Messy Medicine

Gate to Seoul

This poem needs a prologue. It almost isn’t a poem at all. It lacks a rhyme or meter. It comes out of a discussion we had early on with the starting of the Sangria Summit Society, and Poets to Save America. It tries to answer the question of how to bridge the divisions in the United States as they exist today. It is more a discourse between me, you, and our better selves. Despite its lack of form, it is still the song, groaning from my soul, inviting us all to get messy and take the actions needed to save a faltering patient, even if it makes us uncomfortable.

Messy Medicine

I can tell you how to save a person.
I’ve been trained to do it in the harshest of environments.
I can assess if the area they are in is secure and if they are responsive, breathing, or bleeding.
I know what to do in the cases of blunt force trauma, burn, gunshots, lacerations, or a wounded psyche.
I know how to approach a drowning victim, and how to stabilize the neck and spine after a crash or fall.
I can apply a pressure bandage, tourniquet, splint, or brace.
I know how to access risks and implement mitigation to prevent accidents before they happen.
Sometimes all that is needed is showing love and respect even when they don’t feel it for themselves.
Other times you must get your hands dirty in the blood, guts, gore, and shit of their life.

What I want to know is how to save a nation.
When the problem is toxicity in the body politic, the symptoms are plain but treatment is messy.
The factions are spewing vitriol, more concerned with the spoils of victory than the injuries that they cause.
We need charcoal in our bellies to sop up the venom, and a purgative to evacuate our systems.
The patients have to heal themselves, but it is so hard to do with minds clouded by political poison.
The treatment causes pain as we realize the mess we are in is a mess we made for ourselves.
Our addictions are killing us.
We are committing self-genocide.

The resulting infection is resistant to our normal arsenal of wonder drugs.
We over-used patriotism, nationalism, and exceptionalism in our heyday.
Our faith is shattered.
We stopped believing in the ethics that made us great and started arguing over the definition of “is”.
We legislated ourselves into a coma-
Allowed charlatans to convince us that their partisanship was as good as the time-tested remedies.
We started believing that parts of our society could win while others were losing-
That our kidneys meant more to us than our liver, our heart more than our brain.
In truth, the heart is fickle and the brain is confused.
In our gut we know we are filled with toxic shit,
And we just keep eating garbage.

The path to health for the nation starts in the individual.
We must reject partisanism and accept wholism.
We must first be good people, good neighbors, good stewards, and good planners.
The resiliency and vitality of the nation comes when we the people are healthy-
When we discipline ourselves to acting in ways that are healthy and wholesome for the nation,
When we put others first, do more good for more people,
And prepare for a better future by being better ourselves.
Classical humanism is what is needed to suppress the ill effects of willful ignorance.
Civility is the cure for political discord.
If we refuse to accept a discourse of division, we will begin to unite.
We get closer together when we stop walking farther apart.
The road to wellness starts with a single step, a single individual, repeated 330 million times.
When we reject the concept that one part of the body politic can survive while another falters,
We start our healing.
Our body has a lot of vomit and excrement that we have to purge and replace with something healthy.
The first step is simple and so very hard.
Love your fellow humans.
In spite of yourself.

Community

Sharing

There will always be a civil-military divide, or gap, or chasm–if we are always standing on one side of a bridge. We–military, veterans, servicemembers–are HERE. You–everyone else–are THERE.

Then we ask the question, “But how do we bridge the gap?”

The answer to that question is whatever particular hammer we happen to be carrying at the moment.

But what if we–the ones who served–started to think of ourselves as a neighborhood. Or a family. Or a gathering. Or a home.

Here in the center of our family are those who give it definition–the human being in uniform, no matter what job they do, or how long they served. At least once in their lives, they signed on the dotted line and stepped up to the service of their country.

Standing around them, though, who are they? The support system. First, we find those who have deployed with us, even if they did not wear a uniform. Here’s the person working the food line at the chow hall in Kuwait. Here’s the contractor working on an innovation in robotics to save lives. Or the civilian medical professional taking care of servicemembers for everything from a routine appointment to emergency medicine.

The edges of our community grow blurrier as the neighborhood continues. Here are our families–spouses, parents, siblings, children. They often wear our service as a badge, or with pride, because careers, even four-year enlistments, are “needs of the Army,” not “needs of our loved ones.” And they get it.

Keep traveling, all roads connect us. Here’s the difficult part of town. Here is the block of those whose service–or whose loved one’s service–has burned them. The divorcee, the underemployed spouse, the failure to adapt. The ex-servicemember who suffered from assault or abuse. These lives have been touched by, and have touched, uniformed service. They’re part of the community, even if we don’t drive by that part of town very often.

Just stopping by for a visit, these are the friends whose only touchpoint with the military might be that person from back home they knew in high school, and connected with later on social media, who give a “like” to pictures of their old friend in uniform, but don’t really get the jokes in the DuffelBlog articles they share. Maybe it’s the people who “support the troops,” but haven’t taken the time to really drive around town and get to know everyone.

To stretch this metaphor to the point of killing the elastic, there is one more point. When we think of ourselves as a neighborhood, or a community, it becomes easier to envision traveling outside that community. Maybe that is literal travel, perhaps it’s the ability to share stories about life in the neighborhood. In any case, we are no longer faced with a deep chasm, gaping between our side of the road and “their” side of the road.

Instead, we are much larger than we think, and those we include can help us connect–and stay connected–to the other communities we touch.

Song Three

Endless Road

I drank your cup of coffee

You’re gone, and I must stay.

I also ate your breakfast

Your wine I’ve put away.

Your books and clothes

Are in the dumpster.

Your dog has run away.

I’ve thrown out all your memories

You’re gone and I must stay.

Characters

National Cathedral

Heart of a farm boy
Strength of a bull
Mind of an academic
Nobody’s fool

Body of a soldier
Aged beyond his years
Marked by many battles
Victories and fears

Losses but not defeats
Play upon his mind
Memories of lost ones
Happens all the time

Love for his country
Servant of the state
Hates how politicians
Have led him to this fate

Love for his fellow man
And intelligent discourse
Hates that modern living
Place society and logic in divorce

Playing as the Harlequin
In life’s Comedy of Art
Changing all the scenery
As he plays his part

Wit, wisdom, and slapstick
Are all part of the job
Speaking truth to power
Entertaining the mob

Slave of past and futures
Whose life and daily chore
Is in the belly of the galley
Pulling on an oar

Coxswain of the vessel
Sets the course at sea
Determines for the oarsmen
The pace to victory

Runner on a winding route
Verdant lands, brilliant skies
On a course that’s never ending
At least not until he dies

Pilgrim on a journey
To an unknown place
Following his master’s footsteps
Trying to live in grace

Characters in the greatest play
That anyone will ever see
And every part is played by him
He is also playing me