fear | penfist

“A podium and a prison is each a place, one high and the other low, but in either place your freedom of choice can be maintained if you so wish.”

—Epictetus, Discourses

Throughout my life, my greatest pleasure has been learning. The exploration of what is not yet known is what keeps me here, and keeps me willing to greet the day no matter how it starts or what it may bring. On this day, while I am writing these words, there are some people of whom I am aware who are in prison and who do not deserve to be. Also on this day, while I am writing these words, there are some people who have great power that do not deserve that power. I am primarily talking about the orange man also called Donald Trump, who is not motivated by a love of learning. That is not a crime. As far as I can tell, though, the orange man is motivated by a love of himself. I do consider that a crime. As far I can see Donald Trump’s self-love comes always at the expense of those over whom he has power.

There are many things happening in the world around me today that are cause for concern. The anti-immigration sentiments motivated by ignorance and fear, for instance. I have no choice how anyone else feels about these things, just as I have no influence over how the orange man is going to use his soon to be officially bestowed powers of governance. I choose not to fear what will happen. I don’t like that Great Britain is working to exit the European union, but it is also not my responsibility.

I have a podium. I am not in prison. That situation may reverse itself tomorrow, but I will still be in charge of my mind. I will still be in a position to greet the unknown with the attitude that I am in charge of my own becoming.

In this short lifetime of mine, I have learned that fear cripples potential and destroys those who allow it to control their decision making. I choose to face my fears and understand that the most important things I am afraid of are internal. External forces are real. They can negatively or positively impact my existence. Or yours. Or all of ours.

That is no reason to lash out. Only bullies let fear dictate their tone.

“Sorry losers and haters, but my I.Q. is one of the highest – and you all know it! Please don’t feel so stupid or insecure. It’s not your fault.” This is orange man at his worst, and he’s right. It is not my fault that he is a narcissist. Rather than choose to feel hopeless about the upcoming presidential reign of the smartest orange man on the planet, I am going to look for opportunities to show his followers and believers that fear and ignorance never lead to growth. Fighting for growth is not a sin. I’m looking forward to helping like minded friends tear down all the walls orange man has promised to build.

The future of the world is not destined to be a bunch of walls separating us from one another. The future of the world isn’t destined to be fear and ignorance separating us from one another. Those are the old ways, and thank the gods, they are dying.

Whether you are high or low, I hope you understand that your freedom of choice cannot be taken from you. You can choose fear and ignorance, but I hope you won’t.

As to you, the incoming orange man, I wish you growth when it comes to wisdom, as I believe there is almost unlimited potential hidden within the walls of bone that make up your skull.

Some people avoid the hard stuff. At any cost. I’m too dumb or too smart to do that. Depending how you look at it.

He’s a big black guy. Mid 30’s. Out of shape. From somewhere in deep Georgia. Thick drawl and a belly that’s soft and round from too much fried food. This guy is scared. He tells me so. We’re on the line practicing rushing. It’s this game of life and death where you simulate attacking an enemy position under machine gun and RPG fire. There are observer controllers throwing little sticks of dynamite at you. Firing on you with real machine guns loaded with blanks. Screaming at you. You get the idea.

Under a hot sun in the middle of a place far from everything you’re comfortable with you prepare yourself mentally and physically for war. And this guy wasn’t having any of it. I don’t remember his name. But I remember how scared he was. He didn’t want to go over there. He wasn’t going to die over there. I imagine him humping a pack through the desert. And dropping from a heart attack. He’s carrying a lot of extra weight already. Without the body armor. Without the combat load. He’d be struggling to run these simulated assaults even if he was butt naked.

We’re on the line. Reset. Do it again. Charge. Assault the bunkers. Get screamed at. Hear how pathetic we are. How part-timers like us are going to die. Because we’re out of shape. We don’t take it seriously. We can’t hack it. For some of us it’s the truth. We’re a bunch of middle-aged weekend warriors from all over. Called up to supplement the serious soldiers. The ones who do it full-time. A lot of us are sucking serious wind. This is the National Guard. We aren’t big Army.

This guy next to me isn’t having any of it. He’s dripping sweat and muttering to himself. I can see him coming up with a plan.

I focus on my work for a bit. We rush in a line a couple more times. We’re being evaluated. From the privates on up to the company commanders. Under the microscope. This place they sent us is a proving ground to weed out the weak ones. Yesterday a company commander was relieved of duty for screaming at the observer controllers. Those guys love their games. They’d been sneaking up on our tents in the middle of the night and throwing artillery simulators inside. Scaring the shit out of out of shape, exhausted middle-aged men. And perspective makes all the difference. The company commander took offense to having small sticks of dynamite thrown into the middle of his men while they slept. He lost his shit and screamed about it for a while. Now he’s gone. Someone else is in charge.

And this guy next to me. I’m watching him sort through his options. He tells me about his family a little. He’s got kids. Doesn’t want to leave them for 15 months or longer. Doesn’t want to get blown up in the middle of some desert far from home. We rush again. Some of us screaming with all our energy. This guy is using all his energy just to make it up the little hill to the bunkers we’re assaulting. He’s about wiped. He doesn’t scream. He mutters. And plots.

Last rush of the morning. Almost time for lunch. I watch him as we run. I see the moment he pulls the trigger inside his head and wonder what he’s going to do. We’re running across the flat open ground firing our own blanks and avoiding the artillery simulators. Ducking low and honing in on our target. Bunkers at the top of the little manmade rise. I see him dripping sweat to my left. He’s not quite keeping up with me but he’s charging for all he’s worth. We’re running up the rise. He puts on a burst of speed suddenly. Passing me for a second.

I watch him throw his rifle down in front of him and then tangle his right leg up in it. Intentionally. I hear a snapping, popping noise as he breaks his own right leg against the rifle on the side of the hill. He goes down screaming.

Later, in the medical facility, he’s content. I had to help carry him there because I was the guy next to him when he went down. He gets to go back home now. To his people. I’ll end up going in the other direction within two weeks. A long plane ride to the other side of the world. I sometimes wonder what it feels like to break your own leg.

I’ve never been wired that way. I never will be. But I wonder what might be different if I was. A lot of things changed in the sandbox. I still wake up from dreams of snapping my own bones.

You always have choices, even when you’re orange

Breaking your own leg