Saturday, August 21, 2010

Let's meet at some upcoming readings!

In the space of a few days less than two weeks from now, I'll be doing two local readings and book signings. Here are the basic details, which you can also find on my site's Appearances page:

29 August 2010, 2:00
McIntyre's Books
Fearrington, NC

2 September 2010, 7:30
Quail Ridge Books and Music
Raleigh, NC
At both of these events, I'll be talking about the child soldier issue, Falling Whistles, and the Children No More giveaway program--as well as reading, answering questions, and all the usual signing stuff.

If the tone turns too grim, I may even do a few bits from my stand-up shows!

If you're anywhere in the area, I'd greatly appreciate your support--particularly if you buy a copy of the book, which would help make the booksellers happy and send more money to help rehabilitate and reintegrate child soldiers.

I hope to see you there!

Friday, August 20, 2010

Lessons from a militarized childhood:
Trust no one

(In this entry, I assume you are aware of my goal of raising a lot of money to help child soldiers by donating all of my earnings from sales of the hardback of Children No More to Falling Whistles. If you're not, you can go to the Children No More site and learn more there. I'll be here when you return.)


What I experienced in my three years in a militaristic youth group is nothing compared to what true child soldiers undergo. I believe, however, that they and I, as well as many abused children, emerge from our experiences having learned many of the same lessons. To help folks without these backgrounds understand some of the challenges facing these kids--and those who seek to help rehabilitate and reintegrate them--I'm going to talk about some of the lessons I learned--and that I believe they did, too.

Before I do, though, I want to make clear that I know how unhealthy these lessons are, I don't live my life by them, and so on.

They are, though, what such kids learn, and they are what I learned at that age.

Also, beware that there's going to be rough language and generally harsh stuff in all of these lessons. That's the nature of them.

Enough disclaimers. Let's get on with today's lesson:

Trust no one

The hits can come from any person in any place at any time. Walking down a hall, running, doing leg lifts, sleeping, trying to read alone--then smack! You're on the ground, or your face is stinging. Usually they laugh. Good one, they say. Then they turn serious: Stay alert, meat. Toughen up. You won't make it if you don't learn better.

So you do. You learn. Your leaders, your squad mates, the adults who are supposed to take care of you--any of them can hurt you in an instant. Strangers, too. Those closest to you, and those you haven't met yet. Any of them.

You learn, too, to take care of yourself. You never stop looking around. Your eyes scan as far and as wide as you can make them, looking for the threats that just haven't shown themselves yet. You keep a wall to your back if you can. You sit in the corners, where the threats have to come at you. You never completely relax, because you know what happens then. You accumulate every edge you can, in case you need it.

As you scan, you look for the others who are also watching, who also understand, because they're the most dangerous. Those, the ones most like you, you watch carefully, because they'll strike with skill.

Most of the people around you will never understand, and you're okay with that. You smile and tell them you trust them as you automatically and without thought check their hands, the position of their feet, and you adjust to compensate.

When they get you, a hit, a job firing, an emotional wound, whatever--you don't even blame them. You know you screwed up. You remind yourself with words you rarely remember once came from others.

Stay alert.

Toughen up.

You won't make it if you don't learn better.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Lessons from a militarized childhood:
They don't want to hear

(In this entry, I assume you are aware of my goal of raising a lot of money to help child soldiers by donating all of my earnings from sales of the hardback of Children No More to Falling Whistles. If you're not, you can go to the Children No More site and learn more there. I'll be here when you return.)


What I experienced in my three years in a militaristic youth group is nothing compared to what true child soldiers undergo. I believe, however, that they and I, as well as many abused children, emerge from our experiences having learned many of the same lessons. To help folks without these backgrounds understand some of the challenges facing these kids--and those who seek to help rehabilitate and reintegrate them--I'm going to talk about some of the lessons I learned--and that I believe they did, too.

Before I do, though, I want to make clear that I know how unhealthy these lessons are, I don't live my life by them, and so on.

They are, though, what such kids learn, and they are what I learned at that age.

Also, beware that there's going to be rough language and generally harsh stuff in all of these lessons. That's the nature of them.

Enough disclaimers. Let's get on with today's lesson:

They don't want to hear

Years later, when you're a grown-up, if you dare to tell anyone, they'll almost always say the same thing: Why didn't you tell someone? Your mother? The adult in charge?

What a shame you didn't think of that.

How stupid do they think you were? Of course you tried telling people, but then you learned another lesson: They don't want to hear. Adults are not on your team. They don't want to see the horrors right in front of them. Any reassuring lie will do.

Oh, he's just exaggerating.

Of course we wouldn't do that!

Let me reassure you that no such thing would ever happen here.

He's just going through a rough phase.
Rough is what follows the times you're dumb enough to tell. Then, you really pay. They're good at hurting, though, so the bruises are where they're hard to spot--and besides, you're clumsy and fall a lot and bruise easily, ask any of the adults. It doesn't take long before you learn to do the hiding, because then there's no risk you're accused of telling.

It really never changes. All those years later, when you dare to tell, most people don't want to hear. It makes them wonder if that could really have happened. It makes them suspect you're exaggerating, even when you tone it down so they can take it. It makes them uncomfortable. Fair enough, it is uncomfortable, and it should be, it should be so fucking painfully uncomfortable that we all agree it simply may not, must not continue.

You see, you can't help but having moments in which you believe that maybe, just maybe, by bringing it all out into the light, by forcing open the eyes of all those who look away or refuse to see the abuses going on all around them, that you can make it safe for the next young ones to tell.

You don't really believe that, of course, not for an instant, but sometimes you try anyway.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

The last first day of school

Since Sarah and Scott started pre-pre-school, I have taken them to their first day of class. Fifteen trips for Sarah, fifteen for Scott, seventeen total. Between working and traveling (more often for work than not), I've missed many more school events than I would like, but I've done all I could to attend every single one I could. I've never, though, missed a first day.

Today was the last one. Today, I took Scott to school (early; he had to arrive by 7:30 a.m., which is downright mean) for the start of his senior year. I know many parents are hot to get their kids out of the house, but I'm not; I love having Sarah and Scott around, and I miss them when they're gone. I will sure miss this tradition.

In the earliest years, each of them held my hand from the moment we got out of the car, and I walked them into their classrooms and waited to be sure they were okay. Way too soon, but of course in the right time, they didn't want me to come into the class, and they didn't hold my hand. As the years passed, all that I did was stop the car long enough for them to get out. That's as it should be, their independence growing as it should, but I still can't help but ache each time they walk away.

Last year was the first time the trip involved only Scott. Watching him walk off was every bit as hard as watching them both leave.

Today, the final of these early morning rides, may have been the hardest. The broad-shouldered, tall-as-I-am young man who headed out to confront his senior year seems so very far from the tiny boy I could lift easily with one hand and hold against my chest should something scary happen--or should either of us just need a hug. Love and pride and nostalgia made the drive home a bit blurry and more than a bit sad.

Next year, I'll help him move into college, as I did last year with Sarah and will do again with her this year, but it's not the same; dorm occupation precedes classes by days, and college is not high school.

Today, though, I again got to take my son to his first day of school, and for that privilege I am enormously grateful.

I love you, Scott.

If I'm ever a world-famous writer

I want someone to make a video like this one for me.

(Warning: Very adult language.)



Yeah, I know: How shallow can he be?

At least this shallow, probably worse.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

The Expendables

If you go to this movie, either you've been living in an isolated monastery or you know what you're signing up for. You want men to beat up each other, things to go boom--in quantity and loudly--and ammunition to hit the ground like rain in a summer storm. So, the only reasonable question about this movie is, how well did it deliver what it promised?

Pretty well. I wasn't disappointed, which is saying something these days.

On the other hand, it is a B movie (at best), and it has all the flaws you'd expect: action so improbable you can never for an instant see anything as real, weak acting (Jason Statham and Mickey Rourke, shine, if that tells you anything), and dialog that frequently overloads the trite meter. It also suffers from the director (Stallone) and editor deciding to cut the fight sequences so fast that you frequently can't tell what's going on.

But who gives a hoot? You get to see Statham standing up in the nose of a plane shooting up an entire pier, Stallone fighting Stone Cold Steve Austin, Randy Couture launching a flying Superman punch at a flaming Austin, Jet Li and Dolph Lundgren going at it, the loudest automatic weapon I've heard on screen in a long time, and much, much more.

Across the hall from our theater was the one showing Eat Pray Love. The women coming out of it looked contemplative, while the few guys wore "shoot me now" on their foreheads. The crowd emerging from our theater was smiling and laughing and saying things like, "Did you see that shit?"

I was in the right theater for my mood tonight.

And, The Expendables beat Eat Pray Love by $10M at the box office. 'Nuff said.

Monday, August 16, 2010

Lessons from a militarized childhood:
It can all vanish in an instant

(In this entry, I assume you are aware of my goal of raising a lot of money to help child soldiers by donating all of my earnings from sales of the hardback of Children No More to Falling Whistles. If you're not, you can go to the Children No More site and learn more there. I'll be here when you return.)


What I experienced in my three years in a militaristic youth group is nothing compared to what true child soldiers undergo. I believe, however, that they and I, as well as many abused children, emerge from our experiences having learned many of the same lessons. To help folks without these backgrounds understand some of the challenges facing these kids--and those who seek to help rehabilitate and reintegrate them--I'm going to talk about some of the lessons I learned--and that I believe they did, too.

Before I do, though, I want to make clear that I know how unhealthy these lessons are, I don't live my life by them, and so on.

They are, though, what such kids learn, and they are what I learned at that age.

Also, beware that there's going to be rough language and generally harsh stuff in all of these lessons. That's the nature of them.

Enough disclaimers. Let's get on with today's lesson:

It can all vanish in an instant

You're going to school, doing the work, trying to fit in, failing but trying, and then the man you've come to see as your father dies. He's gone in an instant, and you have no clue why--not that it matters much, because you can't even remember his face anymore.

You're standing in line that first day, soaked with sweat and squinting in the bright Florida sun, the sergeant is screaming at you, your mother drives off, and now something else is gone, too, though you won't realize it for years.

You're in the chow line, your metal plate poised to receive whatever they're going to feed you, your stomach grinding against itself, your muscles aching, and just as the food plops onto your plate a corporal lifts it out of your hands. You won't need it, he says, because you'll be on ant patrol around the mess area. You want to protest, but you've been around long enough now to know better, so you snap to attention, salute him and the order, grab your rifle, and start marching.

You're sprinting for the finish line, winning for the first time, your boots pounding the dirt, and the sergeant steps from behind a tree and shoves you so fast you don't figure out what happened until you complete the roll--God help you if you screw up the roll--and you scramble to your feet, ready to fight, your lips peeled back, your head throbbing with anger. Stay alert, he says, then tilts his head until you force yourself to attention and croak out the best "Sergeant, yes, Sergeant!" you can manage. He nods and moves on.

You're on your first night practice, way before ant duty, way way before the sprint, and you and your partner are doing your best to approach the target silently. You pause against a tree, note the moonlight is making his face gleam like a clean plate, and before you can tell him, someone slams into his side. They hit you a second later, two of them, one taking out your legs and the other riding you down. The air explodes out of you. You can't breathe. A flashlight's beam hits your face. Sloppy, they say, and sloppy gets you killed. Again. They get off. You stand, salute, and head back to the beginning.

You learn, over and over and over again, that nothing is safe, nothing is yours, nothing is permanent, anything and everything can vanish faster than your heart can beat. You keep your distance even as you stockpile, never let yourself get too attached even as you grab all you can, and you know it's all temporary, all at risk all the time. As are you.

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Scott Pilgrim

A lot of reviews of this film basically assert that if you're not in its target demographic--and I am definitely older than that group--you won't get it or enjoy it. That certainly wasn't the case for me. I got a great deal of it, though not all of it; Scott had to fill me in on many videogame in-jokes. I also thoroughly enjoyed it and recommend you catch it in the theater.

All that said, this is yet another of the summer movies that you simply can't think too much about. Before you start telling me about its videogame-based story logic, let me be clear: I understand all that, appreciate it, and have no complaints about it. What you can't think too much about are the characters, and that's a shame. On an emotional level, this movie is largely an empty-calorie snack. Almost no one in the movie is complicated, and in the end the most mature person may be the youngest one.

Fortunately, many empty-calorie snacks are tasty and fun, and so is this movie. You don't need to psychoanalyze Scott Pilgrim or any of his friends to enjoy the ride--and it is a very fun ride indeed.

By the way, this was my weekend for movies that don't bear up under too much thought; I'll write about The Expendables another day.

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