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Time for a Story
When
was a wee lad, all he did was read and write. That’s all I did. Little did I realize, as an Aspei, that was pretty standard fare. Nevertheless, as an only child, my imagination was playscape. I wrote fake newspaper articles (better than a lot of shit I see online) and ran fake newspapers.What can I say? I’m an uber-nerd made from the parts of lesser nerds.
I wrote for my middle school, high school, and numerous college newspapers. I wrote for anyone that would publish me. Believe me, I got a motherfucking shit ton of rejection.
I got into the military when G*d was a little child and loved it immediately. I wanted to be the greatest intelligence officer in history. So, for nearly 10 years, I didn’t write anything besides boring intelligence reports. Instead, I read everything—and I do mean everything—I could find on Iraq, Afghanistan, terrorism, and insurgencies.
I wrote some stuff during my time in the military. Most of the academic papers were boring and filled with the type of gobbledygook that made everyone hate their history professor. No offense, if that’s your jam. I respect the skillset, but, it’s just not for me.
Anyway, it wasn’t until I started writing about Afghanistan for
that I felt truly free for the first time. It was the most liberating feeling in nearly 20 years in the military, where I felt restricted, confined, and, to be very honest, a life-long outcast, which I never minded.
I may have been a commander and spoken to very important Afghans, but I never felt like anyone in the military ever gave a shit about what I had to say, even though I spent more time down range than most. I always felt that even with my language skills, guys like me — a bit different — would never be accepted by the good ole boy network that runs the military.
But when I published the above articles, I felt truly free for the first time in a very long time.
During my second year in command, our Group went down the road a bit to have a pow-wow with all the other leaders. I often call these things BOGSATs (a bunch of guys sitting around a table). No offense, but I get next to nothing with vision/mission statements. Ask around; I hate meetings. I despise them. They rob your subordinates of their precious time so they can tell you that they’re doing a good job.
Anyway, these retreats are fine and dandy if you drink. But, I was 18 months sober, so I just hung out mostly by myself, as I often do. Nevertheless, it was a good time, and I enjoyed not having to jockey for position against the other commanders.
On the one-year anniversary of the fall of Kabul, I decided to retire from the military. I simply could no longer in good conscience lead America’s treasure—their sons and daughters—if I didn’t believe in the institution I was serving. I had lost faith in the Air Force, the Department of Defense, and, to be very honest, my country.
So, by the time I went to my pow-wow, I didn’t really care anymore. I cared about being a good commander for my troops, but climbing the meritocratic ladder to glory no longer caused me the anxiety that restricts creativity.
On day 2, my Group Commander went around the room and asked everyone what they wanted to do after retirement. For the first time, I allowed myself not to plan the answer but to just go with my gut. So, when it was my turn, I stood up and said, “I want to be a writer.”
Around a year ago today, I jumped on a computer and started this site. Since then, we’ve grown at a rate I never thought possible. We’ve passed 2,000 subscribers, and we’re still growing.
On behalf of everyone at
we thank you for giving a fuck when it wasn’t your turn to give a fuck.Believe me when I say I don’t even know what I will write about half the time. I jump on here and see where the good Lord takes me.
I write to remember. I write so I don’t forget about the Afghans who saved my life and my comrades who gave their future so we could be free. I write so my fellow combat veterans feel seen and maybe, just maybe, if we’re lucky, we can bridge the gap between our treasures (our sons and daughters in uniform) and the country they serve.
And if we fail in all that, I really do hope that you learn to laugh at yourself again. Life is too short, Zmoongo Andiwalaano. Love your family. Love your life.
#HealLoudly
Until Next Time
Learned to read in the summer break between 2nd and 3rd grade by deciphering comic books available to me at the summer program at Drummond Elementary. Finally figured out that the chicken tracks were linked to the pictures. On entry into 3rd grade I tested at college level for comprehension. Later found out that the geniuses at the school had me on track for a special education class instead of 3rd grade. Sometimes a person just gets lucky, I guess. Or not.