THE BOY: ESSAYS AT WAR A Written Creative Work submitted to the faculty of San Francisco State University In partial fulfillment of - ^ the requirements for . ' the Degree POR- D\GiCu) « b Master of Fine Arts In Creative Nonfiction by Sean Robert Barnett San Francisco, California January 2017 Copyright by Sean Robert Barnett 2017 THE BOY: ESSAYS AT WAR Sean Robert Barnett San Francisco, California 2017 The Boy: Essays at War is a collection of essays detailing a soldier’s personal experience as a ground combatant during the United States’ invasion of Iraq in 2003, his involvement with combat operations in Afghanistan in 2005, and his reintegration into civilian life after separating from the military. This collection focuses on the lasting social and psychological effects of violent combat on its participants. The essays often mimic the scattered and displaced mind of a veteran living with post-traumatic stress disorder CERTIFICATION OF APPROVAL I certify that I have read The Boy: Essays at War by Sean Robert Barnett, and that in my opinion this work meets the criteria for approving a thesis submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirement for the degree Master of Fine Arts: Creative Nonfiction at San Francisco State University. Peter Orner, Professor of Creative Writing ACKNOWLEGEMENT The warriors I am honored to have served with. Dimitri Keriotis and Sam Pierstorff, professors at Modesto Junior College where I was introduced to creative written expression. The faculty of San Francisco State University for their guidance and exercise. Special thanks to my advisor, Chanan Tigay. Friends and fellow writers that I must credit for inspiration, editing, and assistance: Philip Harris, Matthew Carney, and Andrea Lynn. Throughout this collection of essays, I have been inspired by many authors. From some, I have adapted a single line; in my essay, “Tough Rocks” I adapted a line from Brian Turner’s poem “Sadiq” from his collection Here, Bullet. My essay “The Masthead,” is an adaptation of Herman Melville’s chapter 35 “The Mast-head” from his novel Moby Dick. In my essay “28 April 2003,” I used the collected statistical data of PTSD from Sebastian Junger’s “Book One,” from his novel War. And to all warfighters across distance and time, I am humbled and thank you for your sacrifices. TABLE OF CONTENTS Tough Rocks.............................................................................................................................. 1 The Masthead...........................................................................................................................22 A Grammatical Teardown.......................................................................................................24 Habibi....................................................................................................................................... 28 San Francisco H eat................................................................................................................. 42 Into the Uncanny..................................................................................................................... 43 Hotdogs.................................................................................................................................... 46 It was Easy to Kill....................................................................................................................57 4 April 2003.............................................................................................................................58 In A1 Shula............................................................................................................................... 75 No E ..........................................................................................................................................80 28 April 2003...........................................................................................................................82 Cheerleaders always Win...................................................................................................... 101 Sergeant Mills’ Face............................................................................................................. 106 Falafel.....................................................................................................................................108 Hurricane Katrina...................................................................................................................125 Hunting...................................................................................................................................129 October Seventh.....................................................................................................................133 The taxi Driver’s Wife.......................................................................................................... 144 Post War Erotica....................................................................................................................146 Very Unhealthy......................................................................................................................154 Q uit.........................................................................................................................................156 vi 1 Tough Rocks In the morning, Sergeant Green woke me up for my guard shift. The Iraqi sun was just coming up and peeking through a window. The light in the room was ghostly off the faded blue walls, but it was bright enough that I didn’t have to squint. I put on my body armor and grabbed my M4, checking to ensure the already chambered round was still there. My rifle was never far, but checking was routine. I let out a breath, grabbed my helmet, and toed over the guys in my squad sleeping on the floor lined with worn out wrestling mats. Out in the main hall I gave the guy on watch a nod. He barely looked up, too focused on scanning the frequencies battling over the radio. • Outside the air was nice, which only lasted a few hours before the heat really took over. The Iraqis sleep late, so the morning guard shift was always just a warm breeze. Up on the corner wall tower, we made of scaffolding and remnant boards, I relieved Private Delgado from guard. “About time, Barnett,” Delgado complained. “I’m right on time fucker. Quit your bitchin’.” I climbed up the tower and gave Delgado a smile. He giggled on his way down happy to go rack out for another hour. As he got his feet down on the rungs of the scaffolding I made like to kick him off, but only nudged him while smiling, “Getchur’ ass off my tower.” “Whatever,” he smiled. “Oh B, here,” Delgado said handing me a water bottle with orange liquid in it. “You’re gonna love this shit. It’ll wake you right up.” 2 Delgado lifted an eyebrow and pointed a finger at me, “And don’t you give any ‘athat to these kids if you ain’t gonna finish it. I fuckin’ know Haji blew up the last package my mama sent me. So that Kool-Aid is runnin’ short, fool.” He continued down the tower and went into our acquired compound. Baghdad was quiet in the mornings. I didn’t mind the guard shift. I hadn’t received a letter for a while. If the supply truck did get hit and all the mail was blown up, no matter how depressing, that was still the best reason to not be getting any mail. I kept her picture and the most recent letter in a Ziploc bag tucked in the folds of the front of my body armor. While on the tower, I could have a moment to myself. A moment to remember her brown curly hair, and her skin, barely lighter than the girls here in Iraq. I loved her, and I thought about her every day. On the tower, it must have been just before school started, I watched Iraqi kids fight over control of a soccer ball. The tower leaned on the corner of the cement wall surrounding the Pool House. The kids were playing carefree in the northern Baghdad streets with chunks of ancient asphalt spread out in the dust. The Pool House was our home for just a short time, but it was the best we had. It was a large building that used to be some type of rec-center. The brick wall, stucco’d a beautiful desert tan, stood about ten feet tall. It wrapped around the building and the Olympic size swimming pool. The high dive made a great machinegun nest. We kept a M240B up there. Watching the kids kicking the ball, I thought about how I hadn’t played like that in a long time. At nine years old with my shoelaces untied and dangling, I was just like these 3 Iraqi boys. Chocolate stained on the stretched out collar of my favorite shirt; the one I wore at least three times a week. Summertime water fights, playing catch or tag or hide- and-go-seek with the lights off with a few friends and my little sister were the only propositions on the ballot. Signing up for T-ball was the biggest commitment I had ever made. My coach was nothing like a sergeant, yet still I remember feeling the pressure and the importance I held way out in right field. The green hose in the front yard was my machinegun. Enemies attacked with water balloons and laughter and I was a strong kid defending my territory. I organized raids and reconnaissance missions happening just before dark with rings on the doorbells of my neighbors as I ran away avoiding capture. I was a prisoner of war pulling weeds out of my mother’s garden when my report card came in the mail. Dirty cuticles on hands I’d only wash to be allowed at the dinner table. Riding my bicycle, I had no tactical premise when I would run