Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Escape into memories

Yesterday I sat down at the chow hall by myself. There's something sad about that. There's something hollow about eating a meal alone-- surrouned by people, yes, but no one you feel comfortable enough to share a conversation with. Everyone's hours are sporatic and at different intervals, so it's tough to find the time in eating as a whole unit. It feels like we're a broken-up family now. I used to believe that I would at least have my own family here to support me and talk to while away from my own back home. I see the tired look in everybody's faces. Most of us are worn by job positions that offer no escape.

I ate my prime rib and baked potatoes alone. A Soldier sat across the table a few seats to my right. His eyes dazed into space. I watched him for a minute, wondering if he'd notice. What is he picturing, I thought? It could have been anything. He could have been pleased by random memories or destroyed by thoughts he couldn't word.

He was wearing his gray PT uniform, so I didn't know what his rank was. He looked twenty years old or so. He wore a tattoo of tall blades of grass running from his wrist up to his elbow. I had seen plenty of sleeve tattoos before, but never grasslands before.

"Are you all right?" I asked him.

The daze broke in his eyes. He gave me a half-embarresed smile.

"Oh, yeah I'm okay."

"What'chu thinking about?"

"Just memories. I get lost in them sometimes."

"I hope they're good ones."

He seemed pleased by this. Part of me had feared he was contemplating suicide, but I saw this wasn't the case now.

"They're a strange thing, memories... you know? How they change."

"That's true. Sometimes I'll write something down that happened and then my wife reads it and says, 'That's not how it happened.'"

He gave this some thought. Maybe this wasn't what he had meant, but I felt a need to talk to this lost-stared Soldier. It was awkward. He sat just far enough where I had to project my voice, but close enough that now I felt the need to continue the conversation.

"Memories are a dialectical thing," he said.

Since I didn't know what he meant, I simply nodded. Soon after, he picked up his tray, said 'good talking to you' and left.

I sat there, thinking if I had any memories I could describe as "dialectical." I had no clue what the word meant. I think now that my entire deployment in Iraq will be just like this moment at the chow-hall... recognized only because I chose to write down the small details. This is my life now, and because I can't talk about my job with anyone other than Soldiers with security clearances... and because I barely escape from my office as it is... what else is there to write about? What philosophies do I have to offer? What dialectical memories can I hold and pass on for you to change and make your own?

I have to make my memories, instead of simply recording them. I have to force against the forces of the day and make something happen out of nothing. I would make for a poor historian. I would taint all the facts. I don't think I could be a journalist the way the Army wants me to be-- I would commentalize (and make up words like this one) over every event. I wasn't cut out for journalism, but maybe God will use that in my favor.

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