1st Lt Prifogle’s Blog

“You married or single?” Ali asks me bluntly. I am in Iraq wearing a flak jacket and Kevlar helmet and do not feel feminine at all. I am not surprised when I am greeted as “sir” in all my gear so this question takes me off guard. I have just introduced myself to Ali, an Iraqi contractor from Baghdad.

“What?”

“Are you married? With husband? Or single.” He asks pointing at the gold Claddagh ring I wear on my left hand.

“Oh, I’m single,” I reply and immediately add, “I have a boyfriend.” This is a lie. I bought the ring in the Shannon Ireland Airport on our trip, to Al Asad Airbase, Iraq.

“Are all American women as beautiful as you are?” He asks leaning close to me and making me extremely uncomfortable.

“Yeah. I’m pretty average.” I answer and start to walk a little further away.

Ali and three other men from Baghdad have driven across the desert to deliver 6 pick-up trucks, 2 SUV’s and 2 vans for a six month lease. US Military contracts are using Iraqi companies more frequently in accordance with the Iraq First Project, in order to rebuild the Iraq economy. This is my first contract and while I see Iraqi Soldiers around base, my interaction with them is very limited.

“In Iraq the culture is different. The women stay home. Make babies. You make babies after Army, No?”

He’s already asked where I went to school, what for, why I joined the Marines, and how much various items cost in America. We are waiting for the other men to get badges from PMO (Provost Marshal’s Office). After all the questions he’s asked, “you make babies?” takes me off guard.

“No. I don’t make babies,” I tell him.

“But you have boyfriend. You make sex with boyfriend?” He asks looking up to me. He is shorter than I am (at 5’ 11” this is normal), wearing dress slacks and a striped collared dress shirt. He looks like an average businessman. In America this question would be sexual harassment, but I’m not in America and we are both simply learning about one another’s culture.

“Do you have more than one wife?” I boldly ask to divert the question I don’t

want to answer about my sex life (or lack thereof).

“I have one wife and a young friend. Do you marry boyfriend and make babies

and cook? That’s what my wife does. She takes care of the children and house.” He asks, putting the spotlight back on me.

“I don’t want babies. I don’t want to get married either.” I say firmly.

“Why not? You make good wife, no?”

“No, I can’t cook and I don’t want babies. I’d make a terrible wife.” I answer smiling. I feel less threatened by this man and he stands back, respecting my personal space.

In order to be on base these contractors must have a background check. This is done using a retinal scan because many of the contracted workers have worn off their fingertips. They also must haven a military escort. The Major and Sergeant who are also escorting the men are more cautious, walking with their hands on their weapons and watching the men closely. I figure the men have been searched and checked by the military police and the only threat they pose to me is asking questions about making sex with boyfriend.

We climb back in the caravan of vehicles and drive to the flight line in a slow procession. I wonder if I am naïve or if these men really are a threat. This is their country and they are prisoners of this war being treated as though they are all insurgents. These are men trying to put food on the table. Then again over 4000 servicemen and women have died in this war.

We arrive at an area suitable for unloading and pull over. As his men offload the vehicles Ali approaches me again.              “So, if your boyfriend says I love you?” He holds out his hand signaling my response.

“If I love him, I’d say ‘I love you too’,” I say.

“And if he says ‘I want to marry you’?” He asks.

“I’d say no and then leave.” I say, matter of factly.

“What!” Ali looks as shocked as I felt when he asked ‘you make sex with boyfriend.’

“I don’t want to get married so I’m not going to,” I explain bluntly.

“But you love him,” Ali says, trying to figure out why I wouldn’t marry a man I love.
“That doesn’t mean I have to marry him.” I squint in the sun. Even with $160 Oakley sunglasses, it burns my eyes. I wonder how strange this must be to him. A woman in the Marines who refuses to marry and make babies and is signing a $125,000 contract. One of his drivers starts the SUV and inserts a cassette tape. An Arabic song starts blaring.

“This song is about a man who is chasing his lover. ‘Habibi’ do you hear that – it means my love. She is leaving with another man and he is saying ‘come back to me my love.’” I listen to words I don’t comprehend about a culture and a place I don’t identify with. “You really not want to marry?”
I laugh. “No. Really, I don’t want to marry. I’d say no.”

“In my culture if the woman does not answer the question it means yes.”

“So, I’d definitely have to say “No”.” We both laugh as the sun slowly starts to set over the bleak desert landscape.

The Major recruits a couple Marines to test all the cars engines, lights, radios and VINs of the vehicles, as I sign the paperwork and shake his hand to acknowledge the business agreement. I forget that in Iraq they do not shake firm, but barely grasp the hand. I doubt after our conversation that he is offended by my American-ness. This is his country, his culture and I respect that, but Ali also respects that I’m American and my culture is different.

We caravan back to the gate and the contractors prepare to leave. The Major and I get out to say goodbye. Ali shakes the Major’s hand, “nice doing business with you.” Then he takes my hand and winks, “don’t forget me and what I said.” I smile and wave at the drivers, all smiling and staring at me from the cab. I jump back into our truck. How could I forget this man? The Major drives back through the gate and onto base as the setting sun lights up the sky like a plate of melted crayons – orange into yellow into pink into lavender into blue into desert.

            Why run?  It’s a question normal people always ask runners.  To most people it seems insane that anyone would wake up at 5 in the morning to go run 11.5 miles, but to a runner not running seems insane.  To a runner, running is as essential as breathing and eating.

            Unlike football or basketball running is a natural movement.  We learn how to walk when we are around 1 year old.  My mother loves to tell the story that I took off running when I was 9 months old chasing my older siblings and never stopped.  After we learn to walk, we learn to run.  The movement itself is simple, one foot in front of the other.  This is my mantra during marathons, ‘one foot in front of the other.  One step closer to the finish line.  One foot in front of the other. . .’  for 26.2 miles.  So, why do I run?  Simple, I have to run and I never stopped. 

            Marines feel the same way about taking on a challenge as runners do about running – it’s essential.  The challenges can be something as silly as drinking an entire gallon of milk in one hour or as basic as a pull up competition.  At the beginning of the deployment the XO challenged everyone in the command to run 11.5 miles on 5.11.  He sent out a training schedule starting at 3 miles and building up to 11 miles.  On Sunday May 5, twenty-one Marines of MAG-16 took on the XO’s challenge. 

            At 0500 runners start gathering outside the barracks near the starting line to stretch and nervously talk about what pace each one expected to keep.  When you run a race it’s good to find someone who runs your pace so you can keep each other on track.  At 0530 the runners assemble at the starting line and wait for the signal.  “On your mark.  Get set. GO!”

And we’re off.

            The run route goes from the barracks through the main side of base.  We run by the PX, Coffee Bean coffee shop, the main gym, past bus stops and groups of men and women (both civilians and military personnel) who clear the path as we plow through the streets of Al Asad like a herd of wild horses.  The route goes up to the flight line, passing Ugandan guards at the first checkpoint.  Everyone yells “Jambo,” a Swahili greeting, and flash our ID’s as we pass.  One mile down, 10.5 to go. 

            At 0545 in the morning the flight line is quiet.  The bustling activity of the day past and the day to come settles down for a few hours of recuperation.  We run along the empty road as the sun rises over the flat horizon.  For a runner an endless, empty road and wide horizon with a rising sun is heaven.  As the ‘runner’s high’ kicks in you feel like you can run forever and as you look over the stretch of land you know that you really could run forever.  When the high wears off and you turn the corner from the flight line back to mainside the dream about running forever is over and you realize 6 more miles is enough. 

            At the end of the flight line there is another guard shack.  We pass yelling, “jambo” as the guards wave and cheer us on.  After the gate it is downhill.  The best part of running uphill is knowing eventually you get to run downhill.  Running downhill is the closest thing man can get to flying like a bird.  The earth slopes downward beneath you and your limbs leap through the air.  The ground falls further away and each gallop feels like you are really going to take off this time.  At the bottom of the hill is one of the chowhalls.  Marines, Sailors, Soldiers, Airmen, civilians, and foreign contractors watch as they walk to their Sunday breakfast.  We run by the chowhall back to the starting point.  Halfway.  Repeat it all one more time and you’re done.   Mentally there are a few ways to look at this. 

The defeated – oh my god I have to do that all over again. 

The competitors – ok, I have to speed up and gain some time. 

The enthusiast – halfway done?!  I could run forever today, its perfect weather. 

The challengers – ok halfway done.  Just one more loop and I’ve done it! 

            I change between each perspective with each step depending on how many endorphins are surging through my body. 

            All 21 runners that started – finished.  First place for the males was Gunnery Sergeant Cortez Brown with a time of 1:16:03.  First place for the females was Private Kari Frampton at 1:31:05.  These two winners represent exactly what it means to be a Marine – setting a goal and pushing yourself to win.  All twenty-one runners took on the 11.5 on 5.11 challenge and pushed themselves to finish it under 2 hours! 

On behalf of all the runners –

Volunteers, thank you for your outstanding support (water, Gatorade, motrin, moral support) we couldn’t have done it without you.  XO, thanks for challenging us to push ourselves to reach a goal.  And finally, Runners.  Great job.  Next, 26.2, right?

We all indulge in them.  A glass of wine after the chores are done and the children are asleep.  A piece of chocolate after you’ve been dieting for weeks.  A drunken one-night stand after a messy break-up.  Guys’ night after a fight with the girlfriend or wife.

Those things that we are conditioned to believe are wrong.  The things we are told not to do, but we do them anyways.  We do them because we believe we deserve the indulgence, or the excitement of possibly getting caught.  For whatever reason we give into the temptation, even though we know the consequences of our actions.  We do it and we enjoy it, simply because someone told us we can’t.

Out here there is all this time and all this work and all these rules.  It’s a recipe for a lot of self-induced disasters.  My CO calls it Jack Assery.  At a recent staff meeting he passed “There were two Marines who thought it would be a good idea to climb one of the old Iraqi aircrafts to get a parachute.  The ejection seat went off and crushed half of one of the Marine’s skull. I don’t want to hear about any of this jack assery from our Marines.”

On top of jack assery there is gossip about scandalous love affairs (even though sex isn’t allowed on base, but you can buy condoms at the PX).  There was a recent warning to all the females about a PMO (Provost Marshall’s Office) report of a Peeking Tom.  Tom went into a female shower trailer wearing PT gear (gym clothes) and a USMC issued mask and opened the shower curtain on a female.  There are problems with gang related graffiti, random piss tests for drugs, and health inspections of the barracks (which is the nice way to call an alcohol and contraband search in the living spaces).

And the ridiculous rules.  You must wear a glowbelt or carry a flashlight at night, you can’t run on half the roads or the flightline (which takes up the other half), you have to wear green on green (issued) pt gear in this gym but not in that one, no pictures on the flightline, or the mosque, or the chowhall.  The list goes on and on.  All these things we’re to do or not to do.  You purposely break the rules or you accidentally break them because there are so many it’s impossible to know what they all are.  Like driving down a road which doesn’t lead to anywhere without any signs at all but you are not authorized to go down and you should just know this.  Or running by yourself in broad daylight (I do understand that the MP who said this was only looking out for my safety, and I appreciate the concern, but I think I’ll be fine.).

Guilty pleasures.  It can be as simple as watching one last episode of ‘Lost’ or ‘Heroes’ instead of going to bed or reading a homework assignment already 3 days late.  It can be as scandalous as an illegal love affair or hiding alcohol in your living space.  All these rules do the opposite of their intentions.  They create walls for people to breach if nothing more then the thrill of breaking it.

It’s less than a month until the XO’s challenge 11.5 on 5-11. Slowly and gradually CWO Colter and I have worked up to 9 miles on our long Sunday morning runs (5 miles on our weekday runs). In the mornings the base is quiet, peaceful, awaiting the day to come. We run on our ledge at the end of the world (or at least the base) at 0600 and there is hardly ever traffic. An occasional HMMWV or standard white, pick-up truck will drive by and blow up a cloud of dust that is finer than regular sand, we call it ‘moon dust,’ making it difficult to breathe. As Marines or civilian contractors drive by they stare at us wondering what we are doing and we stare back wondering the same thing. We pass the same guards-shacks every time and wave at the Marines sitting duty. Every once in a while we will pass another runner and nod our heads at one another in a silent recognition. I always think good thoughts to them, wishing that the wind is at their backs and the flies are kept down during their run. I like to think they are wishing the same good thoughts back as we pass for an instant.

Recently, there has been an increase of the Iraqi military on the base. In the world of Supply we bid contracts to Iraqi companies as part of the Iraqi First Project. In the chow hall they sit with the Marines that train them or by themselves. The Iraqi’s have a camp on base separated by guards and fences like many other areas of base. They do not drive on the main roads of the base, instead they convoy across the dirt road that runs the perimeter – our running road. Lately, there have been an increase of convoys that drive by in the morning. They drive the same HMMWVs that American forces do except there is an Iraqi flag painted on the side doors. They drive military trucks with Iraqi soldiers sitting in the back – American forces would not permit this safety hazard. They drive by in their dark green camouflage uniforms and stare at us as we stare at them veering away from the road and the dust. As they pass I take a mental picture of the sight. Some of the soldiers look like mere boys. Young and clean cut, learning to fire weapons and train with the US Marines. I wonder why they joined the Iraqi Army. I wonder about the towns and families they left behind. I wonder if it brought pride to their families or if it was a bold move of defiance. Another truck drives by and the soldiers are sitting on the edge of the overflowing truck-bed. It is a picture that looks like it could be in National Geographic or Newsweek with a headline that reads “Rebuilding Iraq”. Some of the trucks drive by and the soldiers yell. I can’t tell if it’s good or bad, but the infliction in their voice and the leering stares reminds me of construction site cat calls back in the states. I stare back. I don’t avert my eyes. I don’t change the determined look on my face – I just stare. It doesn’t alarm me to see them. I’m surprised at the fact that I don’t feel a threat of danger. Instead it is just a sense of wonder.

This piece is a joint effort for our Commanding Officer’s monthly family newsletter.  My Marines, LCpl Shivers and LCpl Curlee helped write this piece.  I think it’s rather amusing so I thought I’d post so everyone can see the lighter side of life out here.  Kill.

Happy Birthday

On a deployment units become like family.  We work together.  We live together.  We eat together.  We learn each other’s button’s to push or not to push.  We learn the names of each other’s children and spouses.  We also learn to read each other’s facial expressions and the tone in each other’s voices.  Also on deployment Marines tend to find ways to embarrass each other – as in any group of people forced to spend so much time together.

The daily grind can be grueling after a few months in Iraq, but there are occasions to be celebrated here – Easter, wedding anniversaries, birthdays back home and of course birthdays out here.  In Supply, Corporal Marold celebrated his 21^st birthday here in Al Asad.  As a shop we took him to the chow-hall in order to celebrate with family dinner, cake and ice cream.

At a large table at the chow hall the Supply Marines sit together talking and laughing.  As soon as Corporal Marold gets up to get his birthday treat there are immediate whispers.  “Let’s sing him Happy Birthday when he gets back.  Really embarrass him.”  1^st Lt Prifogle says to the table.

“Are we allowed to Ma’am?”  Lance Corporal Shivers asks?

The Ma’am ensures that we’ll be allowed to and she’ll take the beating if anyone says anything and soon enough Corporal Marold walks back over to the table with his ice cream.

“Ready,” Staff Sergeant Sharpe announces to the table.  As she does Lance Corporal Shivers takes an enormous breath with his entire body and prepares to sing with bravado.

“HAPPY BIRTH…” Lance Corporal Shivers belts out louder than anyone else at the table.

“STOP!”  Staff Sergeant Sharpe yells like a drill instructor interrupting a church choir, drawing attention to our table.  “Not that loud, geez!”

Corporal Butler explodes with laughter! After a moment he tries to regain self control but, the best he can do is kick the table softly while smothering his mouth to cover up his girlish snickers.  Priceless.

We continue the song, much quieter this time, receiving even more looks now that we had caused such a commotion.  “Happy birthday Corporal Marold. . .”

Corporal Marold laughs and inevitably turns red.  Lance Corporal Shiver sits with his shoulders slumped down like someone just blew out his birthday candles.

“Shivers, what is wrong?”  The Ma’am asks.

“I just really like the ‘Happy Birthday’ song, Ma’am.”  We all laugh and enjoy our ice cream and cake.

At the end of the table Corporal Butler is still laughing at the whole incident.  He starts to choke on some food and after we realize he is okay – we laugh once again at the shenanigans of the evening.

Everything seems more dramatic in the desert.  Perhaps because the monotony of the days or perhaps the monotony of being around the same people; whatever the reason simple things like singing happy birthday in the chow hall or Corporal Butler’s laugh becomes more and more hysterical after time.  We celebrate, we live, we do the best we can with what we have.  Happy Birthday Corporal Marold.

Oorah Wife- LCpl Shivers
Semper Fi Mom - LCpl Curlee

            “Captain White.”

            “Present.”

            “Major Thompson.”

            “Present.”

            “Lieutenant Colonel Maddox.”

            “Present.”

            “Lieutenant Colonel Walls.”

Silence.

            “Lieutenant Colonel Walls.”  The voice echoes through the silence of the Memorial Chapel.

            Silence.

             “Lieutenant Colonel Walls.”  Now, with an annoyance in each syllable like the sound of a teachers voice calling for a child skipping class.

            Silence.

 “Lieutenant Colonel Walls.”  The voice from the back of the sanctuary announces the name one last time and I can hear tears coming through the Sergeant Major sounding off roll call.  Breaking the somber silence a solo bugle player belts out the notes in Taps as we stare at the fallen Marine’s picture, a pair of boots, an M16 propped up with his Kevlar on top and his flak jacket with his subdued field rank displayed on the chest.  The scene is something out of a movie, only it’s real.  This is all too real for me

            I did not know this man.  This Marine.  This Father.  This son.  This Husband.  This Friend.  But now I am at his memorial.  I wanted to pay my respects to a fellow Marine killed by a roadside bomb. 

            For a moment I think that I came to the memorial for the wrong reasons, or maybe just my own reasons.  I came because I wanted to feel something.  Pain or sorrow or sympathy – anything but a growing disdain for this war.  Anything but this nagging oncoming of nothingness.  This apathy towards life. 

I listen to the words of those who worked with him.

            “Being a Marine, a leader, wasn’t just a job – it was a way of life.”  I can’t help but internalize the words of these strangers.  I zone out as I picture my own memorial.  I try to imagine what people would say about me.

            “He is survived by his wife and four children.”  The chaplain announces to the somber room.  Nobody would survive me.  I don’t have a husband or family of my own.  Would that make it easier for a room for of strangers to accept my passing if something were to happen?  “She’s survived by her parents, and four siblings.” 

            I came here to remember what its like to be sad.  To feel something other then self-pity for my still being here ordering things that are more comfort related items than anything that can be contributed to the war efforts.  I came here to be reminded that I am in a war.  People are dying here.  I came here to feel – I’ve forgotten anything other then anger, frustration, exhaustion.  I forget what it’s like to not be here.

            The memorial ends with a photo slide of this man and his children, his Marines, his wife.  I fight the urge to cry.  I ask myself – why are you here?  At this memorial?  In this country?  In this war?  None of it makes any sense anymore. 

All the emotions that I had forgotten about flood my body and for a moment time stops.  I look at this man’s picture one more time.  I think about his family and the funeral they are attending on the other side of the world.  I think of their children and how they will never know their father.  I think of a woman who just lost the man she loves to war.  I think life isn’t fair, but for this man at least the suffering is over.   

*Names have been changed.

Let me tell you about the sky. It is perhaps my favorite part about being here. You have to picture yourself at home. Just sitting and drinking a cup of coffee – early, long before anyone else is awake. Now, imagine someone putting a giant bowl over you and everything you can see. Now, flatten out everything around you. Take down the tall buildings or mountains. Fill in any lake or ocean with sand. Look around you. There is nothing but endless sky. The color can vary. It can change as you look from one side of the bowl to the other.

Right now in Al Asad, Iraq it is 6:30 in the morning. The sun has been up for at least half an hour. In the morning light to the east the sky is a pale, dirty- white color. There is some light, but it looks like a dirty kitchen counter. Right above me it looks like the sand just picked up and filled the sky. It is a grey-brown color. I can feel the moister and tension in the air as the precipitation delicately decides where to go. It’s as if the band is warming up at a ballroom and the rain doesn’t know whom it wants to ask to dance – this piece of land or that? I see its decision on my computer screen and move into the doorway. I look to the west and instead of seeing a rainbow, which I might be able to see in San Diego or Indiana, I see a ribbon of blue sky rising up from the ground. You can feel the triumph and defeat as the rain fights to land on the ground in front of me before it gets pushed away. Immediately after landing, the dark specks on the ground start to disappear and the sky above me turns a cotton candy shade of blue. Birds start to come down from the trees and look for food. The threat of rain has passed. The smell of wet dirt lingers in the air for a few minutes; the wind picks up and takes the scent with it. All evidence of the morning sprinkle fades as buses start to drive down the road in the distance. There are a few bikers and trucks on their way to work now as the day begins just like every other day.

The aroma of fresh brewed coffee drifts out towards where I am sitting. I don’t move. I take a few minutes to take it all in. I woke up over two hours ago from a pleasant dream. It wasn’t until I walked outside in the dark and looked up to the sky and saw every single star in the galaxy that I remembered, “I’m in Iraq.” It wasn’t until I felt the rain on my hands as I typed that I remembered, “I’m in a desert.” It wasn’t until just now, writing this that I remembered how beautiful the sky is.

I’m sitting outside. It’s 0924 AM on my computer – California time. That means it’s 1924 (7:24 PM) here. I am sitting outside trying to get a connection to the wireless Internet. The cool air blows my hair in my face. I always let my hair down at night. Try to remember what it is like to be a woman. Two Marines or Soldiers (can’t tell in the dark) ride by on bikes.

“Hey are you going to call up and see if there’s mail?” I don’t hear a response over the generators in the back of the building. That is the soundtrack of the evening. I hear occasional footsteps of people coming and going out the gate and to the shower-house, but otherwise it’s a rather quiet out.

Quiet except, I am restless. A combination of loneliness, caffeine, exhaustion, sadness, adrenaline, sleep deprivation – all of it.

Another HMWVV pulls out to go on a convoy.

I remember that tomorrow is a memorial service for Major that was KIA. I remember in the calmness I am in a combat zone. This is easy to forget. Like all things daily chores become habits – clearing a weapon on the way into the chow hall, wearing a flak and Kevlar from the barracks to the office, running with a knife on me, practicing IDF (indirect fire) drills, all of it seems normal. Waking up in Iraq seems normal anymore.

More friends I have made out here are going home. This makes me sad. I am at the halfway point. This makes me sad. I can count down the days but I can’t count anything I feel I have done that will make a positive influence on anything. This makes me sad.

Another truck drives by and another. I wonder when my friend, Achilles, is going to stop by after chow. I don’t want him to know I’ve been crying, but I want a hug. I need to feel the warmth of another human being. Need to feel my own warmth against someone else.

I think this must be the breaking point. I have no emotions, but I can’t stop crying. I try to hide it because I’m a Marine. I should be tough. I don’t need to prove I’m tough to myself anymore – so I cry when nobody is looking. I can’t think of any one thing making me sad.

I have lived abroad before. I have been far away from everything familiar. In some ways being on an American base is more like being home then living abroad.

One of my Marines walk by, “Ma’am what are you doing outside?”

“Just enjoying the air and internet.”

“Oh, seems funny seeing you out here. We’re watching a movie if you want to join us.”

“Okay, I might. I’m just relaxing right now.”

He walks away. I am left alone again.

I don’t want to be here. I want to be as far away as I can possibly get from this place. This base. This desert. This building. This everything. I want to run until there is no desert left. No war. Nothing. I can’t think of anywhere I want to be though. I don’t want to be home. Don’t want to go to California. I don’t know what I want.

A group of Marines walk by. I count seven. I hear them before I see them. They don’t see me hiding in the dark. I watch as they walk in front of a floodlight on top of the barracks. Their bodies are silhouetted in the light. I can see the outlines of their rifles hanging from the sling on their body. I think again – you are in a combat zone. The temperature drops as another HMWVV drives by. The flood of emotions from the day wreck into my body and I think, you can probably fall asleep now.

I wake up. I barely open my eyes and the light in the room burns my eyes. I rub my eyes and hope I am not getting another eye infection from wearing my contacts while sleeping. I don’t think I could explain more scar tissue on my eyes to a doctor. My eyes burn and I rub them as tears roll down my cheeks rewetting the lenses on my eyes.

Where am I? I wonder before opening my eyes again. I’m not at home with Megan and Mom – that must have been a dream. Yes that was just a dream. I let myself go back to sleep for a split second. Maybe going back and ending the dream will stop the confusion. Then it hits me. Not like the proverbial truck, more like when you cut yourself shaving and don’t notice until the hot water burns the spot where there is no longer any skin. More irritating than anything else. I’m still in Iraq – and I suddenly wish it was a real truck hitting. I try desperately to go back to the hazy lucid dream I was just in. I knew it was a dream in my dream, which made me enjoy it even more. I suddenly remember standing on the ruins of an ancient civilization in my dream. I imagine the ruins my subconscious created in my mind. I try so hard to go back into the REM sleep but my body is done resting now. I look at the clock it’s only 1130. I came back to my room an hour ago. I must have fallen asleep, but I don’t even remember lying down. I take note that I need to start taking better care of my body.

I am pissed. I don’t want to go back to work. I don’t want to go to chow. Paralyzed is maybe a better word. I try to tell my body to move. I try to force neurons from my brain to my limbs, but nothing happens. I think of Dave, my friend and co-worker, who said in the last meeting our department had (this one disguised as a ‘leadership forum’), “There are plenty of reasons to be pissed off out here. Hell just being here is enough to piss someone off.” I think about this for a minute. Yeah I’m pissed off . . . just being here.

I don’t move. I can’t move. My body isn’t responding to anything but the increasing rage. Why am I even here? I ask myself.

This is trouble. When you get to this point it’s like asking the meaning of life to a rock. The rock doesn’t seek meaning, it just seeks existence.

I think about my Marines. I could have been murdered and they would just continue doing their jobs assuming I’m doing something somewhere that’s keeping me out of the office. They would cover the phone calls, “Sir, she’s PTing. Can I take a message?” Or “She’s out at the flight line right now.” Or “She’s not in. . .” They are great at taking messages, even if I’m sitting at my desk.

I try to pinpoint my anger. Am I pissed because something woke me up? It was such a pleasant dream. Am I pissed every time I wake up because there’s never enough sleep? Am I pissed because the temperature is rising and the sun is getting brighter everyday? Is it because Allen broke up with me? The first sign that life goes on without me. Now I have to deal with a broken heart in Iraq.

I don’t know why, but it seems every morning I get angrier. The opposite of the day – my temper gets shorter as the days get longer.
I let the temporary paralysis take over my mind and body. I feel like crying and screaming simultaneously, but my brain doesn’t send these neurons either.

Suddenly out of the 2,370 songs on my IPOD a Bob Dylan song randomly plays. Music has a magical ability to take me to the last place I was when I heard that song.

This was the song I was listening to on my way to PT at Ground Supply school. I was living in Wilmington, North Carolina at least 45 min away (more if you drive the speed limit). It was one of those perfect summer mornings where the sun was still on its way up and the dew lay thick in the air making each breath stick to your lungs like swallowed bubble gum. I had my windows down and I was driving in my bug. It was a split highway and at 0430 all four lanes were empty. I was listening to a movie soundtrack and this song came on and with my windows down, and the sunroof open I was enjoying the freedom of life – the freedom of being late and not caring, the freedom of driving along an empty highway, the freedom of being in control of my life. Not even halfway through the song I saw lights flashing in my mirrors. I looked down as I let off the gas and noticed I was now going 76 in a 55. In an instant all that freedom was replaced with a rule I had broke.

I got a speeding ticket that morning and ended up late to PT. Our Captain was singing cadences on our run and sang the ‘Cops’ theme song only inserted my name in the cadence.

I laugh as I listen to the harmonica play out of my computer. I remember the freedom of driving on the endless highway that morning. I remember the freedom of falling in love that summer. I remember the freedom of the endless possibilities life had for me.

The song ends and I remember I’m in Iraq. As the memory fades I think to myself, I was probably pissed off that morning too. It was a pt (physical training) morning, which meant I had to wake up and leave Mark in the warm bed at 4 A.M.

My dad used to tell me, “You have a choice. You can choose to be mad, or upset, or pissed off or you can choose to be happy, and not to let things bother you.” I don’t remember what I was mad at the day he told me this, but I remember it made me even more upset to hear him say that because I can’t control my emotions. I am controlled by my emotions. A prisoner of myself.

He’s right. I can be pissed off all day. Or I can make the best of this. It’ll be over soon enough and like life I will one day wish I had made the best of it. I try to pep talk myself into getting out of bed. It doesn’t work. My body doesn’t respond to my mind. Ok, Libby you HAVE to go to work. I roll over and fight back tears. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be like this. I want to go home. But where is home? I don’t want to go home. I want to go on an adventure. I want life to take over. I don’t even know what I want.

I get up and cross the street. “Good afternoon, Ma’am.” Two of my Marines sit working away. I just look at them and finally respond. “Good afternoon, what all have I missed this morning?” They fill me in on who called, what they are working on, etc. etc.

I am constantly amazed by their attitudes. They always act happy to be here. They are all making more money then they ever made. They are all 19 to 22 years old. They have made it out of their hometowns with something to write home about. I envy their naivety. I envy their attitudes. I know within the hour just being around them my attitude will change. Yes, I can be pissed. Dave’s right. There is enough to be pissed off about out here. Dad’s also right – it’s a choice.

Perspective.

I sit in my office on another Al Asad morning. My Marines are still asleep. The office is quiet for a change, but I know it’s only a matter of a few hours before Marines, Sailors, Soldiers, civilians, just about anyone you can imagine on this base coming or going through our warehouse-office door. I sit and remember I am at war. Then I remember how many of the folks coming through the door are coming just to chat or bring us crack-in-a-can known as Rip Its and Shock Coffee Triple Lattes. I think of all the Marines who we support who don’t come by to ask for anything, just come by to say hello and escape from their jobs for a few minutes and I smile. I enjoy the company the day will bring.

In the early morning I look over the pictures on my computer and on my wall. I miss my family. Rebecca, My Bug, my Paige. I miss the sound of children – the universal sound of hope, beauty, and innocence. I get to work and get distracted before I even start. I open up internet explorer – the biggest time stealer in the world. I need an address so it’s a legitimate query this time. I type in the words “Ould Sod” and the search engine brings ups pages about the local pub back in San Diego. I write the address down and think to myself, it’s already 5:30 I really need to get some work started. I’ve already wasted an hour just waking up. I don’t get to work. I hit the ‘view photos’ link on the page. I look at old pictures of Mick and Tony with funny haircuts and other patrons who have celebrated deaths and births and passing time with a pint of Guinness in hand. It’s more then just a pub it’s a family. I find my girlfriends in the pictures. Bloomsday 2007 pub-crawl. I remember that day. I was fighting with my friend Lisa and she randomly text’d me. Her drunken gibberish forced us to talk again and make up. I remember Jill calling while I was in LA. I laughed at her babbling and listened to her stories of how much fun it was. I was stuck in traffic driving back to my friend’s house after a long day of classes. It was Saturday. I remember being pissed off because I was stuck in traffic and not there having one last pint.

I know the feeling of missing it. Always, missing it. At home I miss dance recitals, piano recitals, birthdays, holidays. With my friends I miss pub crawls, weddings, birthdays, deaths. I go through other picture Albums “The Ould Sod goes to Petco Park,” “Bloomsday 2005” and earlier pictures. I try to remember where I was in June 2005 – Officer Candidate School. I had no idea my life would lead me to a pub in San Diego and then to war to miss it. I look at older pictures on the site. The faces are the same – younger and thinner, but the same jovial smiles. I wonder where I’ll be in another three years. Maybe in San Diego, maybe not. This is the longest I’ve lived in one place since I left home at 18. It’s always been six months here onto the next adventure. Six months there moving again. I’m now 26 years old and still have no desire to stay in one place. I start to think about the friends I made in Scotland. I remember how terrified I was of moving there for six months. I left with a blank passport and two full suitcases and came back with a desire to never ‘settle’. I still keep in touch with my friends although now time has separated us more than distance. I look at my cork board with pictures of my friends from New York City, school, home, San Diego. I miss them all in a way that I hope they are doing what they love at this very moment. I hope when they think of me they don’t worry, but assume I’m having one hell of an adventure. That’s what I think of when I think about them. They must be doing what they love and it keeps them too occupied to keep in touch with me. It’s better to think this way.

I try to get to work again and realize I haven’t emailed Jill in a day and a half. I don’t email my mother but once every few weeks, but Jill keeps me updated on the lives and times of everyone in San Diego and I feel like I’m still a part of it – like I haven’t fallen into the black abyss of deployment – so we write almost everyday.

I write Jill and get back to work. Not too long after I get my focus back my Staff Sergeant walks in from her morning run. I didn’t see her at all yesterday and she says the first thing she says every Wednesday, “Ma’am! I haven’t seen you in days.” I laugh because Tuesdays are filled with meetings and training. She sits down at her desk and calls her girls and her husband. Every morning starts like this.

I start to fall asleep, so I walk outside to stretch my legs and see if the sunrise is worth chasing down to get the perfect photo. I walk back in check to see if Jill is still up and working on the other side of the world – emailing me back equally as distracted. I wait for an update caught between hoping I’ll get a response and hoping her crackberry is turned off and buried under a pile of clothes. I hope she’s at the Sod this very moment having a pint.

Sgt B walks in, “Good morning Ma’am, can you give me a ride to the Headquarters building?” The day has already begun and it’s just past 7.

“I’ll take you Sgt B.” SSgt Sharpe announces from the other corner of my office where she can hide.
I can hear the vehicles outside driving by; 7-tons, armored HMMVW’s, trucks beeping as they pull out of our lot. Yes, another day has already begun. I wonder if someday I will miss this. This quiet hour in the Iraq morning, sharing an office with my SSgt who is more like part of my family now then my chief – I can tell you her daughters’ birthdays and favorite colours. I wonder if I’ll miss watching my Marines trickle in half-awake as the clock ticks closer and closer to 8. If they are here less then five minutes early SSgt Sharpe gives them a look. If they are here at 8 or even a minute late she takes them outside for a ‘counseling’. Will miss trying to catch that perfect sunrise again? The first time I was too busy taking pictures of it to really enjoy it – let me have another one and this time I’ll leave the camera in my wall locker. Will I miss waiting for Microsoft Office to pop up on the corner of my screen with “Jill Klemmens”? I think about all the other places I miss now and how I missed somewhere else while I was there. The irony makes me laugh to myself, because even though I’ll miss this someday I can’t stop myself from missing somewhere else right now. An email pops up from Jill in response to the picture I sent of her on the pub crawl, “Oh geez! I do not need to be on the ould sod website!” I laugh and get back to work. Back to missing the things I miss. “Go have a pint,” I write back and as I hit send realize it’s time to go to the gym – I missed my whole morning.

Things That I Miss (and unfortunately cannot be sent through the mail).

1. The sound of a child’s voice, their laugh, the eternal hope in their eyes.
2. Human contact other then a handshake – a hug, a kiss,
3. Lazy Sunday afternoons.
4. Naps in the sun by the pool.
5. Driving my Bug (I almost miss traffic, but I still hate LA).
6. The Ocean.  God I miss the ocean.
7. Cell phone and my usual suspects to call in a day– Megan, Deb, Jill, Tonya, Mom.
8. Guinness.
9. The Ould Sod.
10. Karaoke with Alex.
11. Shopping (and if you know me you know I hate shopping).
12. Going to the grocery store.
13. Cooking (or at least having the option to cook – that might be a better way to put it.)
14. Being only a plane ride away from home if something happens.
15. Being able to plan trips I’ll never take, but really believe I’m going to go if only for a minute.
16. Bitching about the price of gas, but being grateful for a car and money to buy gas.
17. Wearing make-up, leaving my hair down and feeling like a woman).
18. My favorite pair of jeans (okay this one might be able to be mailed out, but I have no idea where I stored them!)

***

Greetings from the Desert!  I know I haven’t been updating this, so I’m sorry if you’ve been worrying about me or waiting for a post.  Life here has been busy and the internet in my room has been down for about two weeks (I can’t get on my blog from my work computer).  I’ve been doing okay.  Getting used to life out here and doing a lot of physical training when I’m not working.  My running partner has almost convinced me to run Ironman New Zealand in 2 years.  Right now I’m shooting for another marathon in October.  I’d like to get a time that qualifies me for the 2009 Boston Marathon (the 2008 qualifying time for my age group is 3 hrs 40 min – I can do it!). We’re training for a ½ marathon my XO is running in May.  If you’re a runner you know that running is as addictive as any drug and out here you have to have something positive to work for or you will lose your mind in the daily grind.

Work has been busy.  I’ve made friends within most of the squadrons we support and now squadrons are starting to come and go; so the last few weeks have been full of goodbyes and hellos.  Life does that – brings someone to your life for a minute and then takes them away.  I believe everyone is part of your life for a reason; maybe it is me that is in their life for a reason.  Either way, they’re here and gone in an instant.  It’s not normal goodbyes out here.  I’m so happy that they are going home safe and sound that it’s not like saying goodbye at all.  Part of being in the military is getting used to making friends fast and saying goodbye even faster.  I hope each one of them makes it home to find their loved ones well and then make their way to tropical beaches with beautiful sunsets and tropical drinks with umbrellas because they deserve it.  It’s always been hard for me to say goodbyes.  No matter how used to coming or going I am.  Goodbye’s are markers that time is passing and passing quickly.

I think its funny how life can take you just about anywhere and you can get used to it.  I already have some good (and bad) habits.  (The bad being mostly chocolate – please don’t send me any it’s my weakness!!).  I lift weights every morning and I’m starting to see muscles develop that I didn’t know I had.  I’ve been running at least 3 or 4 times a week and gradually adding more mileage and more runs.  I get up at 4 or 4:30 every morning to read or write.  My Marines don’t come in until 8.  It seems early, but it’s nice to have some time alone.

I haven’t been able to go on any more missions outside the wire, but I’m working on it.  I am trying to digest the things I saw and the things we did and write it all down without putting our OPSEC (Operational Security) at risk.  I will post more essays soon.

In the meantime take this away from my trip - Go hug your child, a niece or nephew, a neighbor.  Go look into their eyes and appreciate the beauty, the hope and innocence; those things that are universal to children.  Even in a country at war the children are the most beautiful people I’ve seen.  Their laughter is the most fulfilling sound I’ve heard since I’ve been in country.  Try to live 6 months without a child’s giggle or joy out of playing a game of high five – it’s miserable.  This is what I miss the most and you can’t put that in a box and mail it out (well, you can but make sure you give them lots of water and granola bars to snack on).  So, because I can’t, go hug a child that has enriched your life.  Let them know how special they are and that I fight for them.

On days that I doubt the good I’m doing here or the fight I’m fighting I remember my babies (Becca, Teed, Paige, Olivia, Ian and Malcolm).  I remember the children I met in Rawah.  I remember I’m fighting for their freedom.  I’m fighting for their opportunities to make this world a better place – hopefully one without war and poverty.  That’s what keeps my spirits up on days I really see no point or end to all this.

My Marines are doing well.  They keep my morale up when I’m having a bad day and I try to keep theirs up if they look down.  We are physically separated from the rest of our unit.  We live and work in a little compound known as Rock Ridge and because of our isolation we’ve become a little family down here.  The Marines know each other’s button’s to push or when someone needs to get out of the office for a few minutes.  Their best skill is knowing when to answer my phone; “Sorry, she’s not in right now, can I take a message?”

Finally, I’ve made a deal with my lifting partner.  I told him I was going to send at least one letter every single day (we walk by the post office on the way to the gym).  In the last week I’ve done it, but I only have the address of my family and a few friends back in San Diego.  I guess I figured I’d email more, but the internet is a pain.  I’m running out of things to write them so if you want to be part of this please send your address to Lisbeth_Prifogle@yahoo.com (or a note in the mail).  I’m not doing this to receive mail back (although mail is always a morale booster).  I’m doing this as a practice in self discipline, a practice in writing and most importantly because we have forgotten the art of hand writing letters to old friends.  What is a better addition to our busy day then sitting down with a cup of coffee and reading (or writing) a note from someone who is thinking about you?  To me reading or writing a letter is as good as sitting down and having a cup of coffee with that friend.  If you can’t physically be with that person you can be there in spirit.  Plus, you cannot be interrupted in a letter! So you can babble on about whatever you want for however long you want!  Oh I’m also doing this to improve my hand writing skills – right now I think I could fool the FBI with my ever changing scribbles (seriously, you’ll see – in one letter it looks like at least 4 people have taken turns writing it).

That’s the most current update with me.  Hope this finds everyone in good spirits and good health.  Happy St. Patty’s day!  Make sure you have a Guinness for me and Cheers – to Life!  And all the wonderful and strange places it takes you and people you have and will meet.

Love,
Libby

All-
Good morning (well it’s a little before 5 in the morning here anyways). I just wanted to post a quick update and let everyone know I’m okay. The mission in my last blog went well and I’ll be posting more about it soon. Life out here has been insanely busy which I guess is good because it makes the time go faster, but leaves me with just enough time to work and sleep. I’ll post more in the next few days. Miss you all.

Cheers,
Libby

I. Rivercity.

Rivercity is when we are cut off. Something has happened (usually unbeknownst to those of us on base) and a Marine, Soldier, Sailor or Airman was killed or had to be medevaced. They implement Rivercity so that we don’t contact our families or fellow service members to spread the news, and then they in turn tell someone else and eventually through the grapevine the family of the service member finds out by rumor before official correspondence.

I believe in omens. Believe that there is a higher power that created everything. This being – this hand – doesn’t control fate, it writes it. It doesn’t make things easy for us to see, but gives us signs to help us find our destiny, our path. It challenges us so that we can find the meaning in the journey. These clues are omens. Not everything I see as an omen is always an omen; and there are probably things I have mistook for an omen that are mere coincidence. I will be the first to admit I have made mistakes in this life – plenty of them. Tonight I try to decipher if life is giving me an omen or coincidence. Tonight is the eve of my first trip outside the wire. Tonight we are in Rivercity. Tonight I pray. I pray to this higher being; not to protect me, not to save me, but to let me see my enemy first, to let me see beauty in the world again after seeing the things I might see. I pray, even though I don’t believe in prayer anymore. I pray that this is not an omen. That Rivercity is just a coincidence.

Adrenaline. Combat vets talk about how adrenaline takes over you body. Tunnel vision. Tunnel hearing. Adrenaline stops pain and Marines who have been shot or hit with shrapnel continue through the battle without noticing their injuries. Adrenaline – nothing more then a chemical released from the brain. Adrenaline will make me insomniac. It feels like the night before I left. I couldn’t sleep and I couldn’t not sleep. When you can’t sleep you think. Think of all the things that could happen. Think of all the things you did in your life. Think about all the things you didn’t do. Think like this is the last night of the world.

I make lists. I never manage to keep track of the lists, but the act of making a list commits the list into my memory.

The things I didn’t do:
1. Will – I never finished writing it or had it notarized.
2. I didn’t change the oil in my car.
3. I didn’t end my cell phone contract before I left.
4. I didn’t finish the ‘Last Letters’ to my family – in case something happened.
5. I didn’t leave plans for my funeral. Guinness, lots of Guinness. “Without You” playing. Pictures. Happy. I want everyone to be happy for the time they shared with me, not the time that they lost me.
6. So many goodbyes I didn’t get to say.
7. Run a marathon under 4 hours.
8. Go to Venice.
9. Run an Ironman Triathlon.
10. See the Grand Canyon.
11. Go to Mexico.
12. See the Great Wall.
13. Travel to the pyramids.
14. Publish a book.
15. Climb Mt. Everest.
16. Live in Tokyo.
17.

This list could go on forever. I start a new list. The things I did do:

1. Loved someone.
2. Let someone love me.
3. Hurt someone.
4. Loved someone so much it hurt.
5. Forgave someone who hurt me.
6. Didn’t forgive someone who hurt me.
7. Lived in Scotland
8. Traveled to Ireland
9. Went on a Boundary Waters Trip in Canada.
10. Took an oath to defend the constitution of the United States as a United States Marine.
11. Lived in New York.
12. kept journals for 11 years
13. Ran a marathon
14. Ran another marathon
15. Saw both the Pacific and the Atlantic Ocean
16. Gambled
17. Shot a 240G machine gun
18. Threw a grenade
19. Visited the tomb of the Unknown Soldier at Arlington Cemetery.
20. Held a newborn baby minutes after she was born.
21. Started working on my Masters Degree
22. Served my country in a time of war.
23. Wrote every day.
24.

This list could go on too. I stop for no particular reason. I am sitting at my desk. Watching my Sergeant prepare her gear. She arranges her 9mm magazines on her cartridge belt and fidgets with the holster wrapped around her petite thigh. She tries on her Modular Tactical Vest (MTV); alone it weighs over 10 lbs. Add in the weight of the enhanced sapi plates, ceramic plates that are over an inch thick to protect the vital organs from shrapnel, side sapi plates, ammo and a first aid kit – it’s over 40 lbs added to her 120 lb frame. She also carries 7.5 lbs in her M4 (a more compact and high tech version of an M16) and her pack of snack food and water.
I watch my Sergeant go through her preparations meticulously and curiously. This is her first trip to Iraq. This is her first mission outside the wire. She pulls each piece of gear out and plays with it – figuring out what it does and then deciding whether or not she needs it. In preparing we were offered gear from a grunt, a pilot, and other Marines from our unit.

We are also offered advice, “If the infantry is out there Ma’am, just let them do their job. I’ve had Lance Corporals tell me what to do in combat and I followed because I knew my life was on the line.” “Keep your head down.” “Take lots of pictures.”

Sergeant B finishes sifting through the gear. She wears her combat load as she looks across the room and asks, “Ma’am, do you want to look through this?” She sounds confident and looks ready and I wonder if the same thoughts about Rivercity are going through her head – Is it a sign or coincidence?

The First Sand Storm

Living in this dessert is something that most American’s will never experience. Personally, I wouldn’t mind going without the experience myself, but life had other plans for me.

We had our first sandstorm yesterday.

A cold front had crept in over the last couple days. It had been getting warm enough to go running with only a t-shirt, but the temperature started to drop and the wind picked up momentum. About midmorning the wind started howling with more force then I have ever heard wind howl. Over here there is nothing to stop it – no skyscrapers, no forest, nothing. Just barren land. Out here the wind is completely free, unlike the human inhabitants (or at least those of us restricted to base).

I like to think the wind is a spirit. It travels the world. It is a prisoner to gravity, weather patterns and obstacles. The wind has a very particular role or mission it must accomplish. In the desert this spirit is free. Here there are no chains. It can dance under the stars or just lie under the sun. It is not restricted by its duty or its obstacles. In my 13 mile prison cell there are many days when I daydream about becoming the wind – dissolving into the air and leaving everything in a magical whirl.

By noon I could look straight at the sun. It felt more like a sci-fi movie than real life. I looked straight into the sun and it didn’t hurt my eyes. I looked at it, just like I stare at the moon – transfixed. The fine layer of sand that normally coats everything was picked up by the wind – the perfect dance partner. I think the sun was trying to shine harder to get through the debris in the air causing the whole sky to turn an eerie shade of orange. Before a weekly Staff Meeting our Doc described it as “tangerine,” but our Communications Officer called it “peach.” Apparently they were both hungry. I walked outside and it felt like the children’s book, “James and the Giant Peach.” It was no longer an endless horizon – it was a dome closing in on us. It felt like we were trapped in a snow-globe and wrapped in orange wrapping paper.

After our weekly staff meeting I needed to get away from work for a few minutes. I decided to take a drive. This is what I do when I can’t run – I drive. Either way I have to be moving (even if it is within the confines of a snow-globe). I drove to the ridge that protects base. It is a wall of dirt 50 ft tall. From the top of it base looks like it sits in a bowl. The wall would be a perfect sledding hill if there was ever enough snow. To get to the road you have to drive to the edge of base. If you go any further there is a guarded gate, but if you turn you can continue up an empty road to the top of the world. This is my thinking spot. There are ranges and Marines along the road, but most of the time and especially during a sandstorm it’s empty. I like to drive along the road and look outside of base – nothing. Nothing but space and desert. The other side dips down into the earth and base emerges from it.
Driving through a sandstorm feels like driving through a snowstorm. The air is dry and you can only see 20 – 30 ft ahead. The wind takes its partners, the sand and sun, and together they do a jig across the desert horizon.

I drove down the empty road looking from one side to the other. Desert. Base. Desert. Base. When the road ended I drove back to my shop. Some of my Marines were standing outside looking at the sky and trying to breathe the coarse air. For most of them it was their first sandstorm too. I joined them for a few minutes as the wind screamed past us. As it dodged the warehouse buildings in our compound, the wind shrieked like Sirens. For a few moments I closed my eyes and joined the wind and the sand. I dissolved into the air and flew far away into the setting sun.

I wait for the next sandstorm, so I can run away with the wind again.

Winter in Iraq

When you tell people “I’m a Marine.” There are various reactions. If you are the stereotypical Marine – tall, young, male, athletic – I imagine the response to be, “Oh thank you your service, we’re so proud of you.” If you are the less stereotypical Marine the response is for much different. The response for me is usually “really?” Like people forget that women are allowed to serve. Or maybe it’s because I’m too “girly” to serve my country. Don’t get me wrong people are generally appreciative and respectful. It’s the initial reaction that, depending on my mood, either pisses me off or makes me laugh. Usually this reaction is when I’m far from base – at the pub, or the zoo, or a dance recital, or baseball game. My hair down and wearing a sundress someone inevitably asks “Didn’t they make you cut your hair?”
Similarly, when I was preparing to leave for Iraq most people assumed the weather was going to be hot. Over 120 degrees like we hear about. Like we assume about deserts. “Make sure you drink water and wear sunscreen,” friends and strangers warned me. I do wear sunscreen and drink water, but not because of the heat. It is winter here right now.

Today it is cold. I wake up at 5 am like I always do and go outside. This is how my day always starts. My alarm goes off; I pry myself out of my pink sheets, make the bed (hospital corners), place my pillows in their arrangement and place my teddy bear in the middle. I step outside. The fresh air wakes me up from the stale, dirty air I have inhaled all night in my warehouse room. I do a 360 security check in the dark. I have a knife in one hand and a surefire flashlight in the other. After I check my surroundings before letting myself relax enough to enjoy the moment I walk into the middle of our street. It is a dead end street so the only traffic is coming and going from one of the four units in the compound. I walk into the street and look up to find the moon. The brink of twilight is breaking the horizon and the moon is full in the center of the sky. There is little light and I stare at the stars – it is spectacular. It is in this moment in the day I feel alive. I feel real. I remove myself far from the phone calls and emails and work bull shit and just breath. I forget how far away I am from friends, family, loved ones. It is in this moment when I am nothing more then one person on this base. One speck in this grand world. It is in this moment when I can escape. A few minutes later I realize I can see my breath. I am only in skivvy shorts and flipflops. I stand still for a moment longer – lingering; paralyzed by the freedom of being alive. I have always loved the cold – it makes me feel real, feel alive. I don’t know why other than the cold air piercing my lungs and the goosebumps on my legs makes me feel mortal, which in turn makes me realize how alive I am. When the cold gets too much I go back inside. I retreat back to my room; my prison cell. I open up my computer and check my emails. Another start to another day.

I must admit that I didn’t think it would be cold when I left. Marines warned me, but in my mind it was going to be sand dunes and a smoldering sun. It’s quite a bit colder then San Diego and a few weeks ago it even snowed – twice since I’ve been here.

The day was a normal day. A few days earlier I had told Achilles, my lifting partner, “it’s going to rain.” He looked at me like I was crazy and asked how I knew. I couldn’t explain it. It’s nothing really other then a feeling you get. You can just taste and smell the earth, and the sky looks dull. I can’t describe it other then it’s just how it is before it rains. I was wrong. It snowed. I had the wrong kind of precipitation. It wasn’t the kind of snow that sticks to the ground, but the kind that melts as soon as it hits solid ground. The flakes were huge. The largest snowflakes I have ever seen. It was weird, like everyone else I did not expect it to snow in Iraq.

I went for a run in the snow. That’s what I do. I run. It’s the one consistency in my life. No matter where I am – I can always run. The months before I left I thought of all the things that could happen. I thought of the Servicemen and women who have lost their limbs. I think if I were to loose my legs I would go crazy. I can not make it through the day without running, so I ran in the snow. My skin turned red and blotchy and my chest hurt - like trying to breath through a straw and not getting enough oxygen. I didn’t mind. It made life real to me even in the surreal setting of snow in the desert - the cold made made me alive.

Lost

I watch Lost. I only have a TV and DVD player – no channels. I never watch TV at home, so I’m not missing anything. Here, I watch Lost and I understand. I am on a deserted island. Only there are no white sand beaches. The water in the Oasis will make you sick and die from internal bleeding. The water from the plumbing will make you sick. I use bottled water to brush my teeth. And here everyone carries a weapon and two loaded magazines. The weapons should be on condition 4 – empty chamber, bolt forward, no magazine loaded, weapon on safe. But, how quick can any of us put our weapons in condition 1 – magazine loaded, round in the chamber, bolt forward and weapon on safe. How fast can any of us flip off that safety? How many of us carry around a knife? How many of us have been trained to kill with our hands alone? That’s the difference. And this is real life. This isn’t a TV show. There is no plot. Each character’s actions and consequences aren’t carefully mapped out on a story board. The deaths aren’t precisely planned for dramatic effect. Here – anything goes. This isn’t a set – this is a combat zone.

Still, I empathize. I understand the feelings the characters go through on the show. I understand what it means to fight for every bit of hope you have. Just hope that the reoccurring dream will end. Hope that you will wake up one morning and none of this ever happened. Hope that you can make it home safely without too much damage – mental or physical.

I still do not know if I’m going to be staying 7 months or 13. Our command keeps changing their mind. Either way it’s forever out here. Every day is the same. No starting point; no ending point. The days are like the desert surrounding the base – bleak, empty, hopeless and then a military base in the middle of it. I’m restricted to an area with a 13 mile perimeter. Most of which is the flight line. Some days I like to drive along Perimeter Road just to escape the office. Just to drive. Everyone says its Groundhog’s Day, but it’s not. Groundhog’s day was seven days ago or was it eight? You can get lost in the days. Is it Monday? Saturday? Thursday? Does it even matter? Not really. It’s a day like all the others.

I watch Lost and loose myself in the fake drama. The desperation they must feel being survivors of a plane crash and being completely forgotten. By season two it’s already been over 60 days. By now their families have mourned their loss and moved on with their lives. This is how it feels. By now it’s been over a month and everyone’s accepted the fact that I’m gone. They all said goodbye to me and by now have accepted the fact that I’m no longer part of their daily life. I’m simply not there anymore. I get emails from friends often enough, but now that life feels like a dream. I know they have all accepted the fact that I’m gone. I am lost on a deserted island somewhere and I may or may not come home.

And maybe it’s me who’s accepted the fact that I’m gone. I am the one who has finally acknowledged that my fate is no longer in my own hands. It no longer matters how long I’ll be gone, because it already seems like an eternity. Then, of course, there is the fear that I won’t be coming home at all. I’m the one who has to live with this reality. I’m the one who has to look down the barrel of the gun and face my fear of death. The fear that this is all there is. I’m the one who has to try to keep the hope that one day this will all be over. I have to keep faith that one day I will be back home. The ones I left behind have their own lives. They don’t have to face the realities of war – the fear, the monotony, the fight against complacency. They have schedules to make, checkbooks to balance, kids to get to school, jobs to go to, vacations to plan.

Me, I live on a deserted island. With the other servicemen and women who have left everything behind. Trapped by sand not water. 13 miles of perimeter. On the other side of the fence – nothing. More sand. Miles of isolation. I think this is why the Earth is round because if it was flat we would see nothing but eternity. I find hope in the horizon and the setting sun. A stopping point to the day – to this.

I haven’t been forgotten by anyone but myself. I already forget what it feels like not to live in a state of constant awareness. Not to have to carry a 9mm around and a knife. I forget what it feels like to call an old friend on my way home from work just to say hello. I forget what its like to complain about the price of gas. What its like to go to the grocery store for a bottle of wine or to cook my own dinner and not eat ‘mystery meat’. It already feels like I’ve been deserted on this island for an eternity. I already forgot what its like to have hope. It’s been a month.

I’m the one who put myself on this deserted island. I have access to telephones and internet. I have memories I can visit anytime. I can write letters and mail them for free. I have written letters, just haven’t made it to the post office yet – or maybe I have I just couldn’t drop the letters off. I couldn’t commit myself to the words I put on paper. I just couldn’t leave the island.

This is my present. This is my now. This is my home. Too much of my life is spent remembering the past and trying to figure out the future. This is an exercise to force me to live today – today. Tomorrow – tomorrow. This is just a simple exercise. I have to learn how to find hope in everyday. I have to learn. Maybe John Locke is right – we all came to this island for a reason.

Maybe not. Maybe there is no reason for this island at all.

Part I.

0500. My alarm goes off. I hit snooze even though I know it only gives me five minutes and it is more annoying to hear it go off again then the five minutes of laziness I gain. 0505 my alarm goes off again. I have to pee, but to go to the bathroom I have to cross the street in the dark to go to the other warehouse. It’s not that I am scared; I am a woman and therefore, I am vulnerable in a dark street whether it’s in Iraq or San Diego. I have a shower in my warehouse and my Staff Sergeant has a bathroom in hers. So we both live in a world where there is a constant threat to do the most common tasks – shower and use the restroom. I ignore the fact that I have to go to the bathroom and go through my morning routine. I turn my alarm off, lie in bed for a few more minutes and collect my thoughts. What do I have to do today? Am I really still in Iraq?

Next, I get up and turn the light on. I am completely enclosed in a room so there is no light when I sleep. It feels more like a dungeon or prison cell then a barracks room. I check the fire alarm at least weekly, but there is only one exit/entrance. In the case of an emergency I would be fucked. I keep a Surefire flashlight next to my knife and pistol on my bed stand and use it to make my way to turn on the light. Once I am used to the florescent lights I sit on my bed and pick up the current book I’m reading. I try to ignore the urge to watch an episode of Lost and force myself to read until 0700 before I check my emails. I try to pretend I’m back home – back in my treehouse with no worries except the traffic on the way to base. Just another sunny day in San Diego. This lasts until 0730.

It’s now time to wake myself out of my daydream. I force myself not to look at one of the over 150 pictures on my wall and get lost in the memory any longer. I can no longer pretend I’m at home on a Saturday morning with the whole day to do whatever – shopping, Balboa Park, the Beach, Jill’s couch. No, it is now time to neatly braid my hair, tuck the ends down, plaster the fly-aways down, put on an olive-drab green skivy shirt, desert camouflage trousers and then my dusty boots. I don’t like being on time. If I walk across the street and into the office even five minutes late it makes the first hour go by faster. It lets me feel like I cheated the system. A small rebellion of independence against the rigorous daily grind allows me to think I’m in control of my fate – which I have no control of here.

I sit on the end of my bed paralyzed for a few minutes – I can’t get up and go to work but I can’t do anything but sit there and stare at my watch trying to force my body to move against its will. Ten minutes after eight my Staff Sergeant knocks on my door to make sure I’m okay. I answer it and tell her, “I’m on my way.” She goes back to the office and my body is free to move again. I put on my blouse, clip my secret clearance badge on the front pocket and string my arms through my pistol holster. The last thing I pick up is my knife. I attach it to my grey MCMAP (Marine Corps Martial Arts) belt. I walk across the street into the other warehouse that is our office space.

“Good morning Ma’am!” three or four Marines greet me eagerly with the appropriate greeting. In boot camp they are trained to always greet an officer; so whether I know them or not, wherever I go I am greeted by Marines. My Marines are almost always bright and cheery. I wonder how they kept themselves motivated. I’m curious what they left behind that they don’t let themselves miss – at least not publicly. I suddenly feel guilty for being late and having a crappy attitude. I am their leader. I am responsible for their well being. I need to take care of myself, force myself to be motivated for them. I mumble ‘good morning’ back and go to make a pot of coffee.

After I get my coffee made and settle into my desk it is already 0830 – only eight and a half hours left in the work day. Eight and a half hours until I can go home and watch Lost guilt free.

First thing I do is check my email. Not because I think there is going to be some urgent supply request, but because I know before Jill left from her firm in downtown San Diego she emailed me. Jill always emails. I don’t know why, but it’s more comforting than any other correspondence back home. Everyone else has moved on with their life, doing the things they always do without much thought of me. Sure they probably think of me from time to time and wonder how I’m doing. Jill emails at least twice a day. She listens to me complain about my job, my boss, the crappy weather. She doesn’t say anything except, “I miss you. It’ll get better.” She reminds me that everything back there is the same and gives me the most current stats of her triathlon training. She is one of the few connections to that world I can keep. For whatever reason I don’t mind her emails about everyday life. I don’t get jealous that I can’t be there. I don’t get homesick because I’m not there. I don’t feel guilty because I left. I don’t know why, but I wake up to read her emails.

Shortly after we open the shop people start coming in. They come to put in request, complain about their gear not getting here yet, try to get a ‘hook up’ from us by bringing us boxes of cereal and Rip-It energy drinks. They come to meet the new Lt. It is a constant revolving door of “customers”.

Eventually, I’ll get a call or email that I need to go to our unit’s headquarters building for whatever reason. I drive a mile there past 4 stop signs and three sets of speed-bumps. I park and wander around talking to the few other officers I like after taking care of the business.

During lunchtime I run. At 1400 I make my daily trip to the gym with our Communications Officer, Captain Cook or Achilles. We bitch and complain about the Marine Corps, Iraq, our unit, our jobs and then we make fun other people in the gym. It’s one of the few times during the day I laugh. I laugh because there are some people in the gym doing ridiculous exercises. I laugh because there are older men wearing circa 1983 running shorts. I laugh because after about five minutes of bitching we realize how trite our bitching is and I laugh because I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere in the middle of war that isn’t anything like the movies. I laugh because I am at war – going to the gym everyday.

I go back to the office and sometimes I just sit in my workout clothes. Unprofessional? Yes, but simply I don’t care.

Finally, 1700 comes around and the Marines start to clean, about half an hour later they have to swab the deck so we all vacate the office. They mop three times to get the dust and grime up, but by mid-morning it is dirty again. It’s done diligently everyday because we’re Marines and we have certain standards to uphold. It’s easy to leave unfinished tasks for the day. It will all be there in the morning – waiting for us.

I usually go to the chow hall for dinner. My Staff Sergeant, Sergeant and I are the only ones who go immediately after work. We sit and talk and usually run into our current CO and sometimes our former CO. Sometimes one of us will run into an old friend from a school or previous duty station. Al Asad is now the ‘Crossroads of the Marine Corps’; no longer Quantico, VA. When I get back to Rock Ridge, our compound, I go straight to my room and watch “Lost”. I’m now on season 3 and it’s only taken me a month to watch the other two seasons. I wonder what I will do when this season is over. I usually make it through one maybe two episodes before falling asleep each night. I doze off and wake up a few hours later. I have to cross the street in the dark and cold alone just to use the bathroom and brush my teeth. I walk back and realize where I am again, only it feels like I’m just realizing it for the first time.

At night the sky is amazing. The base is in the middle of nowhere with no cities around. The base lights are minimal so we don’t silhouette our location making an easy target. Sometimes I walk out to our back lot and look up. You can see every star in the sky. Every tiny speck. It’s this beauty that people are usually too busy to appreciate. Too complacent to care about. I look at it, no longer afraid of what could be in the dark compound. I look up and see why the Egyptians believed in their gods. I look up and realize I do believe in a higher being. It’s this moment, in the middle of the night, when I appreciate being in Iraq. I forget all my fears – IDF (in direct fire), strangers, TCN (Third Country Nationals), contract workers – all the men who carry guns. The Ugandan guards who carry loaded weapons and love it when you say “Jambo” (a common Swahili greeting). I no longer feel threatened, but I don’t feel secure either. Simply, I am aware. I am aware of the possibilities of the situation. I am aware of the stars. I am aware of the land. I am aware of the war I am now a part of.

It is not silent – there are engines and generators running – but it is quiet. The construction trucks, convoys of armored HMMWVs, 7-ton trucks and white government vehicles are all resting now. No medivac helicopters flying in to the hospital. It’s as quiet as it gets here. As I stare at the sky and the distant horizon I realize this is someone’s home. Somebody has looked up to this sky every night and always known its beauty. Someone has listened to the silence of the desert and found hope and comfort. I take a breath of the cold night air and while I don’t understand the war, I am one step closer to understanding the people of this land. The people who refuse to leave their homes in the middle of war. The people who have never known anywhere else and don’t have the capability to get up and leave this war. I understand their hope and find it within myself. Hope that I am doing the right thing. Hope that I will make it home. Hope that this world can be a better place. Hope that I am in control of my fate out here.

I go back to my room. Lock myself in and place my pistol and knife back where it goes – beside my bed. I try to sleep again and wait for another day to start, just like the last and just like the next.

The things I was given

To say it seems like an eternity ago would put a value of time on it and out here time has no value. The workday never really ends and everyday is Monday when you work seven-day weeks. So, I’ll say it seems like a daydream ago. It being the day I said goodbye.

The week before I left I met with everyone I had become close to in the last year and a half of living in California. It didn’t seem real then and even now I am waiting to wake up from this dream. As I said goodbye, everyone had something for me. Nothing big, just things to take with me.

Mick, one of the owners of the Ould Sod, took me to lunch and asked me, “What religion are you?” I thought he was going to say a prayer with me and I’m spiritual, but not religious. He replied with his Irish wit, “it’s probably best that way. I want to give you something that has been blessed.” He handed me a pendant with St Patrick on one side and an Irish landscape and Gaelic on the other. “My mother gave this to me when I moved from Ireland to keep me safe. Take it to keep you safe, but I want it back when you come home safe and sound, dear.” I wear it on a gold chain with a smaller charm. Half a gold heart with “big sister” inscribed on it. I never take this necklace off.

Jill gave me a hat. Jill is an attorney who moved from New York to California for “sunshine, palm trees and surfer boys.” We met at the Ould Sod about a year ago and have been friends ever since. She sent me off with a New York Yankees hat. I forgot to pack one and knew that I would need one when I ran in the intense sun. “I’ll bring one tomorrow morning,” she told me when I was having my last few pints and racking my brain for anything I might have forgotten to pack the night before I left. She slipped a note in my pack with the hat and I read it on the plane leaving the states. “I’m not giving you anything sentimental because I don’t want you to be upset if you lose it!” was the first line. This made me smile through tears because as the plane was lifting off from Maine I realized I had never even been to Maine before. Jill knows me well enough to know I’m scatterbrained and most of the time I can’t keep track of my keys, wallet and cell phone. I laughed because she knows me so well. I laughed because even if I lost something Jill gave me she wouldn’t be mad – even if it had sentimental value. She would still love me and probably laugh at the story behind losing whatever it was. That’s the type of friend Jill is. What Jill doesn’t know is that the hat is very sentimental – to me. I’m not a baseball fan, but I know what the Yankees mean to her. Whenever someone sees it they ask if I’m a Yankees fan I always respond with an odd sense of pride, “No, but my best friend Jill is.”

Jill, the hat will always remind me of you. I wear it when I run. It’s cold here and I have to wear layers of clothes, but even now, when everything is dead the sun still burns my pale skin.

Tony, another Irish friend from the pub and bartender, gave me a pendant with the same speech as Mick. I thought he was making fun of Mick at first, but then I realized he was serious and left his bar unattended just to give it to me after I had already left to go home. This one is taped to my journal for safekeeping.

Olivia, my little neighbor saw me pack my teddy bear that used to be a lovely shade of pink, but now looks more a shade of murky off-white from years of love. Olivia decided my bear was going to get lonely. “You can take my bear to keep your bear company, Libby. I have more stuffed animals and I don’t really need it.” She told me as she tried to pack her big fluffy brown bear in my pack. She’s only six. The bear was from her Oma and Opa (grandma/grandpa) I snuck it out of my pack when she left the room in case she got lonely without her bear.

Matt, a friend who went to Al Asad with the same unit, MAG-16, a year ago gave me a neck strap. It’s bright red with yellow letters, “The few the proud. Marines.” embroidered on it. It was given to him from a man who served four tours in Vietnam. The man’s daughter had it while she fought cancer and gave it to her dad. He gave it to Matt to keep him safe and now it is in my front pocket every day keeping me safe.

My sister gave me a book – a journal. She gave it to me on Christmas morning. In it there is a tracing of everyone’s hands and a note. It is a tradition in our family to trace our hands on Mother’s day cards, wedding cards, graduation cards and even postcards. There is always a traced hand and age of the sender. My mom’s hand says “56 years young.” I didn’t even know my mom was 56. I read the notes when I returned from Christmas break and had to move out of my apartment, formerly known as the “treehouse”. Notes like “you’re the marshmallow” and “Red Cream Soda” made me realize how far away California is from Indiana and how far away 26 years old is from 12. Even now I open it up to write in it and flip through the notes and remember how much my family loves and misses me.

My nephew gave me a ring – a little ring that he bought at his elementary school and gave to all four of his Aunts for Christmas. I carry it in my pocket everyday. It has a big fake jewel and if I wore it, it would probably make my skin turn green, but I carry it with me and think of him everyday. For him, I also carry a wristband for the Epilepsy Foundation. It is half red, half blue and says, “think positive.” On my worse days I think of how terrible his seizures, the tests and surgeries were for him and how he went in every time with his head up and is more courageous then most adults I know. I keep the bracelet to remind me of his courage and love.

Allen gave me a video. He made it while I was asleep on his couch the night before I left. His couch always smelled like cat piss, but I fell asleep on it after work everyday despite of the smell. He made the video in his room and left it on my camera for a surprise. It’s only one minute long. Sixty seconds. It’s amazing how much just one minute of time – even in a world without time – can mean to someone. To see his face and hear his voice and to know at that moment in the history of the world – I’m still there. After I watch it I close my eyes and remember. I remember him gently waking me and whispering, “babe, I made something for you – it’s on your camera.” It took me a minute to wake up and I remember the sinking feeling when I realized this is it. We sat and talked, cried, laughed and made love one last time for a while. Sleep was not a priority that night. Enjoying every minute, every laugh, every tear that night was the priority.

I didn’t watch the video until I made the day and a half plane trip to the Middle East, spent two days in Kuwait and traveled down to Al Asad – my new home. The first night I pressed play. Half a world away I watched it and remembered – this is what I left behind, this is what I’m going home to. He is waiting for me. That first night I realized I am a woman in love and a woman at war – I don’t know which is a worse fate.

Even now. I’m used to things. I have a daily schedule. Weeks are marked by weekly meetings and an extra hour to sleep on Sunday. I don’t call. Parents, friends, siblings, they all email and ask if I’m okay and I am, but their voice sounds so far away. I know there is nothing they can do for me now. I am here to protect them, to defend their freedom. They can only send love and letters, because to talk to them kills me. Hearing their voice makes me want to come home. So, I don’t call because it’s easier not to; it’s easier not to write home except to say “I’m okay.” What they can do is accept this and know I’m okay.

But that video. I have my love on video and I can listen to it whenever I want. In the middle of the day I can escape for one whole minute. I can go back to the time before this. I can hit play and remember I am loved and I have that love to go home to.

And the charms. I play with the charms around my neck at the gym and remember the fun times at the Sod. I realize all the fun times to come when I make it home safe.

The journal. I look at the notes and ages of my family and realize my dad is 54 – how’d that happen?

NY Yankees. That hat will be faded from the sun by the time I get home. But I know Jill will be glad it protected my skin and my eyes from the burning sun.

The neck strap, the ring, the letters, the pictures I have them all to remind me what I am coming home to when home seems so far away. So, thank you – for your love and support and all these things to keep me safe. But mostly just for your friendships and waiting for me to come home.

So I made it to Iraq a few days ago. We are now 11 hours ahead of California so my body is still adjusting to the time change, but getting used to it. It’s actually cold and rainy here - which isn’t what I expected, but nice. We have a lot long days ahead of us. I have some funny stories from the trip over here and will post them this week. My Marines are at the chow hall right now and I’m feeling really nauseous right now so I’m going to rest before I start up again. We are in the middle of a turnover with the outgoing unit and we’re all trying to learn all our new responsibilities. My job is much more demanding out here then in the states. If anyone wants to send care packages or letters send me a note and I’ll email you our address out here - we love mail. I do an “I’ve got mail dance.”

Cheers,
Libby

My best friend Cara and I have been friends since the 6th grade (coincidentally she was a co-founder of the ‘I hate Libby Club’ during our elementary school’s fifth grade ‘Girl War’ the previous year). We were inseparable throughout our high school days but went to different colleges on opposite sides of the state. The night before we left for college we celebrated by doing what we always did – bought junk food (pizza, chocolate chips and Pillsbury croissants, jelly beans, candy corn and IBC Cream Soda) and sat in the kitchen talking. It was our “last night of the world” tradition. Whenever a trip or big life changing event was upon us we would always say, “it’s the last night of the world!!” and then we would go through our tradition and live like it really was the last night of the world.

In retrospect it was a silly thing to say - we were not in danger except for where life would take us next. I’ve been out of high school for almost eight years and I’m amazed at the different places my decisions and the course of fate in my life have taken me. It was never the last night of the world – it was usually the beginning of something new and exciting.

Now, I find myself in a situation where it is the last night of the world only this time it really feels like it is the last night of the world. I’m not sure how I’ll celebrate tonight but it will include laughter to the point of tears, ’see you in 7 months’ (no goodbyes), lots of hugs and pints of Guinness.

If this really is the last night of the world then I want it to be a grand party because that is how life should be. I want to celebrate the 26 years I have had without the threat of war. I want to live in the present with fond memories of the past and lots of hope for the future. I want to somehow take the fear of the unknown sitting in the pit of my stomach and morph it into tranquility so I can sleep for the first time in weeks – peacefully. I want to be surrounded by those I love and I want them to know that I did what I wanted to do in this world. I have no regrets and the time I had here was a blessing, not a right. If this is it then I leave with peace in my heart because I woke up every morning free to do as I pleased; graduated college, ran 2 marathons, wrote everyday, traveled to different countries, traveled in our own beautiful country, loved and was loved and had true friends scattered around the world that I could count on at any time in my life.

In high school it was a game, but tonight as I celebrate a different kind of last night of the world tradition and I finally realize what our tradition meant. Any day could be your last and it should be celebrated; it should be lived. That’s what I plan on doing tonight as my last night in the States for 7 months – enjoying and living it like every other day of my life.