Homecoming

Sunday, the Delta Co. 4th CEB came back to Knoxville from a 7-month deployment to Iraq on missions that included minesweeping, bunker building and demolition.

Before the buses pulled in, I talked to two wives who were waiting. Both had given birth while their husbands were gone, and both Marines were on the phone with their wives during the delivery. Both men met their children, one son and one daughter, for the first time Sunday. Both men are barely older than I am. And both men had to leave the country knowing that they would be leaving their wives to care for the children alone.

So it's clear why, when the Marines cautiously stepped off the buses still wearing camo and carrying M16 assault rifles, I was swept up in the same wave of emotion that flooded the wives (and mothers, fathers, girlfriends, sons and daughters). I wanted to capture the moment with the cell phone-sized Flip video camera; I wanted to show everyone who wasn't at the Marine Corps Reserve Center what it's like to embrace a lover and an infnant after missing the entire pregnancy.

But I didn't realize that I would be on the verge of crying myself, as the troops wove through the crowd.

It was almost enough to keep me from doing my job properly. For starters, it's hard to hold that tiny camera steady anyway. Throw in a choked-back sob, and that's a recipe for shaky footage.

Second, I felt like I was destroying the unity. I would love to be the omniscient, omnipotent reporter: hearing all the stories at once, seeing all the tears fall in unison, feeling all the sighs of relief - without a single person noticing my presence.

That's not the way news works, though. When there is a story, you cling to it and try to extract every bit of useful information - all without annoying, berating or otherwise insulting your subject.

It is a draining process, then, to come back to the news desk and condense all the worries and reliefs of the past seven months into a 15-inch story, devoid of 95 percent of the raw emotion that surrounded the homecoming. I can't give you the American flag flapping in the breeze; I can't give you the snowflakes sticking to the desert camo fatigues; and I sure as hell can't give you drool of 14-week-old Derrick Sloan on the front of his tiny cheap white cotton homemade T-shirt.

But they were all there Sunday, and they won't be forgotten.


P.S. I was scared out of my mind when I arrived at the reserve center. Two Marines, both carrying loaded M16s, stopped me; one put his hand on the hood of my truck as if he would personally stop me if I tried any funny business. He questioned the media presence, and when a man carrying a fully automatic machine gun doubted my legitimacy, my first instinct was to tip my (imaginary) hat, throw the truck in reverse, and head home.

Musings: The Beginning

Here's the deal: I offer introspection on various and sundry topics, you give feedback, and eventually I compile the entries into some kind of volume that makes people laugh.

So, first topic: Seating in Public:

This one has bugged me since high school when I first started to going to church with any regularity. Everyone had free range to choose seats, from the front row to the balcony (yes, it was a big-ass church).

After a few months, I noticed a pattern. Cappuccino and doughnut people sat in the balcony, and upward-palmed hand-wavers sat in the first couple rows. Week in and week out, people occupied the same seats according to their worship comfort level.

The phenomenon continues in college. Eager hand-raisers / forceful answerers stick together like they're in their own gravitational field. But what's more, people sit in relation to familiar students.

I usually sit in the fifth row, left side in Anthropology 120. The outdoorsy-fratty guy sits in front of me, the annoying person who comes late (and always walks over me even though there are plenty of open seats) sits to my left, and the girl who looks like a sunken-eyed skeleton with skin sits two rows in front of me. That's just the way it is.

But if I choose to sit two rows closer in the third row, they all follow suit and sit in the same relative position. They all look really confused and uncomfortable for a minute. They all get on with class as usual, except for the kink I threw into the system.

But I'll be damned if at least one of them doesn't get there before me the next class period and sit in their "rightful" seat, putting everyone else back in their place.

I'm not sure why this occurs, but allow me to speculate:
1. It helps them pay attention better by having the same perspective of the board every day. I doubt this, but it's worth investigating. Some people swear by their habits; I prefer to move around a bit to alleviate the tedious nature of a 10 a.m. lecture.

2. People are no better than sheep (or cows, or other herd-able organisms). We shamelessly follow crowds, even for something as trivial as seating, because of mob mentality - or sheer laziness.

3. My personal favorite: Sitting in the same place in a big room makes you invisible. You'd assume the teacher would begin to recognize students; no, it's like being assigned a number. They might notice a gap on a slow day, but not enough to pinpoint the skipper. It's safety in numbers at its finest.

This is a small gripe, and not a very funny one, but they'll get better. I promise.

Why I chose this path

Sometimes I just want to talk about things. Today is one of those times.

I had a mini-epiphany in my PR class today: I will be as successful as I want to be. Sitting in the third row from the front, listening to a guest speaker and the ensuing student comments, I realized I have what it takes. That is, as long as I don't get in my own way. It's not about the degree I get; it's about the skills I have.

*sigh of relief*

Second, and just as exciting, I finally felt like a runner again. The run from the Runner's Market started at probably 23 degrees, and finished probably five or six degrees cooler. But it didn't matter; I ran across Kingston Pike, into Sequoya Hills, down to Cherokee Boulevard, and made my way back in time for dinner at Agave Azul.

Seeing the snow on the ground, waving to people walking dogs, struggling to talk to friends while my own breath clouds my vision - that's why I run. Who else got to see the whole neighborhood blanketed in white powder? Only the handful of dedicated / crazy friends that runs together every Wednesday night. It snowed on us tonight, flakes coming down and clinging to my clothes, until my body heat melted them away.

That run kicked my attitude back into high-gear. It doesn't matter how fast or how far you go; it matters how much fun you have. Time for me to lace up my big-boy shoes and get back on the pavement.