Veterans Night of the Arts

Veterans Night of the Arts

Veterans’ Night of the Arts
Tuesday April 22, 7pm

Sacred Heart University
5151 Park Ave, Fairfield, CT 06825
Schine Auditorium

A FREE EVENING OF
Poetry, Drama and Music Dedicated to Recovery From Mental Illness and Deployment.

Non-perishable food items, household items and donations will be collected for homeless Veterans.

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1000 Words Contest

1000 Words Contest

We’re accepting submissions!

OUR FIRST CONTEST With a Randomly Drawn Prize of $100 for your writing/art! April 1st – 25th.

The more you submit the more chances you have to win! People who have submitted earlier this year, are retroactively entered.

The VAF is starting a Bringing 1000 Words Project. We want you (veterans and families) to take a picture, artwork, portrait, landscape, etc. that’s yours and write about it.

It can be the story behind your work, poetry, an essay, a speech, one word 1000 times over, what inspires you, anything in that vein. Or even a letter to someone you love/miss. You can write words over your work, as inspiration or just for the heck of it.

We ask that you be a veteran (noncombat included) or a family member. It can be anonymous, or public. Just email us the piece, let us know if you want your name on it.

It’s designed to broaden our understanding of art and motivations, along with self or group healing. It can be happy, sad or anything on spectrum.

We will display some of the work that comes in…

Please share with your friends/family!

The VAF’s second Podcast

Listen to our second podcast as I interview Matt Mack, a combat veteran from the early days of Iraq.  He was blown up by a suicide bomber in a car and lived to tell the tale.  Hear what it’s like to survive and recover from a bombing.

1000 Words

1000 Words

Welcome Home
By Michael Hawley

There’s nothing like coming home after a wartime tour. Sometimes it’s beautiful, yet others have a tragic edge. It didn’t seem that way for us

In 2006, 371 soldiers, myself included, from the Alaskan Stryker Brigade touched down upon the ground in Fairbanks. We were greeted by the cool summer weather associated with sub-arctic regions, but after the simmering desert heat of Northern Iraq, it was a welcome treat. We were “home.”

The battalion I hailed from hadn’t lost a soul over the past year. We’d plenty of wounded, but nary a single soldier had been killed.

Our group was the first wave returning from war, the vanguard. Most of us were single or geographical bachelors, with little family or friends in the region. There was a bit of chaos and furor when one of the men lost their night vision goggles, causing everyone’s bags to be searched, and delaying us hours upon arriving at the hanger.

Enterprising souls had placed beer and liquor on our beds to welcome us home. I ended up with Killian’s Irish Red, a beer I loathed and instead of drinking myself into oblivion at such an early hour, I settled in for a long summer’s nap.

Other men didn’t relax. By noon, one man was dancing upon the Chile’s bar. He followed this antic up by punching another soldier in the face. Luckily, the cops let it slide. It was a mournful sign of things to come.

The following day, awful rumors spread through the barracks, unit, fort, and the city itself that our unit had been extended. Even the 24 Hour News stations had picked up the story.

It couldn’t be true, we were home. Home. How could anything like this be possible, I thought. “Fuck that, I’m not going back.” I said, quickly regretting the words as they spilled from my mouth.

Across the ocean, in the Middle East, men and women had packed their gear, weapons, and even vehicles into storage and they were lined up, thinking they’d be given the itinerary for plane rides out of the desert heat. The news hit them first. Unpack your shit, you’re headed South to Baghdad, for another 4 months.

The news broke fast and furious, but for those of us in Alaska, life was limbo. Generals, politicians, and civilians alike pondered our fate. On one hand, “You’re the best unit there is, you’re going back to save Baghdad,” and the other, “We don’t know what’s going to happen to you, you’re already here.” For three weeks, the 371 of us lingered in the unknown.

Rage, spite and bitterness started wrapping itself around my soul and it didn’t take long for an explosion. I became a walking IED.?.

The third day back, I drank myself stupid and the next day, I’d fought a massive hangover and lost the battle. During stretches of our morning exercise, I spewed grape juice, across the green grass and my PT uniform. Instead of drinking that night, I remained sober.

I’d been flirting with a local girl and watched an argument spiral dangerously out of control across Midnight Mine’s small parking lot. It took seconds to realize it was our men. Pushes, punches and kicks felled a pair of obnoxious locals spoiling for a fight. Regardless of who was at fault, they’d called one of our men a “Nigger” and that was enough.

I remember the fight, well most of it. One of the men who’d been stomped regained his feet, walked up behind a short recon sergeant and punched him the ear. The man must’ve outweighed him by 50 pounds. As the soldier fell, he shattered his ankle, and was unconscious before he hit the rough pavement.

The assailant lined up to kick our man while he lay prone. Without thinking I began to kick him across the parking lot as hard as I could. It was a fun fight, until the posse showed up. Reddot, a white rapper showed up with a yellow lead pipe with tassels and began clubbing us. He clubbed me first, across my lower back, but I stood, and threatened to “break his fucking knees.” I was so calm, he ran from me.

Live or die, I didn’t give a fuck. I was probably headed back to Iraq.

I turned around and saw a half dozen men. I hadn’t noticed them before, but assumed they weren’t friendly, so I began kicking everyone I saw. For ten seconds, it was like a Bruce Lee movie, then reality hit and it hit hard. I was pounded into the blacktop and when I woke up, cops and ambulances surrounded me. The picture above was taken immediately following the fight. Some of us broke hands, others had bleeding on the brain, and the sergeant with the broken ankle was forced to stay behind in Fairbanks for surgery.

The following three weeks were a blur of women, booze, and an occasional painkillers. Most of the 371 returned to combat. Many were shattered, below the surface, including myself.

Thousands remained in Iraq while this occurred, and soon we were reunited in sun-drenched Baghdad. Our boots touched down upon the dusty airfield in Iraq with unseen wounds, despair and a strange sense of brotherhood. If we were going to be fucked, we’d be fucked together. It took me years to heal and in some ways, I still am.

Even when I tell the story, nearly breaking down at times, I cannot convey the horror of having our lives ripped out from under us. To me, there was no escape, no hope and I figured it was the end. Our own suicide mission.

Those four months cost lives. The unit lost it’s only man, Alexander Jordan, a man we’d called a brother, a man who should’ve been home in a just world. This story’s dedicated to him and all the men we lost those final months. You’re not forgotten, at least among us, the unlucky 371.

My world comes crashing down…

Before the Veterans Art Foundation was even a concept weaving it’s way inside my brain, I was an infantryman. Some people don’t know what one is. It’s simply a foot soldier, a grunt, the front line troops.

Like everyone who’s deployed, I have war stories. I try not to exaggerate or embellish mine. For instance, I didn’t kill a hundred Iraqis with my bare hands. Maybe one by knocking out his chest tube. It didn’t look like he’d had a chance, anyways.

Truth be told, I never pulled the trigger outside the “wire.” I had made the choice once and was pulling the trigger as my squad leader stopped me from firing on an Iraqi National Guardsman who’d been tucked away in a window, above our heads firing rounds into the field before us.

The real problems I had didn’t start until I touched down with the rest of the first wave home after our 12 month tour was complete. The three weeks that followed were both the best and worst of my life. I’ll never have another time like that. In some ways, I’ll miss it. In others, I’m glad it won’t happen again.

The powers that be had decided to extend my unit, the 172nd SBCT out of Anchorage and Fairbanks, Alaska. Our unit was to take control of Baghdad for four months. The news spread like wildfire, through the media and eventually down the chain of command.

Soldiers overseas were lined up, ready for their plane roster, in hopes of getting home soon. The CO of the unit ripped the dream to shreds. Panic, anger, and disgust swept through our ranks, at home and abroad.

My own thoughts initially were to stay at home, to ride the surge out. The vast majority of us fought the urge to run, to cower, and to opt out medically.

Coming home from war as a unit is an amazing, unforgettable series of events. Being greeted by family and friends is heartwarming. Unfortunately, most of us had no one there to greet us. We’d been moved north for the remainder of our time in the army.

The only sign welcoming our unit back was taped to a dumpster in a parking lot away from the main roadway. If you strained your eyes, you might catch it. Regardless, our homecoming was bittersweet.

After the news rocked the city, fort, and soldiers (families too) our lives became chaos. We fought white rappers in the streets, drunkenly screamed at military policemen, vandalized, and womanizer. What else could we do but unleash the fear and horror of returning to the unknown of war.

Those weeks, without the fanfare, politicians and anger were the best of my life and I’ll never be able to find that again. Good or bad.

– Mike Hawley, co- founder.

Some wounds can’t be seen.
PTSD can be a death sentence, if untreated.

My squadmate passed on this essay about PTSD and Gun Control

This essay’s 7 pages long, but reads quickly.  The author, interviewee and I served together in Alaska and Iraq.  We’ve all been hurt in different ways from our time overseas.  Please read the essay and comment.  It’s about the sadness and stigma of PTSD.

Will Sandberg

will_sandberg2002@yahoo.com

Veterans Without Arms

Immediately upon opening the door I could smell the gun oil. Directly in front of me was a wall-mounted display case housing various jet black rifle scopes ranging in price and quality. Around that was an early Civil War era photograph of a Union Officer that “Grampa’s Gun Shop” had been named after. Further decorating the walls were an assortment of shooting accessories that were all interesting to look at. There hung old leather western style pistol belts right next to a modern paramilitary assault vest used for stashing ammo magazines and first-aid kits. Blowguns, crossbows, and African hunting knives stood in their place to be ogled by my interested eyes and countless bondoliers, cases, and slings peeked out of the walls and shelves of the tiny Willy Street business. Pretty neat, but of course I haven’t even mentioned the plethora of firearms glinting light about the room with their shiny blued and chromed barrels. This place had it all, or at least a really diverse selection of weapons. Hanging on the open door of owner, Larry’s, wooden display cabinet was a Ruger Mini-14 with a scope being sold for a mere five-hundred dollars. If you had found that rifle at any mainstream gun dealer or sporting goods store they would have jacked the price up at least another two-hundred dollars. As I continued scanning from one gun to another, pistol then shotgun, rifle then carbine, I realized they were all priced incredibly fair and I decided right there that the owner of this place was here because he loved firearms way more than making money off of them and wanted to give others the affordable opportunity to share in his interest.

My mouth watered as I scanned his inventory for a third time and my focus fell back on the Mini-14. “That’s a sweet deal,” I said aloud. “Maybe next time.”  Next time because today I was here to get two .25 auto pistols for my wife and I. The weather had just begun to warm up and I decided this was the year that I would get my wife a gun of her own. In years past she has proven to be a great shot with my rifles, but she never really got overly interested. When we first got married I was home on leave from Afghanistan and wanted to get her a Walther P99, the James Bond gun from “Casino Royale” for a wedding present, but decided to save our money as we would be going to Italy to live on a meager military salary where the Euro was putting the Dollar to shame. It turned out to be a great idea to save the money because we ended up needing it, and as I began to know my wife a little better I concluded that she, and probably most women, wouldn’t appreciate the awesomeness of the P99. So now, years later, I had it all planned out. I would by two little, dirt-cheap automatic pistols of the same caliber, one  for her and one for myself, in order to blast away as a couple and hopefully get her to fall in love with the sport and eventually trade the pistols back in for the expensive, but oh-so-amazing Walther.

Once again I was amazed at how little they cost. “You think they work?” I asked Larry, probing for some reaffirmation that it would be a good purchase.

“They’re guaranteed,” he said in a raspy, older than time voice, putting my mind to rest. “You’ll just need to fill out these forms, and there’s a forty-eight hour waiting period and your background check will take a little while to process, so just call back tomorrow.” The forms were quite simple to fill out. The first answer is ‘yes” and the rest are all “no.” It asks you things like: are you a convicted felon? and: have you ever renounced your citizenship or been involved in a plot to overthrow the US government? “Jeez,” I thought. “There are some real scumbags out there.”

I left feeling pretty pumped. It was going to be a rough couple of days trying not to spill the beans to my wife, but I knew she would be excited when she held the tiny yet hefty chrome automatic in her hands.

The next day in the early afternoon the handguns were in the forefront of my thoughts. I wondered if I should go buy a little case or two in preparation for transporting my new shooters home, but I remembered the last time I bought a gun at Grampa’s, Larry had vacuum sealed my single shot 16 gauge up in plastic and made it into a legal case. I decided to call him and inquire and I might as well check in on the status of my background check. At any rate, just talking to Larry is always rewarding. He’s one of those neat old guys, you know?

“Hey Larry, just calling to see if you think I should bring in a case or two for those pistols tomorrow and wondering if you have ammunition for them.”

“Your background check was denied.”

“Wait, what?” I must not have heard correctly. There’s no way me of all people would be denied a gun. Yet, when he responded he made sure he was very clear.

“Your background check was denied. I don’t know why, but it was. Come in and get your refund during regular business hours.” Then he hung up.

While still in denial, thoughts and explanations began to whirl through my head. Someone must have stolen my identity. Maybe I filled out the form incorrectly. Is it possible that I am a victim of mistaken identity? At any rate this was terribly embarrassing.

I got my daughter dressed and waited a few hours for the gun shop to open so I could go get my money back, but what I wanted was the guns I picked out. As I entered I put my kid on my shoulders to  keep her inquiring hands off the forbidden fruits. Larry looked rather uneasy as he read the receipt and started counting money back to me.

“This is crazy!” I said, “I’m a veteran. You really don’t know why I got denied?” Larry looked at me like he had never met me before, and I could see fear in his eyes like I was raising my voice or posing a threat to his safety.

“I don’t know anything about it.” He said nervously, avoiding my eyes. “This pamphlet contains guidelines for appealing the denial and here is your denial number and here is your money.” He crammed it into my hands and looked at the door. It was my time to leave.

In a second I went from embarrassed to degraded. This cool old guy that I’ve done business with and had the pleasure of sharing in conversation with that bridged a couple of generations’ gap with our common interest has now shunned me as unworthy of even the slightest inter-personal acknowledgement. In fact, he looked so on edge and worried that I felt if I hadn’t left the store right then, he would have triggered the alarm or called the police.

With my daughter still planted on my shoulders I left the shop and browsed through the pamphlet. Among the information provided to explain the appeals process there was also a section listing various disqualifiers that may explain why the denial was given.  Among them were:

-illegal or unlawful aliens

-convicted of a felony

-domestic abuse/violence

-drug use/convictions

-fugitive from justice

-involuntarily committed for treatment of mental illness

“Wow,” I thought. In the not even two years since I’ve been medically retired from the Army the only trouble I have gotten into was a single speeding ticket which I promptly paid.

When I got home I put my little girl down for her nap. I decided I would call the number on the pamphlet labeled “Handgun Hotline” and hopefully I could get some answers before having to go through what appeared to be an exhaustive appeals process to even figure out why I was denied in the first place. I took a few breaths to settle myself after remembering the look in the shop owner’s eyes when I got even the littlest bit worked up about not being able to purchase the guns. “This is a sensitive situation,” I thought to myself.

“Wisconsin Department of Justice Handgun Hotline,” the pleasant woman’s voice said over the phone.

I gave her my name and social-security number and crossed my fingers hoping that she would say something about it being a mistake or at the very least tell me what infractions I have committed to get on the Federal Gun Ban List.

“I’m sorry sir even if I knew off-hand I wouldn’t be able to give you that information over the phone.” She then went on to explain, chronologically the repeal steps that I had in writing right in front of my face. “Do you have any other questions?”

“Yes,” I said, taking a relaxation breath to bring me down a notch before I went on my tangent. “I just got honorably discharged from the Army. I was in for over seven years and I have a Purple Heart. There’s just no way I should be barred from purchasing a firearm.” Boom! What a bullet-proof argument, right? Is there anyone more American than myself, an Infantryman that was wounded in battle fighting for our free nation?

The response was unexpected to say the least. “Well you may have just answered your question right there.”

“What do you mean?”

“You said you were wounded, right? How so?”

“Well ma’am I took the brunt of an RPG blast, got some shrapnel in my legs, and a mild traumatic brain injury.”

“TBI, huh?  Were you treated for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?

“Of course,” I responded, “I already said I was in the Infantry. It pretty much comes with the job.”

“Well,” she wrapped up, “I suggest you take the appropriate steps written in the instructions for the appeal, and in the meantime look up the Veterans’ Disarmament Act. Thank you and have a nice day.” The call ended.

Veteran’s Disarmament Act? The title sounded absolutely ridiculous to me. Out of desperation I dialed my estranged father in Texas who happens to be a licensed antique firearms dealer. His love of firearms was passed down to him from his father who hand-made black powder rifles. It’s pretty easy to see what an impact the tradition of guns has had on our family.

“I told you like two years ago that they were passing that bill.” He mumbled. I wasn’t surprised that he had told me and I didn’t compute the information. Most of what he says, to me, is just right wing  nonsense that I try to block out. “I’ll do some checking for you through the NRA and give you a call back.”

I would do some checking myself and what I found overwhelmed me.  I read the bill in its entirety. I also read forum after forum and many analysis of the act. As it turns out the bill known as HR 2640 requires states to handover medical records to the Attorney General or face punishments such as loss of federal funding. Yes, that’s correct, disclosure of medical records. Can that be legal? It has to be if the Attorney General said it. The numbers were staggering. Over 140,000 veterans’ medical records have been compromised and their names have now been added to a federal gun ban list.

According to an unnamed source in the World Net Daily, “The plan allows names to be entered into the NICS system based solely on a physician’s diagnosis or prescription of a medication: adults who have taken Ritalin and soldiers with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder would be classified as mentally ill and given the same opportunity to own firearms as convicted felons: None.”

“I’m mentally ill now? I will admit that I took a serious knock, and life has been more difficult in sleeping and maintaining meaningfull, personal relationships, but I got messed up fighting this government’s war and it has ruined my life. Now they want to punish me for my selfless acts by categorizing me with felons and the criminally insane? This is a severe injustice.

Post-traumatic stress disorder is a type of anxiety disorder. It can occur after you’ve seen or experienced a traumatic event that involved the threat of injury or death. PTSD has been around much longer than the diagnosis. In World War I it was called “shell shock,” in World War II it became “battle fatigue,” and in the Vietnam War the term was Vietnam syndrome. It’s not hard to imagine the stereotypical “crazy ‘nam-vet” that cannot function in everyday life. However, that is where the misunderstanding lies. Many PTSD cases are so minor and or temporary, that an onlooker would never know by looking at the sufferer. This is because there is a broad spectrum of symptoms felt by those with the condition. Symptoms could be as insignificant as loss of appetite. Also, in most cases the disorder disappears after three months. However, the diagnosis and medications prescribed live on through controversially disclosed medical records and the paper trail of drugs prescribed to fight the disorder.

Unfortunately for us Veteran’s, the bill states that “any danger” not just a “substantial” or “imminent” danger is enough to make you a “prohibited person.”  That means the brave people that were even braver to seek help for their often stigmatized disorder are the ones effected, and the ones who chose to keep the self-destructive condition bottled up inside are unopposed in their pursuit of firearms.

This controversial bill was passed on December 19th when most Congressmen had left DC for the holidays. The party leadership had told them that all the major votes were over and that the only  legislative business left related to non-controversial issues, such as when Congress would return from holiday break, but it was then that the House and Senate passed the Veterans Disarmament Act without a recorded vote.

Of course, fears of battle stressed soldiers are not wholly unwarranted. The news publication alternet.org ran an in depth feature look into PTSD and Iraq veteran Brock Savelkoul’s near fatal, armed confrontation with police in North Dakota. However, the story also mentions several of Brock’s squadmates that went through the same ordeal and are also suffering from PTSD, but are now living productive, although I’m sure challenging lives.  I can support the assumption that many vets come home in need of help, but punishment and alienation can only result in more negative impacts. Furthermore, if someone had wanted to go on a heinous shooting rampage, the legality of obtaining a firearm wouldn’t be of great concern when they could just steal one or purchase one off of the street from people like those who physically bound and robbed Larry of Grampa’s Gunshop in March of last year.

I again look at the pamphlet of doom. The second step of appeals is to go to the local police station and get a fingerprint card taken, but have it first filled out that it is in regards to being denied eligibility to own a handgun. So now the police see me as a liability in their peaceful community. More humiliation for fighting for my country. I decide to call my buddy Mark, a Milwaukee native I served with in the Alaskan Stryker Brigade. While we were serving in Iraq, Mark was shot by a sniper through the chest and almost died. He might as well have not been wearing body armor. I won’t be forgetting that day anytime soon. I remember Mark as the super muscular jock he was in the Army and although we were friends we were also competitors because we were the Wisconsin boys. When I see him now I feel a sadness that I try to not let him see. He is a rough shell of the man he once was. He’s down to 130 pounds, lives in his mother’s basement, has a crooked back, and now has an absolute bitter personality. Mark and I are fisherman and bow hunting fanatics. We also gun hunt. During the fall and winter months we try our best to overcome our regrets of war and his physical limitations in search of giant whitetail deer. We do it not only because we enjoyed it since we were children, but because when were out there sitting in trees awaiting our quarry, the weight of the world that has left us in its dust, is lifted from our shoulders. We are at peace and it is an understanding we have never had to verbalize to one another.

“Mark it’s Will, guess what…..”

“You know, man,” He said, “I am not surprised.” He then goes off on a ten minute rant about the “guaranteed” federal home loan he has been working on for five years. I too have tried my hand at the V.A. loan with no success and gave up when it was clear that it is just another broken promise by the government. “If I was fucking the country up as bad as they are now, I wouldn’t want those who were willing to fight for what they believe in to have guns either.”