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.

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.

Lessons from a militarized childhood: There are only two teams

(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:

There are only two teams

They like to talk about all kinds of teams: basketball teams, baseball teams, football teams, even teaching teams--but they're wrong. There are only two teams: yours, and everyone else. You can't always trust the guys on your team--more on trust in another lesson--but if a situation turns hot, you can, you will bet your ass that they will stand with you. And they will.

A kid, a private so new he still wants to call a sergeant "sir," stumbles into your camp after a night patrol. He's holding his stomach, still drying puke sullies his starched shirt, his split lip and nose are leaking blood, and his cover is missing. He broke the rules and went out alone, but that doesn't matter now. You get the story: two big guys, drunk guys, guys from the camp a little nearer to the highway than yours, tore into him for invading their space. Maybe he was, but you'll deal with that later. Right now, you grab your friends, four of them and the kid, you take your rifles--barrels blocked but still excellent clubs--and you head out.

You're twelve. Like that matters.

Finding the two guys is easy. They're still laughing about the lesson they taught the little shit, and they're tossing his cover back and forth. You've practiced this attack; they haven't. You're alert; they're drunk. You're six; they're two. It's nowhere near fair.

All that means is that you executed better than they did.

Two of you take out their legs first, while two more pull them down and cover their mouths. You all hit them, over and over, with rifles and fists and legs. The kid stands back, his eyes wide. When they're barely moving, when their faces are so wet that even with your flashlights you can barely find their eyes, you bring the kid over and make him take the last hit on each of them. He has to learn.

You pick up his cover and put it on his head.

Right before you go, you lean over each of them, clean their eyes to make sure they can see well, and shine the light on your face. They need to understand that you don't care if they know who you are. Then you tell them the lesson they should have already learned: "Touch one of us again, and we'll kill you."

You leave.

When you see their group the next day, you're ready, but they look away. Good. Like the kid, they had to learn.

Us. Them. It's that simple.

More lessons from my spam

(WARNING: Adult language and topics ahead. Kids, stop reading.)

As I've commented in several earlier posts, a torrent of spam rains on my systems daily. I run a spam filter, and it works for the most part, but I still need to scan the spam subject lines lest I accidentally lose a real message related to one of my jobs.

From this scanning, I've learned a lot. I've reviewed some of those lessons in those earlier entries, but new messages arrive all the time and bring with them new lessons. Here are a few recent jewels of enlightenment.

Dozens of people every day discover my FaceBook page and want to be my friend.

What a shame I'm not on FaceBook. These invitations, though, certainly make me want to join. If I'm this popular without a page, just think how many friends I could have after I create one! I'm positively giddy at the prospect.

The key to getting promoted is to make my penis larger.

As the co-owner of a company with no investors, I have no way to get promoted, so this one puzzles me a bit. Still, it could shed light on why I never made it to CEO at any other company.

Of course, this also explains the glass ceiling in many organizations for women.

Industrial machines are really cheap if you know how to shop.

Forget buying from manufacturers or companies going out of business; the real key to savings is to shop with Chinese and German manufacturers who bring descriptions, including pictures, of their machines directly to your email.

My mortgage needs protection--and they can provide it.

Wow, who knew insurance was this easy? Too bad I own my house outright and don't have a mortgage.

Polish women really want to meet me.

My earlier offers came primarily from Russians, so clearly my fame is spreading. I may soon have to move to Eastern Europe and take up my career as a sex god.

If my penis isn't ten inches long, it's not up to average--but they can help.

Hmmm. If the average is ten inches, then a whole lot of people are walking around well below the norm. And, somewhere there are men with monster cocks to bring the average up to ten inches.


On balance, I feel the quality of my spam has continued to decline. I'm waiting for something new and innovative. Spammers, rise to the challenge!

Lessons from a militarized childhood: You deserve it

(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:

You deserve it

They wouldn't hurt you if you if you were better. If you had held up your legs longer during the leg lifts, they wouldn't have needed to stomp on your stomach. If you weren't such a baby, you would have kept your legs up when they did. If you were a better fighter, you wouldn't lose so often, even though half the time your opponents are men twice your size, men who laugh as you hit them and then slam you so hard you cannot breathe.

They make it clear. They say it over and over: They're doing it for your own good. Without them to teach you the lessons you need to learn, you'd grow up even stupider, uglier, and fatter than you are. You'd let down your squad. You'd die early. You'd let others die.

You won't do that. You won't let down anyone.

So you try to be better. You know with a bedrock certainty, more than you know anything else, that if you were only better, they would stop hurting you. You wouldn't have to fight. You'd get to be like the other kids you remember, or have seen on TV, or see as you march by, carrying your gun, your eyes scanning everywhere while their dads hold them high and point out the little soldiers, aren't they like little men, aren't they cute.

Kyle's amazing check

I noted a while back that because of the heaviness of many of my recent entries about the Children No More giveaway program, I was going to stick in some humorous entries from time to time. The series of lessons from a militarized childhood is adding more to the grimness level here--and to my feeling that I need to do some light pieces from time to time. This is one of those. If you want only the serious stuff, skip this one.

Kyle recently send me a check with his contributions to the beach and the fireworks show. When I read it, I laughed so hard I hurt. Here's a carefully redacted version that with luck will give away nothing of great consequence--and, yes, I asked his permission before posting this picture.



I have the best friends.

Lessons from a militarized childhood: Contact = Pain

(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:

Contact = Pain

They touch you when they want to hurt you.

Sometimes, it's because you messed up, and that's the punishment. You come to expect those. They even feel fair. After all, you screwed up. So, you take it, and you keep as quiet as you can.

Other times, it's part of the training. You have to know how to fight, or you won't survive. You get them first, or they get you. You also have to know how to take the pain, or so they tell you, but you're way ahead of them on that one; you've already learned this part far better than they realize.

The worst times are when it's out of the blue. Maybe you're standing in a line, waiting to get your food, and someone touches your back. You whip around as fast as you can to ward off the threat, but if you're not fast enough, they smack you in the face or punch you in the stomach. Maybe you're sleeping, but you let yourself go too deep, and the arms hold you down seconds before the fists or feet hit your stomach. Tighten up and take it; that's all you can do.

They don't like it, though, when you stiffen up at the hugs that are supposed to feel good--though you're never sure to whom. The ones who beat you are the same ones who expect you to give a hug and like it; you know it's all just another test. Those who hug you and have never hit you? Merely threats you haven't triggered yet.

You keep the little space around you as precious as your water. If someone enters it, you push them out--hard and fast, before they can do any damage. Hit first, stay save.

Above all, you show as little of your pain as you can. You stay as quiet as you can manage. No tears. No fucking tears. They don't get that satisfaction. Fuck them.

When they do, when your control fails and you scream or cry, that hurts worse later than the bruises and the blood when you pee.

You'll get better with practice, though, of that you are certain, because it never stops, it never ends. There's always a next time.