Guest blogger A K Turner on Bravo!, movies and war, among other things.

Act I: Vietnam via Hollywood

I was a bicentennial baby, my childhood memories are of the eighties. I grew up with Duran Duran, jelly shoes, and Debbie Gibson singing “Electric Youth”. The year of my birth introduced VCRs, which made movies a constant and treasured pastime. In addition to stepping up my knowledge of how much society values tits and ass, VCRs brought me a first glimpse of war. Before then I’d heard only faint whispers of Vietnam. I gleaned from overheard adult conversation, accessorized by the clink of ice in a highball, that Vietnam was something that had happened, but also something that should not have happened.

I wish I could say I expanded my knowledge by listening to veterans tell their stories, or by reading the history books, but I had a lot of “Sweet Valley High” and “Choose Your Own Adventure” on my reading list, and an occasional biography of Harry Houdini or J. Edgar Hoover. Houdini because I thought he could do amazing things; I dutifully practiced holding my breath and got up to a minute and a half. I wanted to try for two, but my mom told me I was killing my brain cells, so I stopped. I read about Hoover because I wanted to join the F.B.I. When adults spoke of the F.B.I., it came with electricity. Adults rarely spoke of war.

A K Turner

Thus occupied, my only knowledge of war came from the VCR, from Hamburger Hill, Full Metal Jacket, and Platoon. These were movies that made me cringe and cry. My heart bled for the soldier, or I despised the soldier, who was really an actor playing a soldier, so no matter how emotional I became during the movie, trying unsuccessfully to stifle the tears and snot and clenching of my throat, it was still Hollywood. After the movie ended, I made plans for the weekend or did my homework. I read another “Sweet Valley High”, because it was just a movie. Maybe an image stayed with me, maybe I dreamed of Sergeant Elias reaching for the heavens. But then I’d see a picture of Willem Defoe on the red carpet at the Academy Awards and know everything was okay.

Act II: September 11, 2001 via The Today Show

We had a one-bedroom apartment carpeted in blue. I crunched numbers, my husband managed building engineers. We stopped getting ready for work and turned our attention to the television screen. A plane had flown into a building. When the second plane hit, Katie Couric said something about planes being mysteriously drawn into the towers. Someone undoubtedly whispered via mic in her ear that there was probably a different and more malevolent explanation. We watched in shock. Eventually, we proceeded with our day, because time refuses to do anything but progress.

In the car, on the way to work, I cried. But I didn’t cry for the victims or the terror of what they felt. They were just a television screen and too far removed. I cried when I realized that my husband might be called in to active duty. For me, September 11th was a spotlight on the unimaginable depths of my own selfishness. I cried only when I saw a potential and direct impact on my life. I’d cry again when I realized how selfish I was, wondering if I lacked an emotion that others possess. I couldn’t cry for the victims, because of the filters between us, because of the television screen, Katie Couric, and three thousand miles.

Act III: Vietnam via Documentary

My husband was called into active duty, but stayed in the U.S. He went through sniper training and other things not on my daily radar. He boarded ships in the San Francisco Bay; he and his fellow comrades searched for incoming terrorist threats. Plots to blow up the Bay Bridge, that sort of thing. At night, he’d confide in me: “We’re there to make people feel better. If someone really wants to do something, we’re not going to be able to stop them.”

So what will be, will be and I turned my thoughts from war, though war continued on and still does. Vietnam resurfaced with a scourge of yellow ribbons. Support your troops with a sticker on your car. Don’t make this like Vietnam, when we spit on our boys if they were lucky enough to return – that was the fear. And again I felt the current of a war that was happening, but maybe one that shouldn’t be.

The first real emotion kicked when I saw a person like me (selfishness, again rearing its ugly head). A woman my age, with kids like mine. She looks just like me, except her husband is gone for war, or for good because of war. She’s wondering how she’ll get through, while I’m making spaghetti for my complete family of four.

The full kick came on a bigger screen. A documentary called Bravo! Common Men, Uncommon Valor about a battle in Vietnam. There were good guys and bad guys and horrific conditions and all of the trappings that Hollywood had. Except this time it wasn’t Vincent D’Onofrio or Tom Berenger on the screen. These were Marines who had been there and had stories to tell. Real and raw and without script. Men describing what had happened to them, the life and death they’d seen, shaking, weeping, pausing, and laughing when the other options are gone. The audience made no attempt to stifle tears and snot and clenching throats.

I don’t know war, only selfishness and words and pictures. But value nests in seeing the true faces and hearing the unedited words of those who have endured what I have not. They deserve something more than what we’ve given them, certainly far beyond what I’ve given them. Taking time to honor their story is a start.

AK Turner is a co-author of Drinking with Dead Women Writers and the author of This Little Piggy Went to the Liquor Store. More of her work is available at AKTurner.com.

In keeping with this week’s musings on more current occurrences of conflict and war, guest blogger James Goertel talks about his experiences around 9/11/2001.

My memories about September 11, 2001 are not political. They seek to dispense no judgment one way or another upon a moment when two worlds collided. Nor does 20-20 hindsight offer more than what it was for me when “it” happened. The date itself is a convenient box in which I have collected the events of what was only a week in my life, but what is, in fact, a lifetime still unfolding for those directly and indirectly involved. My story is one of millions and is significant in some respect only because it is mine and maybe in some small way belongs to all of us, to any of us who have glimpsed humanity in the shadow of inhumanity.

On September, 11, 2001, I awoke in Dallas, Texas and prepared to begin a week covering a pharmaceutical conference for an agency out of New York City. At the time, I was a freelance sound mixer for film and video, both corporate and commercial. I stepped out onto the street from my hotel to the sound of blaring sirens. Having worked extensively in New York City, and being from Philadelphia, I thought nothing of the wailing, winding cacophony. I needed coffee.

The hours that followed there in Dallas, hours which held further inexplicable and tragic events, were a blur. The initial fog of disbelief never really left me, but eventually gave at least some ground to a sobering and inevitable reality: nearly twenty-six hours of non-stop driving, first up through the heartland of the Midwest and then on across to Philadelphia and home. The airports in Dallas had been shut down almost immediately after the North Tower was struck and there had been an understandable imperative to head back East at all costs. The cameraman I so often worked with, and whom I was with in Dallas on 9/11, had a family member working in the North Tower, his twenty-three year old nephew, who it turned out was in the tower at the time of the impact and who became one of the nearly 3000 lives that fate would ultimately claim. Driving halfway across the country on 9/11 and on into September 12th had the eerie and unsettling feeling of a Hollywood-produced, post-apocalyptic movie, a feeling that has never totally left me.

A few days after returning home, I received a call from NBC Dateline asking me to be a part of a pool of crews to cover the events at Ground Zero and elsewhere. I said I would just as I had for many other similar calls from 30 Rockefeller Center to cover so many other events in previous years. This though, was not just another event, so I left for New York City with a sense of trepidation and, yes, with a sense of fear.

That atmosphere in New York City just days after the towers fell was both surreal and all too real. I cannot recall the exact number of times I passed through check points where my vehicle and the equipment I was carrying were given a thorough once-over by NYPD officers, but the trip to 30 Rockefeller Center that normally took me two and half hours took nearly six. The crew I was assigned to was dispatched almost immediately upon arrival and we made our way to Ground Zero – where surreal took on an entirely new meaning. The conversations I have had with those who were there in the days after the towers fell all contain this phrase in describing the scene, “… like something out of a movie.” The devastation up close could not be described. Even now, a decade later, I am at a loss for words. I can only relate with any literate accuracy my actions at Ground Zero.

Our crew it turned out was going to follow a retired fireman, Bob Beckwith, who had come out of retirement to join the search in general and specifically the search for a friend’s son, who was a New York City firefighter. The friend’s son had been among the first to respond after the North Tower was hit and was among the multitude of missing. Our producer brought me to Bob, introduced me and informed him that I would be putting a wireless microphone on him before we followed him into the rubble as he searched with so many others for the missing. I felt as small as I have ever felt, smaller than the little boy of my own childhood memories. The devastation and the reality of where I was swallowed me whole, along with the surreal nature of it all, in one anaerobic gulp. I suddenly felt as though I could not breathe. I had mic’d up thousands of people over the years, so my hands knew what to do, but as I raised them to begin the process with Mr. Beckwith they began to shake uncontrollably. My emotions, visually stricken and overwhelmed, had manifested themselves in a physical way I had never known could happen. I could not function and my eyes began to well with tears. It was then he took my hands in his, willing with the pressure of his touch my crying eyes to lift to meet his own – calm and assured, but utterly simpatico all at once. Then, knowing he had my full attention, he uttered the most sympathetic words I have ever heard in my entire life, “It’s going to be okay.”

That moment between two men, between two human beings, is the closest I have come to understanding what it means to be alive. Plato and Aristotle, with their bottomless well of philosophical insight into the human condition, have not even come close to imparting as much to me as Bob Beckwith did in that singularly lucid moment amidst a near hallucinogenic, often fragmentary block of time in those days following 9/11.

I would go on to cover stories at the two other 9/11 sites, Shanksville, Pennsylvania and the Pentagon, and do innumerable interviews with survivors and family members of the deceased from these tragedies. These experiences were also rife with words full of humanity in their own right, but none more than those of a retired firefighter when we stood face to face at the gray edges of the long, historical, and continuous shadow of man’s own inhumanity.

 
Born in North Dakota, James Goertel spent twenty years working in television for ABC, NBC, and ESPN, among others. He currently teaches writing at Penn State Erie. His writing has appeared in Ascent Aspirations, LucidPlay, Manifold, and TNBBC. Carry Each His Burden is his debut fiction collection and was published in September of 2011.