me. She made a rough turn, and my father and I tensed.
“Debbie!” Dad yelled and squeezed her hand.
“I know!” she yelled back at him.
“Jesus, it’s more dangerous driving with the two of you than going to Iraq! That’s what I worry about, whether or not you two are going to get hit by a damned car,” I said and sat back in my seat so I couldn’t see the road.
They both laughed at me. My father agreed it was a possibility, and my mother assured me they’d be fine. I knew I wouldn’t die in Iraq. I wasn’t even afraid to go. I’d been looking forward to going for several years and was finally happy I’d gotten my orders. I was a well oiled machine that had been sitting under wraps for too long, going to waste.
Other soldiers had spouses and children so they could not sympathize with me, when I expressed regret of leaving my family behind as well. I was single; I had no children. I felt empathy for the married soldiers. I thought people like me should be the only ones who get sent overseas-people who were expendable because they were single. But I was the product of a close knit farming family. We were in each other’s business all the time. We worked, slept, and then worked some more-there was no need for outside companionship. We knew each other better than most families knew each other.
I studied the color of my mother’s hair and wondered if it would have lines of gray in it when I returned. Would my father lose more of his? How would they hitch up the wagons for harvest with my mother’s achy hip that needed to be replaced? And me? Would something happen to me that would make me seem different in the eyes of my family once I returned?
I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, pretending to sleep so Mom couldn’t ask me anymore questions. I didn’t open them until we pulled into my sister’s driveway in Iowa.
Leanna was moving back home that weekend, a milestone for our family. Her husband, James, had died a year earlier and she’d decided that she wanted to move in with my parents instead of living with the reminders of her husband the house in Iowa gave her. It was these milestones that I knew I was going to miss. I’d never thought of myself as important or the cornerstone of the family, yet I worried that my absence over the next 15 months would make life more difficult for them.
I walked down to Leanna’s dock and sat down by the waters’ edge. I watched the water ripple, just to watch it, and remember it for when I was in Iraq, yet it was sullied by the ghost of my brother-in-law. I’d have to find different water to remember. One slip of the foot and he was gone. It had happened that quickly and easily. I worried the rest of my family might disappear, too. Getting hit by a mortar round in Iraq made perfect sense to me. Slipping away while fishing didn’t make any sense. Some small chance of fate could take my family from me, while I was the one in a war zone, and I could do nothing about it. I felt so helpless. I felt like I was selfishly abandoning them to willingly go to a place that made them have the same fears.
Leanna kept herself busy packing. There was a long lost look in her eyes and I had little time to remedy it or even talk with her. That look would take a while to get over, if ever possible, and I wouldn’t be there for it. I found a quiet moment when my parents were busy taking apart some furniture. Leanna and I stood in the neatly decorated kitchen. Tall thin chef décor scattered the walls, as James had been a tall thin chef and despised the abundance of short fat chef decorations that seemed the norm.
“How you doing?” I looked at Leanna intently.
She sighed and stared off, “I’m alright. Thanks for asking. How are you?” she returned pointedly. For as different as she and I were, we both shared the similarity of turning the conversation to the other person’s troubles.
“Oh, I’m fine. Mom and Dad are driving me a little crazy, but I’m trying to humor them,” I said.
“Dude, I know. Look at my kitchen!” She pointed to the convenient store doughnuts and other junk food that my parents had hauled into her kitchen, as they often complained Leanna’s health food did not suffice. She sighed and then cackled, “Awe, dude, aren’t you going to miss this?” Leanna insinuated that I would miss my parents’ antics.
“Yeah,” I said softly, “probably.” It was comical that I would miss things that annoyed me at times. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be here more for you.”
“Oh, that’s okay. Thanks.” She stared out at the lake. “I’m sad to leave, but if I stay here, everything will remind me of him. I don’t know. I think this is best,” she said.
“Well, I can’t imagine what it would be like, but don’t let anyone make your decisions for you. You know Mom and Dad are going to put their two cents in, but you do what’s best for you Leanna. You’re tough and I’m proud of you,” I said. I remembered how Leanna used to run at the sound of a wasp. She looked so different to me from the scared girl I had known as a child. Standing in front of me with her hands on her hips made her look so strong while it seemed as though I could feel her inner sorrow pulling my own heart out of my chest, yet she didn’t cry.
I envied her strength. Leanna had allowed herself to fall in love, and by doing so subjected herself to losing someone very dear to her. I’d been engaged several years prior, shortly after going into the army, and I was too terrified to get married. I was too terrified that the man I was going to marry might turn out like Arthur had. Looking at Leanna in that moment made me feel unworthy of the praise and love that my family had for me for going to Iraq. Going to Iraq was easy. I didn’t understand why they were proud of me for that.
My father stepped outside and stood there quietly looking at us for a moment. Leanna and I waited to see if he had something to say. His face looked sad and tired.
“You know, you have kids and you never know what’s going to happen. You just do the best that you can,” he said as he stared off into the distance.
Leanna and I looked at each other in confusion. We weren’t sure where Dad was going with that statement, nor did we think we’d done anything to deserve a lecture.
“You know…people just don’t know what it’s like…to have four girls,” he said slowly and looked at the ground.
Leanna and I laughed, thinking that Dad was complaining about how difficult we were, but we were cut off crisply as he continued in thought, “No, I’m serious, now. I…I didn’t know what the hell to do with you guys. What do you do with four girls, I mean? You never know what’s going to happen to them later on in life or if I was going to be around to see it. I was…I was only so hard on you’s cause I wanted you to be tough, but…” My father got choked up and his voice faded off.
Leanna and I looked at each other again, but this time we weren’t laughing. We both had our mouths open in surprise. At the same time we both patted my Dad on the shoulder.
“Oh, it’s okay Dad. We know,” we both said at the same time. We both knew it was my father’s way of apologizing for being tough on us and not knowing that each of us would have to go through the things we had in life. It was probably the nicest thing he had ever said to either of us, yet it wasn’t needed. We knew we wouldn’t have been able to be as strong as we were if it hadn’t been for him.
We made it back to Illinois the next day, this time with Leanna. I spent most of the rest of my visit at home. Mom kept telling me to “go out and enjoy” myself, which to her meant drinking with my friends from the area. She didn’t know that I enjoyed myself the most when I sneaked out on the porch at night and listened to the wind blowing across the fields. I’d drink my coffee, smoke a cigarette, and breathe in the smells of our family farm-the dryness of the corn fields, the cedar and the oak trees.
My life in the Army turned me into an orphan, a part of the family, but separate. I felt that if I didn’t sleep in my childhood bed or help bail hay that I was no longer a part of the family. I was a guest who passed through when I came home. I didn’t belong on the farm with my family anymore, but I wanted to. I didn’t want to be “Sarge”, as my family sometimes called me proudly. I wanted to be Dianna. I wanted them not to look at me like I was doing something important. I wanted to feel the coarseness of the hay twines as I pulled a bail out of the hay bailer, right alongside of them.
I wanted home to be an unchanged time capsule, yet it never would be because although no one there had changed, I had. I didn’t feel like I had changed, but when I looked at my family I could tell they thought differently. Just by being a soldier, I was different to them. I wanted to tell them, “It’s still me. I’m still Dianna. I’m right here. I never went away.” It was even worse when I went out in public and people found out I was a soldier. Mom didn’t know that going out and “enjoying” myself was torture for me. It was impossible to blend in no matter how hard I tried. I felt like I was always on display.
I couldn’t bear the way my friends looked at me and always feared that one of them would say, “You’ve changed,” as I had heard before. I wanted to hear the silly stories about the locals, the small talk, the feeling of just being a normal citizen. Yet they’d all sigh and say, “Well, nothing exciting has happened here.” They didn’t know I missed the lack of excitement and how much I envied them. They didn’t have to wait for a federal holiday and find the best price on airline tickets to get a feeling of normalcy. Yet I couldn’t show them or tell them I envied them because I got the impression that it would insult them.
My friends envied me, the places I’d been, the life I lived. They thought it was excitement and freedom from the shackles of blue collar life. I’d left that life because I’d patriotically felt that anyone who was a citizen of our country should serve their country for a few years, to show their gratitude or to earn their keep, so to speak. I was grateful when I left, but now I was more than the word grateful could express, and I wished that I could give my friends that feeling without making them feel poorly about themselves.
Patricia and a few of my other friends asked me to meet them at a nearby pub one night to give me my final send off. While the night died down and my friends began to taper off, Patricia’s face became sick with worry.
“How can you… How can you be so calm and even excited to go over there? I mean, I sit here and worry about what happens to any soldier overseas and now I know someone who’s going. I can’t even think about it,” Patricia looked at me tearfully.
“I’ve had a wonderful life. I’ve had more than I could ever ask for, so I regret nothing,” I said.
“My god, how can you say that? It sounds like something an old woman would say, who’s about ready to die.”
“Oh brother, Patti. You always worried too much,” I tried not to laugh at the comment because I knew she was genuinely concerned.
“No, seriously, I mean, don’t you want to do other things or think you’ll ever meet someone and get married and have kids?” Patti interrogated me.
“Patti, I don’t think about any of that. People ask for too much out of life. My parents and sisters know that I love them. Since I’ve accomplished that, I have nothing left to accomplish as far as my own personal goals other than using my abilities to help my country,” I said. It all made sense to me.
“That’s just, that just makes me so sad,” Patti’s shoulders literally slumped lower as she spoke.
I placed my hand on top of hers, “Patti, I’m glad I don’t have those hopes because I know people who do, and if I did then maybe I would be terrified to go. Why would you want me to be unsure about going to a place that I have no choice in?”
“Well, I never thought about it that way. I guess you’re right. Well, I’m glad you can think like that. You’re a lot stronger than I am. I’d be miserable,” she took a sip of her beer and shook her head staring off to contemplate all the things that she would miss.
“Okay, give me a hug, real quick. I can’t say goodbye, or I’m going to start bawling, so I’m gonna book it out of here. Don’t think I’m being rude,” Patti said quickly.
“Alright,” I chuckled. “I love you, lady. I’ll see you soon,” I said squished in her mighty hug.
“Uhhh,” she sighed probably thinking that she may never see me again, then turned away and walked out quickly.
I watched her go, watched the way that she walked like a line backer and sort of shuffled her feet and chuckled to myself. I’d miss her, but I still couldn’t be sad, other than the sorrow that I felt for Patti feeling so upset.
I never expected anyone to agree with me about why I joined the military, or how I felt about going to Iraq, but I hated being questioned about my logic. I felt just as I had earned my keep years ago on the farm, that because I was lucky enough to be a citizen of this country that I should pay my country back by serving in the military for a few years. Yet no matter what my reason was, I was subject to ridicule, praise that I felt I was unworthy of, or the political opinions of those who found out I was a soldier. I couldn’t escape it each time I left the house. The military and Iraq were the only things that people expected me to talk about. It was difficult to deal with the fact that I was no longer just an individual. As long as I was in the Army I represented something to people.
After Patti and my friends had all left, I felt like sitting at the bar by myself for a while. There were only a few people there and I felt at ease listening to their conversations. The sound of their thick Minnesota-like accents were soothing to me as I listened to them talk about the crops and the Chicago Bears. It made me happy that people had the right to enjoy themselves in public and be safe, while in a matter of two weeks I’d be in place where that could not happen. It was also nice not being paid attention to or being gawked at. It was the first time I’d felt like an individual in a long time. I decided it was time to go home.
Outside I saw two familiar men. One of them called to me. It was Joe, who had been in Leanna’s high school class. I hadn’t seen him in years, so we stood a while, catching up on each other’s lives. The other man was Martin, who I glanced at briefly and noted he’d appeared to swell over the years and really let himself go. Martin and Joe had been friends since they were kids and met up for the weekend. Martin was drunk and sort of lingered in the background as Joe and I paid him no mind while we chatted.
Martin started getting closer to us, and as I tried to concentrate on what Joe was saying, I kept noticing that Martin was mumbling to himself. He staggered back and forth around us in a circle, and I couldn’t quite tell if he was addressing Joe and me, or was just talking to himself. Joe excused Martin and claimed that Martin was drunk.
I had never really spoken to Martin before, but had heard he’d joined the military a while back and gotten kicked out. Some said he was discharged because he was homosexual, others said he’d failed his training and gotten out of his contract somehow, but I didn’t really care. My hat was off to anyone who’d even attempted to make the leap, and for that matter anyone who simply flies the flag in the front yard. Martin began to take an offensive stance and brought his face close to mine as he spoke.
“I was in the Army!” He opened his eyes wide.
“Uh, yeah, I know, buddy,” I said and continued to listen to Joe, who was also trying to ignore Martin.
Martin continued to circle me. He almost stumbled on his own feet several times.
“I was a Ranger!” Martin yelled at me and held his hands up slightly in emphasis. He spit on me when he spoke. I knew he hadn’t been a Ranger. I wiped the spit off my face and tried to remain calm. I didn’t want to allow someone who was drunk to get me upset.
“Oh, those guys are tough,” I said. I detected some kind of demons growing in Martin. Joe continued to talk, obviously not getting the vibe from Martin that I was. I listened politely while keeping one eye on the Ranger.
“You’re in the Army?” Martin looked at me in confusion. It wasn’t a question; it was bafflement.
“Yeah, man. This is Leanna’s little sister, remember?” Joe said as though everyone knew Leanna’s little sister was a soldier.
“Leanna? Who’s Leanna?” Martin asked in a cocky tone.
“You’re not in the Army, are you?” Martin contorted his face. He said it as though he wanted me to deny a lie that I had made.
“Yeah, man. God, you’re drunk,” Joe told him.
“That’s bullshit! Women are only there so the men have something to fuck!” Martin swayed back and forth with his eyes half closed.
“Martin!” Joe laughed in embarrassment.
“It’s true! Isn’t it!” Martin leaned toward my face, but it wasn’t a question. He expected me to agree with him.
“No, sorry,” I said.
“Oh, whatever!” Martin threw his hands up in the air. “That’s the only reason they let women in the Army. Like even in WWII and Vietnam, they just let women around so the men would have something to fuck!”
“I’m so sorry,” Joe said quietly to me. Joe was a pacifist, I could tell. I held my hand up to him to spare him the shame and let him know I could handle myself.
“Well, I don’t know what it was like when you were in, but it’s not like that in my unit,” I said. I started to say my goodbyes to Joe. I’d heard enough of Martin’s opinions. I could feel that restless angry feeling I’d been hiding under the surface since I’d been home building up rapidly inside of me. I didn’t want to see what I would do to Martin if he got too close to me a few more times.
Martin didn’t like being ignored and continued to circle me.
“I know ju-jitsu!” Martin said and half punched my shoulder. He did a few pathetic drunken moves with his overweight body. I breathed and kept an eye on Joe while putting a hand up to keep my distance from Martin.
“Did you hear me?! I know jiujitsu!” Martin swung at me. All my calm and reserve uncoiled, and I turned my head to try and get him to look me in the eyes.
“I know jiujitsu too, motherfucker. Now shut the hell up and don’t touch me!” Apparently, I should have continued to ignore him. He was a drunken, potential bi-sexual, and I learned later, had a grudge against a woman.
“Oh? Come on, let’s see!” Martin said and started swinging forcefully at me. Martin was baffled that after about a dozen swings he still couldn’t connect.
He swung and swung while I repeatedly batted his fists away with one hand, while the other calmly held onto my cigarette. I started to laugh because the way he was fighting wasn’t anything like jujitsu. I’m sure his efforts looked pathetic, and as drunk as he was, he knew I was humiliating him. I hated fighting, although I loved to box. As men are taught not to hit a woman, I always felt it only equally fair for a woman not to hit a man, because he, technically, was forbidden to hit her back. However, I knew there was nothing wrong with self defense, yet I hated what Martin was making me do at that moment. Still there was something inside of me that wanted to crack Martin in the face.
I was Jimmy Stewart and the gentleman on the outside, yet inside lurked a John Wayne who was longing to pound a deserving jerk into the dirt and relieve all my built up aggression. I smiled watching myself bat Martin’s clumsy mitts away and watched my hand as it moved with precision.
Martin became frustrated and resorted to kicking me. How pathetic. He nailed me several times in the shins. All the while, I kept telling him to knock it the hell off, but he was on a mission. He didn’t know I had a fractured pelvis from a soccer injury and had to con the doctor to clear me to go to Iraq. To make matters worse, I’d signed up to compete for the German Armed Forces Badge a month prior and wound up fracturing both knees, my foot, and an ankle. Walking was painful, my back kept going out, and most mornings I’d roll around in bed for two hours like a harpooned whale before I could sit upright.
I’d hid the doctor’s warning from my command because I was damned if I’d waited almost four years to go to Iraq; they’d have to take the tour from me. Now a drunk man, twice my size, angry beyond anything I could have encouraged was putting me in jeapordy. I was being kicked by a drunk man, twice my size. If I didn’t act, if he got lucky with one swing or kick, he would blow my already slim chances of getting to Iraq.
As soon as that thought crossed my mind, Martin revved his leg back and kicked me as hard as he could between the legs. He, in fact, nailed the exact spot of my pelvic bone where the fractures were. In that instant, my eyes wide with disbelief that a man could do such a thing for no reason, along with the rush of pain that shot through me, I swung as I doubled over. I popped Martin in the lip. I stood bent over for a second and held my breath. I could hear Joe yelling.
“Oh my god, are you all right?! Are you all right?” along with Martin’s whimpering.
“My lip! My lip is bleeding! I’m bleeding!” I looked up to see that I had split Martin’s lip open, and he stood whimpering in bafflement and fear. Perhaps it was the first time in his life he’d ever bled.
“Well, good!” I said in disgust. “Maybe next time you’ll think before you hit a girl, you dumbass!”
I hobbled to my car as Joe yelled to me in apology. The sun was coming up; it was 5 a.m. I wondered if Martin had broken my pelvis. I wondered how I’d explain my bar brawl to my poor parents.
“Hit him with your car! Hit him,” Joe called jokingly, thinking that would justify what Martin had done.
Martin recovered from the shock of the blood and was back to his cockiness as I glanced out my car window. Like a perfect stage prop, he’d somehow found a lawn chair and plopped it down in the middle of the street. He held his arms out wide, puffed his fat chest up, and plopped his fat ass down in the chair.
“Hit me!” He sneered. “I don’t fucking care!”
“What a sad excuse for a man,” I muttered. He was ready to die, but couldn’t even do it standing up.
I floored the gas, and just as I began to swerve Martin tried to get up, then sat back down when he realized I hadn’t intended to hit him as I swerved. I stopped on a dime so Martin’s face was right next to the driver’s side window.
“You see, Martin, that’s why they let women in the Army. I can control myself,” I heard the words come out of my mouth without knowing what I was going to say. I would have gotten more satisfaction from pounding him in the face, but I felt I had more class than that, so I drove away.
I limped into my parents’ home and heard the early morning noises of my family getting up to go to Sunday mass. I forced back the pain and prepared to face them. I couldn’t hide anything from my family, and I surely would not be able to hide the state I was in from them now.
Mom was in the living room watching the weather channel. Farmers can’t live without watching the weather channel every morning. And dead or alive, rain or shine, Skoweras are expected to go to Sunday morning mass. As I hobbled into the room, my mother’s eyes became wide with the realization something was wrong. My father also walked out of the bedroom and looked at me.
“Ooooh! What happened to you?” My mother said and sat up in her chair.
“Mom,” I held up my hand in warning. “I’ve got two things to say to you. First off, some guy started a fight with me and kicked me between the legs, but I’m all right, and I’m sorry because I don’t want you to worry. Second, I don’t think I’m going to make it to church this morning.”
“Oh, that’s alright, honey,” she said with concern as she got up to inspect me.
“Uh, do I still have to go to church? My sister Susan said as she walked down the steps.
“Yes!” Mom barked.
“Crap,” Susie muttered.
I blinked in disbelief that she wasn’t upset I wouldn’t make it to church. I love my Mom. Of course, I had to relive all the ridiculous details for them and felt myself shrinking with shame as I did.
I didn’t want to appear wounded and weak the last time my family saw me before I left. I wanted them to know that I was calm, confident, level headed and strong. These were qualities that I thought they needed to see in me to believe me when I said that I would be safe while I was in Iraq. Yet standing in my parents living room, half bent over, grimacing back pain through my gritted teeth, I felt that all the calm I’d managed to dispense so they wouldn’t worry about me had been for nothing. Now I was merely an injured bar brawler. Welcome home, Dianna. Get the hell out of here as soon as you can! I wanted to go back to Texas.
Martin’s kick made me give up on feeling normal. I’d wasted so many hours trying to memorize moments and images of home so that I could remember them while I was in Iraq. I thought remembering them would somehow make home feel a little bit closer in case I began to miss it. I thought remembering those things would make me feel normal in case other soldiers around me began to unravel. Yet I’d left the military world for only two weeks and was now being stared at by the people I loved the most, hunched over in pain because someone had found out I was soldier. I realized, in that moment, civilization wasn’t ready for me. I didn’t belong in a peaceful little town. I was a machine that was built to interrogate and translate. I belonged in only place-war.
After church, all three of my sisters hurried home and into the spare room where I lay trying to fall asleep. I heard the floor creak and whispering; I cracked one eye open, the other still face down in my pillow. Leanna, Susie, and Karen were tiptoeing into the room with their hands behind their backs, mischievous smiles on all of their faces.
“Umph, what do you guys want?” I mumbled into the pillow.
Instantly they ran towards me, revealing what was behind their backs. Each threw a bag of frozen vegetables on me, while giggling.
“Here you go!” Karen said.
“What the?” I said.
“These are to ice your cooter with!” Leanna said.
“Argh!” I growled and whipped the covers back. All three of them shrieked and ran laughing and stumbling towards the door. Susie fell, causing Karen to trip over her and fall into Leanna. They looked like a football pileup. “Get the HELL out of here!!” I yelled and chucked a bag of frozen peas at their backs. They slammed the door shut just in time for the peas to crunch against the door. I watched the bag slide down it to the floor with a thud as I collapsed back down onto the bed.
I sunk my face into the pillow and chuckled, “You little fuckers.” Then my laughter turned into weeping. When I realized I was weeping I wept harder. I don’t cry. John Wayne never cried.
My parents drove me to the airport the next day. There was silence and sorrow as we got out at the departure walkway. They looked at me waiting for me to say something.
“I’m sorry that you guys have to go through this. It’s not really fair to leave someone when they care about you, so I feel like I’m being selfish for leaving. I mean, it’s not like I asked you what you thought,” I said. My parents stood staring at me; my mother with her loving smile, my father with his lower lip pushed upward.
“I know everyone is sad because it’s Iraq, but nothing’s going to happen to me. I’m only sad because I have such a great family and I won’t be here to see them.” Mom and Dad continued to stare at me waiting to hear more. I was afraid if I said anything else I’d start crying. I sighed.
“Well, I’m going to miss all the little things about being home when I have a bad day. I won’t be able to get a Mom-hug when I need one.” I smiled at my mother. Whenever I or my sisters had a bad day, Mom used to say, “Awe, do you need a Mom hug?” It always made me feel better.
“Awe, well you can take this one with you,” Mom said and squeezed me tight. My father wrapped his arms around the both of us.
“I love you guys.” I heard my words choke up in my throat and started to cry.
They were satisfied. The torch had been passed from child to parent. My wall of strength crumbled briefly for them to regain the strength of parenthood. It was my turn to worry, not theirs; they didn’t have to be sad anymore. I allowed them to see me weak, so they could act strong and provide solace and wisdom one last time.
“We do have a great family, don’t we?” Mom said and smiled at me. There was no more sorrow or fear in her eyes.
“Just remember what I said,” My father told me to my other ear. He’d given me one of his speeches earlier and quoted the Last of the Mohicans, telling me to “stay alive, no matter what.” He didn’t know that after surviving childhood with him, I was certain that nothing would ever kill me, and I wasn’t the least bit worried. He used to get our attention by throwing his pliers at us from his belt holster. Sudden death in Iraq couldn’t compete with the old man, I was sure of it.
Standing by the van, with my father telling me to come home alive, I had to laugh and I did as I said, “I have to. You’re here.” I wanted to say, ‘Nothing can kill me, I’m Mike Skowera’s daughter.’
“We’ll be here when you get back.” My mother wiped a tear from her eye. She told me that each time I left. It was nice to hear it again as though this trip were no different than any of the other times I had departed from them. She’d always say, “Nothing’s going to change. We may get a little bit older, but nothing’s going to change.” It was her way of reassuring me and taking away some of the heartache each time I left home. A few years earlier a tornado had obliterated our farm and I flew home on emergency leave to find my parents sleeping in their car among the rubble. They’d slept in the car because people were driving by trying to steal things that had erupted from the destruction of the house. I had scolded her upon seeing the devastation, “You said nothing would change!” However, this time I believed her. I had to for my piece of mind.
Mom looked at me sadly again. Her vibrant blue eyes became red and I couldn’t bare her emotion. “Just go, Mom. I love you,” I said tearfully as I turned away. I looked back just before I passed through the doors of the airport. My mother had her head slumped on my father’s shoulder as he held her, his arms wrapped around her. I hated making them hurt.
I wished everyone in America could have a moment where they walked away from the crystal clarity of being loved so easily, giving up all of their freedoms and comfort, just to help people on the other side of the world because those people need your help. I hate listening to people complain about petty problems, how couples are so nasty to each other, and how parents and children disrespect each other. I knew that if everyone had a moment of clarity like mine, no one would take life for granted.
I flew back to Texas with two weeks remaining before our unit was to deploy. My boyfriend of three months and I had been on the fritz, and I tried to be patient with him in our remaining days stateside. Long ago, I had sworn to not be “attached” to someone if I ever deployed, but life hadn’t worked out that way. Jack had been what I thought was my closest friend for the past two years. He’d always joked, prodded, and flirted with me, but I never took him seriously. I didn’t want to date anyone I worked with so people would take me seriously. I still didn’t trust my own heart after my shambles of an engagement a few years earlier. I’d sworn myself to solitude for two years and hadn’t even been on a date. Jack was persistent, though, and I finally caved in and gave him a chance. Shortly after we began dating, he became reserved and detached. When I got back from leave I knew I had to ask him what was wrong. I didn’t want to go to Iraq with anything unspoken between us that could potentially become a problem when we were supposed to be doing our jobs in a war zone.
“What’s been going on with you lately?” I said.
“What do you mean?” Jack mumbled and looked down at the ground.
“I mean this. You don’t even look at me anymore. You haven’t even kissed me in a month. Is something bothering you personally or is it something to do with me? I don’t want to go to Iraq with us like this,” I said.
“Well, if I tell you, you have to promise you won’t get mad,” Jack looked at me.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Nooo. All women say that, and then they get mad,” Jack smirked.
“Well, it depends on what you tell me, but I’ll try not to,” I shifted my weight where I stood, wondering what it was that could potentially make me mad.
“I only slept with you…I only slept with you because I was afraid I’m going to die,” he said.
I stared at him for a moment in disbelief. “Gee… Thanks for choosing me,” I grumbled.
“Hey, you said you wouldn’t get mad!”
“Did you forget that I’m going to the same place that you are?”
“No,” Jack muttered and stared at the floor again.
I tried to rationalize what he said. I thought about my interrogator training and how we analyze why people do the things they do and how their emotions make them act. I was angry.
I’d been a pole-bearer several times, I’d lost most of the men in my family to death, I’d seen the swath of destruction the tornado had made through our home, I’d seen the pliers my father threw flying towards my head, I’d watched my Busia die in front of me, I’d seen James die. Fear was something that I could not comprehend the way that Jack could. Thinking of all those memories made me realize that maybe I’m tough, and I can’t expect everyone else to be as tough as me. Then I just felt sorry for him.
A few days later Jack hinted around about getting married to take advantage of the higher pay rates for married couples who deployed. I told him, nobly, that I was only going to get married once and only for-love. I thought of leaving him after he asked me that, but then he said he wanted to continue seeing me even when the deployment was over.
After two weeks in theatre, one of our First Sergeants caught him making out with the girl that lived next to my trailer in Iraq. I wondered why I was the choice of someone who was about to die and she was the choice of someone who’d found life, and no matter what answer I came up with, I felt pathetic. I’d foolishly tried too hard to make the relationship work because we were in the same unit. I was so against dating someone in our unit that I thought if the relationship failed it would appear that I was more concerned about finding a love life than doing my job. If the relationship worked and I still excelled at my job, I thought no one would think ill of me for dating someone in the unit. Jack hadn’t hurt my heart, he’d hurt my pride. He’d sullied the one relationship that meant the most to me-my relationship with the Army. I didn’t want to look like I wasn’t devoted to my job and somehow equated a relationship that didn’t last to a dalliance that had wasted valuable time I could have spent being a better leader. People talk about how men have so much pride, but at times I wonder if women have even more.
Someone in Iraq told me thinking people would date only one person at a time was naïve. I mentioned this in our office in Iraq one day when my co-workers were talking about dating. A guy named Reuben who was always researching oddities of the English language and literature in his spare time said, “Did you know that the word naïve is French for the word nice?”
“Naïve is a word someone made up to give niceness a negative connotation because they aren’t strong enough to be nice,” I growled. Reuben looked at me taken aback, wondering what he had done to provoke me. “Sorry,” I muttered.
I thought the integrity that was expected of a soldier was supposed to extend to the soldier’s personal life-to their entire character whether they were at work or at home. I hadn’t joined a disciplined, orderly military to spend my time with people who had no integrity. Jack wasn’t the only soldier that I felt had a lack of values, but what he had done made me begin to see that there were people in my unit who I did not think were good soldiers, people who cut corners and put themselves before their soldiers. It made me think twice about the people I was going to Iraq with, and wonder who could be relied upon to do our important job to the standard that it needed to be done. Was such immorality and lack of discipline endemic, or had I simply run into a few individuals whose rottenness was isolated? Were these rotten individuals better people than the Martins of the world I might run into if I chose to get out of the Army after my deployment? My re-enlistment window was coming up. I’d have to decide over the next 15 months.
In the few days left before we deployed, I sat around my apartment in Texas packing up my belongings to put into storage. I’d gaze at the framed photographs on my wall, and then carefully wrap them in tissue. I wrapped faces of my friends, my family, soldiers I had once known and may not ever see again, soldiers I was going over with. Women get made fun of for having too many pictures, but I allowed myself the novelty. I’d developed film for a private camera store before joining and took pride in the way a photo was developed, the way a smile was captured. I put moments of my life in those boxes, my Army life, past and present, and my life back home that the tornado couldn’t quite erase, that joining the army could never sever. I had one small footlocker I was allowed to fill with things that I wanted to take to Iraq. I looked at the box of photographs, decided not to take a single one, and taped the lid shut. I figured I wouldn’t need a photograph to remind me of anything that was truly worth remembering.
I walked around my apartment in my underwear with the A/C on high, let my hair down, and blared my favorite songs. I thought the ritual would be medicinal and suit what my mother had said about enjoying myself. I didn’t know if I would have A/C in Iraq, I would be in uniform with all my heavy gear on and have my hair up in a tightly braided bun. Any music I listened to would be gathered in earbuds; I spoiled myself at home. I wanted to feel cold as much as possible, feel soft clothes on my skin, and feel my long hair hang down unrestrained. I played Freedom of the Road by Martin Sexton over and over.
The song is about a wanderer talking about his decision to give up living out of a suitcase, and instead go home to see what pieces remain there for him. I’d been sent all over the country for training, where I had to live out of a suitcase or duffel bag in hotels and barracks. Army barracks didn’t have ovens in them, and when I came home to my apartment after 12 hours at work, it was often easier to pick-up fast food. I’d go out with a group of the guys from work on the weekends sometimes and watch them as they used their same old lines with the ladies in the bar. We lived like traveling gypsies without a real home or identity, but it’s what we were bound to together. This deployment marked the last time I would have to live on only the things I packed in a bag. I looked at the footlocker again that I was supposed to put personal items in and a change of civilian clothes for leave. I threw some jeans in it, a flag that a friend had flown home with him from GITMO for me, a book of poems, and a small painting titled Our Backyard in Autumn.
The painting was from an Iraqi teacher who I had studied under in Virginia. The canvas was symbolic to me because an Iraqi immigrant who lived in the heart of our nation’s capitol had given it to me. Our Backyard In Autumn was painted with oranges, reds, and browns—a rich picture of trees with falling leaves. The artist included a long inscription that framed the scene: I support those who promote respect and dignity. I long for peace and tranquility. I yearn for brotherhood and humanity. I search for those who believe in truth and honesty. I cherish those with strength and integrity. I seek a world of giving and humility.
I packed the painting because of the stories I’d heard about soldiers returning from deployments in a different mental state than when they’d left, because I remembered how some of the soldiers at Abu Ghraib had treated detainees, because I knew that I would meet deadly terrorists and hear horrid things. I felt if I viewed the inscription daily while I was in Iraq, no matter what I heard or saw, I would return unchanged, treat detainees fairly, and always make the right decision. With my teacher’s humble and inspiring words, I was ready to leave my country and family for whatever awaited me in Iraq.