When I was reintroduced to the arts a few years ago, people described me as intense. I had an intense military experience, so that wasn't a terribly shocking thing for me to hear. Though I’d happily trade my youth and good health for the honor to serve my country again during a time of war, there’s something wrong when the average taxpayer blindly and thoughtlessly continues to finance the waste of our national blood and treasure. This frames the crux of our challenge as military veterans, how do we open the window to give folks a good look at what this is really like. Looking through the window is not as good as going inside, but it's better than not looking at all. And, for our own good, we all have to look. Now more than ever, we should promote social cohesion through shared understanding. My life before the Armed Services Arts Partnership reminds me of Thomas Hobbes’ – it was solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and wholly devoid of satisfaction. Aside from chronic pain, I suffered from horrific nightmares. In my dreams, the Taliban fights with intensity and resolve – just like in Kandahar. I feel them nearing my position, each step growing closer, each breath drawing nearer, until they’re upon me. In my mind and in my spirit, I’m ready to kill. Suddenly, at the climax of our struggle, I wake up. Powerful sedatives overtake my agitation, and before I know it, I’m back patrolling my dreams in no time. The stupor and haze of medication must never be confused for catharsis. Complicating matters, the chronic physical pain I experience as a result of getting blown up, I found, is sharpened by hypervigilance. Leaving home for any amount of time was deeply uncomfortable, not just because of pain and hypervigilance, but because leaving meant confronting a society that forgot about the wars. Naturally, I grew irate. The price my family paid, the sacrifice we made, was the very essence of life. I’d willingly traded my ability to enjoy life for my duty to serve my country. How could I not resent that? It’s one thing to say Thanks for your service and it’s another thing entirely to understand what it is you’re thanking me for. While we were getting shot up and blown up, folks back home forgot about service and duty, their meaning and purpose. Folks forgot about the social contract. Those of us who served, we shed blood and tears for this country, and now we have a duty to come home and tell of our experience. Everyone else has a duty to listen. Fortunately for all of us, the arts are the perfect vehicle for this. When I was invited to our local Veterans Writing Group, I’ll be completely transparent, I really didn’t think some hippie arts program was going to help. I’d seen all the doctors, tried all the meds, experimented with all the treatments, and none had more than a marginal impact. And it seemed people were immune to any information that might change how they see the world. So, yes, I was very skeptical that arts would have any meaningful impact on me, on my family, or on the community. But then I experienced a transformative power as I heard Joe Bruni, a veteran of the Battle of Iwo Jima, read a poem that viscerally captured my own feelings about the war. Joe’s poem gave words and meaning to a pain so profound that it changed my worldview radically. You see, like Joe, I struggled to understand why my life was spared when so many others weren’t. Fortunately for me and for my family, Joe’s poem reframed that traumatic into a call for action. I was spared to retell; I was spared so that you all could listen. For the first time in years, I felt empowered to explain my experience, an experience that entirely revolved around killing and dying; I felt inspired to communicate the horror of seeing my dear friends reduced to charred chunks of flesh; I felt relieved to share my burden and break free from the bonds of
silence. I didn’t know it then, but when I started writing, I began rebuilding my lost connection to the world around me. That was all years ago. Though I still struggle with pain and nightmares, my life today provides me and my family with a measure of peace and satisfaction. Perhaps because I committed my nightmares to ink, the Taliban doesn’t ambush me in my dreams nearly as often. I got back a greater capacity to live and enjoy life – the good and the bad, the happy and the sad. With this happiness comes an understanding that although not all members of the community appreciate my service, most are willing to listen when given the chance to hear what it’s really like. One valuable lesson I've learned is to always keep my experience in perspective, lest I become callous or unsympathetic to others. Today, I firmly believe that expressive arts programs, such as those offered by ASAP, are an invaluable resource – dare I say blessing – to veterans of all generations. Opening the window and showing people what war is really about can be a surprisingly cathartic experience. The horror in people's eyes, their solemn looks, their teary eyes all remind me that, despite some people’s opinions, it's not me who's broken. In fact, I credit writing for helping me grow into an even more resilient leader. The selfawareness I’ve gained through writing has increased both my ability to empathize as well as my ability to persuade. The man who stands before you today is more a more thoughtful actor, a more confident leaders, and a more sincere person thanks to the arts. In sum, art has enabled me to reframe my life story in a way that empowers me. Thanks to the arts, I am more willing and able to act in a manner that is consistent with my values and principles. Because of the arts, I can continue serving the people I so deeply care for. So today, let me be the one to thank you for your service. By championing the arts, you’re offering people like me a renewed lease on life. By championing the arts, you’re facilitating stimulating conversations that add value to our shared human experience. By championing the arts, you’re promoting shared understanding, cultivating a culture of dialogue, and ultimately strengthening our communities. For this, I am deeply grateful. Thank you.