Dear Basrah,
I will not miss you. I will not miss your sand in my eyes, ears and knows. I will not miss your fecal matter-ridden flies, that like to go in the same places your damn sand does. I will not miss the rancid smell of garbage, burning or not, the smell of sewer or any other foul smell I have come to associate with you. I will not miss your rabid dogs or cats ridden with God only knows what diseases. I will not miss your summer weather, but I'll admit I might miss your winter weather, but only a bit. I will not miss your neighbors that party into all hours of the night, sometimes getting their confetti on our side.
I will not think of you fondly and I probably won't be able to muster up any tears when I leave you (which I hope is VERY soon). I hope that's ok. You have been a thorn in my side and I hope to never see you or your brothers again. I hope you understand, that's it's you not me.
Sincerely, Me.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
What about us?
As of right now, we should have been out of here approximately 7544 minutes ago. I would have been home today, with my hair down and a pair of blue jeans on. My family would have been reunited after our year of seperation. Iraq should have been only a memory by now... instead, it's still my reality.
For the second time this week, I have packed and unpacked my bags. Just yesterday, at 1030 in the morning, the 12 Redbulls that stayed behind to escort the remaining cargo home were told to be prepared to leave early the next morning. Our bags were to be ready to go by 1530, when we would have another meeting to plan the logistics of what would happen in the next 12 hours.
My bags were packed. I was actually starting to think I'd be leaving, something I hadn't let myself think since the last time we were delayed. I was thinking, "By this time tomorrow, I'll be on a plane." It was at that meeting we were informed that our flight had been delayed, yet again. I immediately felt my chest tighten as I searched the eyes of the man who delivered the bad news. I was pretty confident that this was a joke. This had already happened before. But it wasn't a joke, and it surely wasn't funny.
Once again, my father and I had to inform my mom that we wouldn't be coming home as scheduled. That in fact, we would miss Valentine's Day, even though my dad had been gone weeks before this holiday last year.
I'm sure my family felt pretty similar to how I feel. I feel betrayed and angry, just as I had the first time I was told that I couldn't go home. I feel hopeless and helpless. There is nothing I can change to expedite my arrival home or nothign I can do to stop this from happening again. And at the root of everything, I feel a little forgotten. Not my friends and certainly not my family. By the rest of the soldiers that left here weeks ago, and forgot that someone stayed behind so that they wouldn't have to.
While the media, and even the 34th ID themselves, continues to claim that the final wave of Redbulls are coming home tomorrow, the remaining Redbulls are stuck to wonder "What about us?" Wouldn't it be nice, as my sister said, to celebrate when ALL of the Redbulls are home?
I know that 12 doesn't seem like a huge number, especially when you compare it to the 4,000 soldiers that are home or are within in a day of being home. But that's 12 soldiers and there families and friends that are awaiting their arrival home. It's another week of life on standstill as our families hold their breath. Another couple of days of them dreading phone calls from us, because we just might inform them of yet another delay.
Please continue to keep the remaining Redbulls and their families in your thoughts and prayers.
For the second time this week, I have packed and unpacked my bags. Just yesterday, at 1030 in the morning, the 12 Redbulls that stayed behind to escort the remaining cargo home were told to be prepared to leave early the next morning. Our bags were to be ready to go by 1530, when we would have another meeting to plan the logistics of what would happen in the next 12 hours.
My bags were packed. I was actually starting to think I'd be leaving, something I hadn't let myself think since the last time we were delayed. I was thinking, "By this time tomorrow, I'll be on a plane." It was at that meeting we were informed that our flight had been delayed, yet again. I immediately felt my chest tighten as I searched the eyes of the man who delivered the bad news. I was pretty confident that this was a joke. This had already happened before. But it wasn't a joke, and it surely wasn't funny.
Once again, my father and I had to inform my mom that we wouldn't be coming home as scheduled. That in fact, we would miss Valentine's Day, even though my dad had been gone weeks before this holiday last year.
I'm sure my family felt pretty similar to how I feel. I feel betrayed and angry, just as I had the first time I was told that I couldn't go home. I feel hopeless and helpless. There is nothing I can change to expedite my arrival home or nothign I can do to stop this from happening again. And at the root of everything, I feel a little forgotten. Not my friends and certainly not my family. By the rest of the soldiers that left here weeks ago, and forgot that someone stayed behind so that they wouldn't have to.
While the media, and even the 34th ID themselves, continues to claim that the final wave of Redbulls are coming home tomorrow, the remaining Redbulls are stuck to wonder "What about us?" Wouldn't it be nice, as my sister said, to celebrate when ALL of the Redbulls are home?
I know that 12 doesn't seem like a huge number, especially when you compare it to the 4,000 soldiers that are home or are within in a day of being home. But that's 12 soldiers and there families and friends that are awaiting their arrival home. It's another week of life on standstill as our families hold their breath. Another couple of days of them dreading phone calls from us, because we just might inform them of yet another delay.
Please continue to keep the remaining Redbulls and their families in your thoughts and prayers.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Some thoughts from little Jacki
I just happened upon this today. I wrote this for my college writing class my senior year (2008). Thought I'd share some thoughts of little Jacki...
Since the end of my first trimester junior year, plans of prank-filled escapades lasting far past twilight and lethargic days of sleeping until the sun had reached the top of the blue sky had been conspired. Those simple indulgences were the solitary guarantees I had at that moment in time: a happy-go-lucky summer spent in the company of my best friends making memories that would endure a lifetime.
I had even composed a summer checklist of kooky things that I hoped to complete before returning for my senior year. Stupid stuff, like fully encompass a close friend's house in mass amounts of cheap, white toilet paper. The home that had once been adjacent to a perfectly manicured lawn would be disguised as a winter wonderland in the heart of summer.
Those plans fell through my tender 17 year-old hands when I made the impulsive decision to join the Army National Guard in early February. My mind never fully comprehended what I was getting myself into or how much I would have to sacrifice. Instead, those things were overlooked in an effort to be unique (go where none of my friends had dared to go) and to live a life that was unexpected and exhilarating. That dazzling allure was what drew me in.
Instead of a carefree summer like I had intended, my time would be spent in the intense South Carolina heat that usually reached over 100 degrees on a good day. The unbearable temperature did not include the high humidity, which usually was the main contributor to my sweat-soaked uniforms. I never knew before joining what it felt like to take something as insignificant as a shower for granted or to know the true joy that erupted at the sight of mail time. A single letter from home could make an otherwise joyless day.
My homecoming from basic training fell towards the end of August. I had spent an entire summer away from my security blanket of close friends and family. My return was filled with uncertainty, because I felt like I had changed drastically over the summer.
My return was simple. I quickly adapted to my old life, and began to get in the groove of things. Lost time with my friends was quickly made up, and it almost felt like I had never left.
However, like most people who had encountered a life-altering experience, I had discovered how important it was to appreciate the small things. Small things like fighting with my brother, driving my beater car (which I callously refer to as "Rosie"), or even watching a side-splitting movie on a Friday night. Those simple things were what I had yearned for this summer. This resulted in an internal stuggle not to tell my friends my exact feelins when they complained about trivial things. They could have it so much worse, but they need their own experience to verify what I already know to be true.
The realization has hit us that this is our last year together, so time is of the essence. Soon, we'll be dispersed across the country, playing grown-up. They'll all be attending college. Two days following my high school graduation, I venture off to complete my second half of military training.
The second half of military training is referred to as Advanced Individual Training (AIT). This is where a soldier learns about his or her actual job. I am in HUMINT (human intelligence). My MOS is currently in high demand. I am guaranteed to be shipped to Iraq or the surrounding area within a year unless extenuating circumstances occur.
When I was a little more naïve, I believed my single guarantee for the future was that it would be a carbon copy of what my friends were doing. Now, my mind races as the meaning of two phrases flash through my mind: shipping out for AIT and the war in Iraq. That's my new solitary guarantee that I have for my future.
Since the end of my first trimester junior year, plans of prank-filled escapades lasting far past twilight and lethargic days of sleeping until the sun had reached the top of the blue sky had been conspired. Those simple indulgences were the solitary guarantees I had at that moment in time: a happy-go-lucky summer spent in the company of my best friends making memories that would endure a lifetime.
I had even composed a summer checklist of kooky things that I hoped to complete before returning for my senior year. Stupid stuff, like fully encompass a close friend's house in mass amounts of cheap, white toilet paper. The home that had once been adjacent to a perfectly manicured lawn would be disguised as a winter wonderland in the heart of summer.
Those plans fell through my tender 17 year-old hands when I made the impulsive decision to join the Army National Guard in early February. My mind never fully comprehended what I was getting myself into or how much I would have to sacrifice. Instead, those things were overlooked in an effort to be unique (go where none of my friends had dared to go) and to live a life that was unexpected and exhilarating. That dazzling allure was what drew me in.
Instead of a carefree summer like I had intended, my time would be spent in the intense South Carolina heat that usually reached over 100 degrees on a good day. The unbearable temperature did not include the high humidity, which usually was the main contributor to my sweat-soaked uniforms. I never knew before joining what it felt like to take something as insignificant as a shower for granted or to know the true joy that erupted at the sight of mail time. A single letter from home could make an otherwise joyless day.
My homecoming from basic training fell towards the end of August. I had spent an entire summer away from my security blanket of close friends and family. My return was filled with uncertainty, because I felt like I had changed drastically over the summer.
My return was simple. I quickly adapted to my old life, and began to get in the groove of things. Lost time with my friends was quickly made up, and it almost felt like I had never left.
However, like most people who had encountered a life-altering experience, I had discovered how important it was to appreciate the small things. Small things like fighting with my brother, driving my beater car (which I callously refer to as "Rosie"), or even watching a side-splitting movie on a Friday night. Those simple things were what I had yearned for this summer. This resulted in an internal stuggle not to tell my friends my exact feelins when they complained about trivial things. They could have it so much worse, but they need their own experience to verify what I already know to be true.
The realization has hit us that this is our last year together, so time is of the essence. Soon, we'll be dispersed across the country, playing grown-up. They'll all be attending college. Two days following my high school graduation, I venture off to complete my second half of military training.
The second half of military training is referred to as Advanced Individual Training (AIT). This is where a soldier learns about his or her actual job. I am in HUMINT (human intelligence). My MOS is currently in high demand. I am guaranteed to be shipped to Iraq or the surrounding area within a year unless extenuating circumstances occur.
When I was a little more naïve, I believed my single guarantee for the future was that it would be a carbon copy of what my friends were doing. Now, my mind races as the meaning of two phrases flash through my mind: shipping out for AIT and the war in Iraq. That's my new solitary guarantee that I have for my future.
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