2000 Deciduous Trees : Memories of a Zine (9781937316051) (14 page)

"My job is to soldierize you, Private. It’s
that simple." 

With his brim on my forehead and his
mustache tickling my nose, "Do you know why I joined the army,
Private? Do you give two shits, Private? Of course you do. Or don't
ya? Well folks, looks like Jonesie here doesn't give a dang about
the rest of you. In fact, I believe she has personally asked for
all of you to FRONT—oh, no, not you, Jones. You can stand here with
me and watch. Isn't that what you wanted? Didn't you ask to be an
individual? Private Jones said, BACK. I'll tell you why I joined
the army. Because I was broke, hungry, homeless, and it was
raining. GO. I joined the army because they take care of me. I’ve
never been homeless. I've got three hot meals a day, and they pay
me to scream at a bunch of 'tards like you all. Aren’t they pretty,
Jones? Don't you feel special? You look special. In fact, Jones,
you look special enough to ride the short bus. FRONT. That’s it,
isn't it, Jones? You're retarded, aren't you? You're from West
Virginia, aren't you, Private? BACK. You're retarded and yet the
United States government is willing to hand you a loaded weapon.
God help us all. The retards are defending this beautiful country,
GO. Dang, I hate to look at 'tards. Get down and push with the rest
of them, Private Jones, you retard. FRONT… BACK… GO."

“
Are you hitting on me,
soldier? You're not? Well it looks like it. You're sitting there
with your legs crossed like a whore. Is that what you are, soldier?
You better keep both feet on the ground at all times. Is that
understood? We don't need a bunch of males that ain't balled
nothin' in six weeks being provoked, now do we?" 

“
Lord have mercy, Jones,
get out of my dining facility with that Rhode Island chicken head
of hair. I can't stand to look at you while I'm eating. From now on
you do not get in that chow line until you have fixed your sorry
butt up in the latrine. Do you hear me? You will carry a comb at
all times. You will no longer look like a scraggly, dirt-scratchin’
Rhode Island chicken. I better see you pushing from this
window."

"Pri-vate Jones. So you want to go to the
latrine? Don't you think I wanted to use the latrine when I was
halfway to Panama? Don't you think I had to piss? Do you think
there was anywhere for me to go? No-there-was-not-Pri-vate-Jones.
No potty in the air. No potty for me. Lord Almighty, I had my ruck,
and hundred twenty-five pounds of parachute strapped in my crotch.
Do you think there was any opportunity for me to piss? Why should I
give you the opportunity? Seems to me you can hold it as well as I
did. And if holding my water for five hours wasn't enough, that
punk Carter had to sign some fugly peace treaty, and my ass did not
jump into combat. Instead me and my unit came right back here. Do
you think that made me happy, Pri-vate Jones? You are right. It did
not make me happy. Get back in your foxhole and don't bitch to me
again until you know the target order."

"Relax, Jones. You got asthma? Just breathe.
We're only jogging. Nice easy morning. Just take what you
need."

"You think you're smart, Jones? Well, I've
got a retard for you. This is Private Blah. Say hello, dingbat.
Private Blah does not know how to fold his underwear, Jones. He
turned his socks blue in the laundry, Jones. But he can' t help it,
because he's retarded. So I'm leaving it up to you, Jones. Since
Private Blah, here, can't take care of himself, I am holding you
personally responsible for his hygiene. Is that understood? You
better hope he showers, Jones, but if I catch you anywhere near
that male latrine every dang-blasted female in this platoon will be
smoked into the next week. Is that understood? If there’re any gigs
in his wall locker it's on you, Jones, because Blah, here, is
retarded." 

His laughing eyes were bright and the sky
was blue. "Flashbacks! That's it, isn't it? You can' t say the
sog-silly Soldier's Creed because you are a drugged-up hippie.
You're ate up like a soup sandwich because you smoked so much
reefer when you was a civilian punk. Isn't that right? I bet you're
seeing squirrels in the clouds and fire in the guidon. Isn't that
right? There you are trying to spit out my precious creed, and your
past life is just sneaking right up to getcha. Every action has an
equal and opposite reaction. Don't you see that now? I had my day,
don't you worry about that, but you better rectify those flashbacks
and know that creed inside and out, Jones. Oh, you think I'm funny,
do you? A regular comedian, am I? Well I'm not. I'm a soldier, and,
like it or not, so are you. Memorize that creed! Flutter kicks 'til
you lock it in." 

"You know Larry Bird, Jones? You from
Indiana, ain't ya? Well, dang, why the heck don’ t you know Larry
Bird then? PUSH." 

"I better call my insurance agent because
apparently a tornado swept through here. Do you call this a wall
locker, Jones? It's disgusting. What would your mama say? Do you
think your mama would be proud of this? Do you think I should call
her and tell her that you're nothing but a worthless slob? What's
her number, Jones? I'm going to give her a call. I think she should
know about this."

"Oh, did that hurt? Do you wish you had your
Kevlar, Jones? Soft caps are a lot lighter, but when you bring that
weapon right down on your skull, it does sting, doesn’t it? Let me
see a tear, Jones. Females are supposed to cry, you know. It's
okay. I understand. I know it hurts. Maybe we can go in the office
and talk about it over coffee. Wouldn't that be nice? Oh, it would
be. Just give me one. You've never felt pain like that, have you,
Private? It's the kind of pain that goes straight to the tear
ducts, isn't it? Especially in females. Oh, you're pissed off now.
Good. Stay that way."

"'Attention to detail; Teamwork's the key.'
Soldiers, when you are doing pushups in my presence you better all
go down at the same time and you better all come up at the same
time. You better work together, 'cause it's your buddy that's going
to be the one to save your butt when the crap hits the fan. You
better know you can count on him. And if you can't you better
square him away. When you go down you all sing like my son's little
church choir. 'Attention to Detail.' And when you come up you say,
'Teamwork's the Key.' What's so tough about all that? PUSH!"

LIFE UNDER THE
TRAMPOLINE

But maybe I have a self-destructive respect
for those things too obscure to be recognized.

I think of my favorite flowers. Not a vase
small enough to hold one unless mist or dew in a fallen cloverleaf
twist could be such a thing. Pin-prick flowers, white with blue
even sigh-stripes painted so whim-tiny that my eyes blur with
concentration. They are so hard to hold in my huge overweight
hands. There are pink flowers like this, too, and I vaguely
remember a yellow. All hiding easily under the short mown grass.
Flat faces up to the sun. Smart enough to avoid it all but never
drawing attention. Just reassurance for the poor soul looking too
hard.

Maybe, though, these
beauty-bits are the poor soul's downfall. After looking down and
hard and sad and forever he or she sees such minuscule beauty. Such
a fleck of blue attraction; then why look up? The poor soul ends up
wasting the life bent in the search, never seeing more than what
couldn't possibly exist. And always thinking:
How clever that it can be so perfectly something.

I just wish I didn't have to survive so hard.

DOLLAR STORES

There was a woman in my
hometown with a garden full of artificial flowers. They were faded.
It was like a wax world of
could-be
s: those terrible colors of
sun-bleached plastic that grew and changed with the seasons
anyway.

DIVIDED
CULTURES

The issue of race is a painfully infected
gash in the flesh of our trying-so-hard-to-heal culture. Black and
white have almost made a peace that seems only to allow new brown
animosities to flourish. I cannot decide where I am amidst it all.
Raised in a little white town I do not think that I have the same
prejudice as individuals raised in less segregated places. My
prejudice is toward the people with prejudice. And who aren't they?
So hard to learn about this fissure. So personal. So ugly. So silly
and real.

There is an outcropping overlooking the
infected gash. The canyon is beautiful in its complexity and
enormous expanse. Many gaze at it in awe. At sunset it is
breathtaking. Those who travel to its core are intrigued guests of
a complex labyrinth. This is the beauty, which comes as acid edges
glass.

Racism is water (a torrent, a trickle) and
society’s flesh is rock. So the flesh is pained, weakened, left
perforated and unconnected to itself.

Individuals stand afraid of erosion.
Whispering statistics. Backing away from the edge in fear.
Cautioning their children with lies.

Groups pack themselves as close as possible
to avoid edges which might break away under them.

There have been many well-intentioned fools
who have stood on one side of the canyon and imagined life on the
other. Well-intentioned for their vision. Fools not for faith,
conviction, hope, or belief in justice but for calling the gaping
hole nothing but a crack. Stepping out as though their two legs
could bridge immensity. Falling hard. Dying hard. And so many
wishing they weren't fools. Wishing it could have happened. Wishing
they didn't have to die.

But when I was standing with them listening
to hopeful and hateful talk of multiculturalism and affirmative
action I picked up a fistful of dry sand and let it fall into the
space between where we stood and the place we would like to be.

And my handful of sand dropped into the void
did not become a bridge solid for passage. My sand did not fill
wounded hearts or apologize to those wronged by averted eyes and
quiet neglect. My sand drifted nowhere into almost nothing.

Why move enough sand? It would take too
long.

Meanwhile, I will not be a fool and take a
step into the nothing. And I will not allow myself to be pushed
from behind by an overeager half-blind-with-belief throng. And I
will feel bad I'm sure. But I will not be persuaded no matter how
noble I feel it could be to try. What good will it do to perish for
a cause?

Because soon it will happen that they move
too close to the water which shifts with unguided malice over the
rocks. And by looking too far ahead (seeing calm rippling glass
streams instead of the violent white thrash beneath them) to a
place not yet lashed together they will succumb.

And I pity them because their voices are so
loud and if their hands were as strong there could be cleansing of
the sickly wound and sutures made secure by black, white, and brown
commonality or laughter and in time a scar would be left solid for
us to cross over.

Too solid to be eroded by water and a
warning too ugly to be forgotten.

SUICIDE

The oak leaves

are holding on too

tight again.

I suppose to avoid

spinning away into

the nothing they feel

surrounding them.

That unknown of life.

On the tree,

high in the air,

down is so much

closer than up.

So the choice is made,

or strength weakens,

or whatever,

and the oak leaves—

even the oak leaves—

fall, each on top of

another. And winter ends. Glad

not to be falling. Glad not to

be alone. And only

beginning to realize

they've lost the

nothing to surround them.

BIRD SONGS &
OYSTER PEARLS

Beauty is defense. Bird songs, peacock
tails, oyster pearls, soldiers' uniforms, executive offices, and
emperors' jewels, or these words and her used-to-be music. At least
that's what my mother told me. And mothers, defensive or not, are
so often right.

So much is said about the Constitution and
its various amendments. It seems there are beautiful amendments
like diamonds and rubies. But tonight I found what might be fool's
gold.

Amendment IX: The enumeration in the
Constitution of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or
disparage others retained by the people.

Very shiny. Where is the worth? Is it in the
admission that a written document cannot possibly fathom the realm
of human experience? Or is it that this strange short sentence
undermines the rest of the document by deferring to the people who
are writing it? It is beautiful, but if it were a computer program,
I don't think it would work.

THE MISSION