Dorritos and Bologna... weird combo.
Blue Mondays suck ass. Big time. I broke down and cried again, because I missed Josh. That boy is always on my mind. Class was alright. I'm pretty sure that I flunked an algebra quiz... no big deal. It's just algebra. I get back my anatomy test grade on Wednesday. She said we did just slightly better than the night class, whose average was a 65. The entire class just about shit an egg. I'll be upset if I get lower than a 90... I think I did alright though.
I think I had a migraine earlier... it knocked me right out. I fell asleep at the Peabody's and then came home and slept for three hours, which is weird for me. Didn't really eat anything all day, except for just now I ate a bologna sandwich. Not that I need to eat, I've got enough sitting around to feed a small country. XP Here we go again.
I'm rewriting that Orphans paper tonight, because the teacher didn't approve of my creative flair. I liked the visual images of Iraq! Bite me if I didn't cite them and put them in first person. I get the point across!
We came in full gear, all fourteen of us. We’d been through the training, and we’d been through the trip over here. But as we walked into the orphanage, we had no idea of what to expect. We’d never encountered anything quite like this before, and none of our training had prepared us for it either. There were kids, not yet even five years old, sitting on the dirty floor, one pant leg folded at the knee. Another, a young girl of perhaps three, ran and clung to Private Ferris's leg, smiling and babbling in a broken mix of Iraqi and English, jumping up and down. Ferris, a young soldier with a big heart and one of his own back home, picked the girl up and bounced her up and down. The nun that was leading us smiled brightly, and then beckoned me into a separate room. “Thank you for coming, but I’m afraid that I must ask you and your men not to return here.” A scrawny teenager poked his head into the room, looking for food probably; he saw me and nearly jumped, his eyes wide and yellow, filled with jaundice. The nun gently shooed him away, then turned back to me. “If you boys come back here, the insurgents will notice, and then they’re sure to massacre the children.” I looked back over towards Ferris; he was sitting on the floor, the girl standing up in his lap, tugging on his helmet.
After leaving the orphanage, the fourteen of us walked the streets of Iraq before heading back to base. Now, I’ve been in Iraq before, but never downtown, and never for anything but military action. What I saw there that day could never compare with anything I’ve ever seen, and I do not wish to ever see it again. As in the orphanage, many of the children here on the streets were limb-less, but there was more missing from them than just body parts. These were broken children, clawing at the dirt, howling at the sky in hurt voices. A horrible guilt settled in the center of my chest, and I felt my pack grow heavy upon my back, and I realized that most of these children were orphaned because of the United State’s military presence here in Iraq. A teenage boy with a burn on his face stared at the ground as we walked past; perhaps he was an orphan because of me.
Private Cellucci, Private Ferris, and I were chosen to distribute food to the homeless in the downtown Iraqi area, the same place where my men and I had sworn never to return to. The truck was parked with the bed towards the road, and there was a crowd forming. We had to keep our eyes open for insurgents and suicide bombers as we carefully handed down food, bag by bag, bottle by bottle. We’d all heard the rumors: they were using women and children now, catching the soldiers off guard by defying their ethics. The more I handed food the more I realized that most of these beggars were children, barely teenagers, inhaling the food as soon as it passed into their tiny hands. I stretched down, a water bottle in one hand, and a young girl grabbed at it hastily. I looked at her face and froze; it was the young girl from the orphanage that had befriended Private Ferris. I turned to Ferris, and he was staring at her too, his mouth a straight, cracked line, and his eyes an icy blue.
I think I had a migraine earlier... it knocked me right out. I fell asleep at the Peabody's and then came home and slept for three hours, which is weird for me. Didn't really eat anything all day, except for just now I ate a bologna sandwich. Not that I need to eat, I've got enough sitting around to feed a small country. XP Here we go again.
I'm rewriting that Orphans paper tonight, because the teacher didn't approve of my creative flair. I liked the visual images of Iraq! Bite me if I didn't cite them and put them in first person. I get the point across!
We came in full gear, all fourteen of us. We’d been through the training, and we’d been through the trip over here. But as we walked into the orphanage, we had no idea of what to expect. We’d never encountered anything quite like this before, and none of our training had prepared us for it either. There were kids, not yet even five years old, sitting on the dirty floor, one pant leg folded at the knee. Another, a young girl of perhaps three, ran and clung to Private Ferris's leg, smiling and babbling in a broken mix of Iraqi and English, jumping up and down. Ferris, a young soldier with a big heart and one of his own back home, picked the girl up and bounced her up and down. The nun that was leading us smiled brightly, and then beckoned me into a separate room. “Thank you for coming, but I’m afraid that I must ask you and your men not to return here.” A scrawny teenager poked his head into the room, looking for food probably; he saw me and nearly jumped, his eyes wide and yellow, filled with jaundice. The nun gently shooed him away, then turned back to me. “If you boys come back here, the insurgents will notice, and then they’re sure to massacre the children.” I looked back over towards Ferris; he was sitting on the floor, the girl standing up in his lap, tugging on his helmet.
After leaving the orphanage, the fourteen of us walked the streets of Iraq before heading back to base. Now, I’ve been in Iraq before, but never downtown, and never for anything but military action. What I saw there that day could never compare with anything I’ve ever seen, and I do not wish to ever see it again. As in the orphanage, many of the children here on the streets were limb-less, but there was more missing from them than just body parts. These were broken children, clawing at the dirt, howling at the sky in hurt voices. A horrible guilt settled in the center of my chest, and I felt my pack grow heavy upon my back, and I realized that most of these children were orphaned because of the United State’s military presence here in Iraq. A teenage boy with a burn on his face stared at the ground as we walked past; perhaps he was an orphan because of me.
Private Cellucci, Private Ferris, and I were chosen to distribute food to the homeless in the downtown Iraqi area, the same place where my men and I had sworn never to return to. The truck was parked with the bed towards the road, and there was a crowd forming. We had to keep our eyes open for insurgents and suicide bombers as we carefully handed down food, bag by bag, bottle by bottle. We’d all heard the rumors: they were using women and children now, catching the soldiers off guard by defying their ethics. The more I handed food the more I realized that most of these beggars were children, barely teenagers, inhaling the food as soon as it passed into their tiny hands. I stretched down, a water bottle in one hand, and a young girl grabbed at it hastily. I looked at her face and froze; it was the young girl from the orphanage that had befriended Private Ferris. I turned to Ferris, and he was staring at her too, his mouth a straight, cracked line, and his eyes an icy blue.