Author: frankisemptiness

October 2nd, 2018

“Dreaming of Mercy Street
Wear you’re inside out
Dreaming of mercy
In your daddy’s arms again.
Dreaming of Mercy Street.
‘Swear they moved that sign’
Dreaming of mercy
In your daddy’s arms…”

Mercy Street from Peter Gabriel

“When Ma died, my life ended.”

He stared in the distance as he said those words, eyes wet with tears.

“We were married all those years. I depended on her for everything. She took care of everything. Now what do I got left? Nothing.”

He sat back in his chair. Wisps of fine, white hair barely covered his head. He had a face with a prominent Roman nose, hollow cheeks, and eyes etched with pain. His eyes always looked around for somebody who was not in the room. Karin and I were there with him, but others were there too, unseen to us, but visible to this eighty-five year old man.

He said to me, “Frankie, look in that desk drawer. There’s some pictures.”

I reached into the drawer and found some framed photos. They were from the Honor Flight. The man had gone on the flight just a few months ago. I looked at the pictures and passed them on to Karin. In one picture the man was sitting with a pilot in a biplane. They were getting ready to take off.

He told us, “That flight was something else. That pilot, he thought that he was going to tell me all about the aircraft. Then he found out that I had worked on them back when I was in the Navy. So he asked me, ‘You tell me all about the aircraft.’ That was fine machine. You could see where they had stretched the cloth on the wing and doped it up. Then they must have sanded it.  It was smooth as a baby’s behind.”

I asked him, “When you went up, did you two just do traffic patterns?”

“No, no. We flew a ways out. Not just traffic patterns.”

He sat back and thought.

Then he said, “All those guys in my squadron, they’re probably all dead now.”

“I replied, “Yeah, they probably are.”

He nodded.

He spoke again.

“I always kept my whites from the Navy. That’s what I wore when I got out. I wore those home. Nobody cared. Nobody told me, ‘Good job’ or ‘Thanks for serving’. Nothing.”

His voice shook. “My ma, all she wanted to know was how much money I was making. My sister wanted to know when I was going to get a job. Nobody gave a damn that I was back home.”

He swallowed hard. He stared ahead in silence.

The ghosts in the room whispered.

 

 

October 1st, 2018

This letter from me was printed/posted yesterday by the Capitol Times of Madison, WI.

“Legal good, illegal bad”. That summed up Senator Cruz’s view on immigration during his debate with Beto O’Rourke. Cruz used a profoundly simplistic phrase designed to appeal to a population that thinks simplistically. I am not surprised that Senator Cruz used that slogan, and I have heard a number of other people say the same thing. I have even heard legal immigrants say something like that, which astonishes me.

That people who arrived here lawfully would make that kind of comment shows a total lack of empathy for other immigrants who, for whatever reason, have not been able to enter the U.S. through legal channels. The immigration laws and regulations of the United States are outdated, confusing, and unjust. Our current administration is doing its utmost to make these rules more ruthless and more racist. With each passing day, Trump and his associates do whatever they can to make it harder for the poor to enter, for Muslims to enter, and for refugees to enter the United States.

However, it appears that many people stop looking at the issue as soon as they see the word “illegal”. That one word makes an immigrant less than human. “Legal” does not mean the same thing as “moral”. Likewise, if an act is illegal, that does not automatically make it wrong. Also, just because something is legal does not make it right. The Nazis had all sorts of “legal” rules to justify monstrous actions. We  have laws that used to justify terrible things, like the tearing families apart.

We first need to make our laws just and fair. Then we can look at legal and illegal.

September 29th, 2018

Hans called.

He and Gabi are expecting their baby boy to arrive around Christmastime. Karin and I hope to visit them about a month from now. We want to make the drive down to Texas before the snow flies up here in the north country. We won’t be there for the birth of the child, but we will be there for the baby shower. That will have to be good enough.

Hans and Gabi have picked their son’s name. He will be called “Weston”. I am not sure why they picked that name, other than they like it. It sounds so redneck. I can totally imagine a boy growing up in southeastern Texas being named Weston. For me,”Weston” conjures up visions of pickup trucks, AR-15’s, and Shiner beer. It’s a natural.

Anyway, Hans called and slowly said, “Hey”, in his usual monotone.

I answered, as I always do, “What’s up?”

Hans drawled, “Oh…not much. Gabi and I wanted to know what y’all want Weston to call you.” (Note: Hans speaks like a Texan. Actually, he speaks more slowly than most Texans do. He’s a German kid from Wisconsin who found his natural habitat in the backwoods of the South. Go figure).

“I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Well, you know…do you want him to call you ‘Grandpa’ or ‘Grandpa Frank’, or did you have some weird name that you want him to use?”

“Uh, yeah. Well, either ‘Grandpa’ or ‘Grandpa Frank’ is fine.”

“Okay, well, we just wanted to know. What do you think about Mom?”

“I’m pretty sure that she wants to be called ‘Oma’.” (“Oma” is how the Germans often refer to their grandmother. Karin is from Germany, and she definitely wants to be “Oma” to Weston).

Hans replied, “Yeah, Gabi and I figured that. Mom was always going to be ‘Oma’. We thought about calling you ‘Opa’, but somehow that just didn’t seem to fit.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

Hans asked, “Are you excited about being ‘Grandpa’?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been able to wrap my head around that idea yet. I’ll be okay with it when it happens.”

Hans said, “I haven’t been able to wrap my head around the ‘dad’ thing either. It’s coming anyway.”

Hans went on, “I haven’t been able to go to all the doctor’s appointments with Gabi. The doctor says that Weston is all healthy. That’s what matters.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I remember you had a rough start.”

“Yeah, I don’t want Weston to start off life like I did.”

Hans got serious, “I’ve been thinking about how to raise Weston. I don’t want him growing up thinking that he’s all ‘entitled’ and such. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I think I do.”

Hans kept going, “I don’t want Weston to think that people should just give him stuff, not like some young people I know. I want him to learn the value of hard work, like I learned from you. You always made me earn the things I wanted. I mean you’d help me out some, but I had to save my money to get stuff. Remember those laser guns I wanted? I had to pay half for them. I learned nothing was free.”

“Yeah.”

Hans continued, “I want Weston to learn respect. Young people, they don’t understand that.”

I replied, “Well, you got to respect him too. That works both ways.”

Hans sighed, “I know. I just want him to learn to respect people, especially his elders.”

Hans switched gears. “I was planning to take a couple days off while y’all are down here. I thought, you know, you and I could do something together. Maybe go shooting…or something.”

“Yeah, whatever you want to do. We’ll do stuff. You and me.”

Hans replied, “Yeah, I just thought that the two of us, we could do something.”

“We will. We’ll figure it out.”

“Okay, well, I just wanted to tell you what was going on.”

“Thanks for doing that.”

Hans said, “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

September 26th, 2018

I had a couple beers with Mike and Taylor yesterday afternoon. We met at the Water Street Brewery once their work was done at the trucking company. Mike and Taylor run the early morning dock, the same shift I worked before I retired from that corporation nearly three years ago. Taylor starts his job as the planner at 1:00 AM, just like I used to do. It’s a hideous time to be at work. It’s so, so wrong. Mike starts a couple hours later, but he also stumbles into the office during the predawn hours. Both of those guys looked exhausted when we met at the bar, and, of course, they were.

We caught up on current events. I generally meet with Mike every month or so, but I hadn’t seen Taylor for well over a year. We talked about a variety of things: our families, politics, and my strange, twisted adventures. As time went on, our discussion focused on the workplace, because that is our strongest connection. It is also a connection that, for me at least, becomes more tenuous with each passing day.

Mike and Taylor sometimes spoke of people whom I have never met. They deal with dockworkers and drivers and managers who started at the company after I had abandoned the place. As time goes on, the number of people I know decreases, and the number of people who are unknown to me grows. As I expected, the corporation functions just fine without me. Some of the employees there might remember me, but memories are short. That is simply how things are.

I know of two men who retired just before I did, Chuck and Ken. They completely cut any connection between themselves and their former employer (and their former co-workers). Those two guys disappeared off the radar. They made an absolutely clean break. To a certain extent, their actions make total sense. I mean, “It’s over.” It’s done. Time to move on, and all that sort of thing. They were realists.

Or maybe not. The past is past. Zen practice reminds me often that I can do nothing about the past, and that the future does not yet exist. All I have is now. I get that. However, even if the past is gone, it still affects the present. Who I was makes a difference with regards to who I am. I always hear the echoes of my past. This means that I am extremely reluctant to sever ties with old friends, even when I should know better. I don’t hang on to things, but I hang on to people. I should let go of all of that.

A friend of mine retired just recently from the VA. He was an emergency room doctor at the local VA hospital. He called me two weeks ago, agonizing over his post-VA life. My friend is good at agonizing. I am not. After listening to him wallow in uncertainty and anguish for a while, I finally told him,

“You are a teenager again! You can do whatever you fucking want!”

I spoke the truth. If a person can retire (and I know that many people cannot), then that person has an opportunity that most inhabitants of this planet will never have. It is an opportunity and a duty. After retirement, I found out that my purpose in life was to discover my purpose in life. That may sound trite, but it is God’s truth.

For those who somehow manage to achieve retirement, the challenge is to forge a new identity. The fact is that I am not the person who was at the trucking company for twenty-eight years. That fucker is gone. I am now somebody else, and I really ought to get to know that person.

This is not necessarily a hopeless or useless struggle. I have had some fun (and some pain) during the last three years. I went to a Japanese Buddhist temple with my wife and youngest son. I stayed with my wife at a remote Benedictine monastery in New Mexico. I got busted for civil disobedience at an Air Force base near Las Vegas. I shot an AR-15 with my redneck oldest son. I learned all about immigration law at a class in Chicago, and now I will be more involved in helping immigrants than I ever thought I would be. I learned to kayak with an old friend from West Point. I walked through the country with a band of Indians. I have tried to help loved ones who struggle with PTSD and/or addictions. The last three years have been a wild ride, and I thank God for all of these experiences.

So, what is my point? I’m not sure. All I know is that I am much closer to death than I am to my birth. The clock is ticking. One part of my life is over. I know that. I have another part to live. My goal is to live. My goal is to make a difference, although I don’t know how. All I know is that I need to do and need to be.

Wish me luck.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

September 23rd, 2018

I walked along the bike trail to church this morning. Well, most of my seven mile walk was along the bike trail. For some reason the trail abruptly ends at certain places, and then I have to walk along the shoulder of the Highway 32, near the onrushing traffic. The bike trail winds through meadows and wooded areas, and it is generally peaceful. Highway 32 is not. Cars fly past at speeds far in excess of the posted limit. I am never quite sure if the drivers are aware of my presence. The looks on their faces indicate to me that their minds are somewhere else.

As I walked south on Highway 32, I noticed a car sitting on the shoulder with its four-ways flashing. There was a young man standing at the side of his vehicle doing something, but I was too far away to determine what it was. I slowly came closer to him, and I became curious. Eventually, I was near enough to see that he was struggling to fill his tank with a red plastic gas can.

The odd thing is that I only noticed any of this because I was walking. If I had been driving, I probably would not have even noticed the car. Walking slowed me down enough to perceive what was happening.

I got up next to the car, and I asked him, “Are you okay?”

He looked up at me, and said, “Yeah…I mean no. I mean, yeah, I could use some help, if that’s okay with you.”

I came to him and noticed a small pool of gas on the ground next to the side of the car. I asked to see the gas can. He handed it to me.

He said sheepishly, “I am not from around here. I ran out of gas.”

I shrugged. The guy looked like he was maybe twenty years old. He was short and slight, and he was unsuccessfully trying to grow a goatee. He looked vaguely Asiatic, especially around the eyes. I ran out of gas once when I was his age. I felt like an idiot when that happened. I haven’t done that since then.

He had what looked like a brand new gas can. He must have walked to the nearest filling station to get it. It had some kind of fancy “child proof” nozzle. “Child proof” usually means “adult proof”. It had a spring-loaded valve that only worked when you lined up two rings on the nozzle. If the rings were not lined up properly, then gasoline slowly leaked all over everything. I found that out the first time I tried to use it.

I got gas on my hands, and promptly muttered, “Fucking goddamn piece of shit.” That didn’t solve my problem, but I felt a little better.

I took a moment to read the instructions on the gas can that were written in microscopic letters. I found out what I needed to do, but it still took me two more tries to actually get the gasoline pouring into the tank of the car.

As I fumbled with the can,  I asked the young man, “What’s your name?’

“Luis.”

“I’m Frank.”

“Where do you live?”

“In Milwaukee.”

“Where in Milwaukee? South side?”

“No man. More like downtown. Like Third and Mitchell.”

“Okay, Got it.” The gas was flowing by now.

Luis put his arm on my shoulder. “Thanks, Frankie. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Yeah…right.”

Luis asked me, “So, how do I get to Milwaukee from here?”

“The next light is Ryan Road. Make a left there. Take Ryan Road to the freeway. Then head north to Milwaukee.”

“Okay, cool.”

The gas can was finally empty. I asked him, “Hey, you got a towel or a rag? My hands are full of gas.”

“Yeah, here.” he handed me a small towel.

I wiped my hands. “This towel is going to stink.”

Luis smiled at me. “Man, thanks for the help. God bless you!”

I don’t know why I did it, but I did a gassho (I folded the palms of my hands together in front of my chest and made a little bow to him). Luis did the same to me.

He got into his car.

I walked away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

September 21st, 2018

“When I was a young boy
My father took me into the city
To see a marching band
He said, ‘Son, when you grow up,
Would you be the savior of the broken,
The beaten, and the damned?’

He said, ‘Will you defeat them;
Your demons, and all the non-believers,
The plans that they have made?’
‘Because one day I’ll leave you
A phantom to lead you in the summer
To join the black parade’.”

from My Chemical Romance, “Welcome to the Black Parade”

 

Karin and I went to Mass yesterday morning. That, by itself, is nothing unusual. We go to Mass together almost every day. It’s part of our daily ritual. Yesterday was different because the school kids from St. Rita’s were also there with us. The children from St. Rita’s school come to Mass every Thursday morning, along with their teachers.

When it came to distribute the Body and Blood of Christ (the bread and the wine), Karin went up to the altar to serve as a Eucharistic minister. At Mass, a number of lay people help the priest to give out the wafers and the wine. It’s rare for the priest to do it alone, unless there are very few people at the liturgy. Sometimes, not enough people volunteer to be ministers. That happened yesterday.

Karin was at the altar, counting the number of people near her. She decided that they were one person short. I was still standing in the pew, and she stared at me for a moment. I made no move to come toward her. Karin frowned a bit, and made a hand signal that said, “C’mon! Get over here!” So, I left the pew and stood near her at the altar.

Distributing communion is not a difficult task. The person who serves as minister stands at the front of the pews, and people line up in a queue to receive the Eucharist. Because the children were there, we had three separate lines. I was distributing the bread in the line that was made up mostly of little kids. Some of them were not old enough yet to receive communion, so they came up to me in the line with their arms folded in front of them, indicating that they could not take a host, and that I should give them a blessing instead.

A young girl came up to me with her arms folded in front of her. She had blond hair and intense eyes. I raised my hand to make the sign of the cross on her forehead. I felt a sudden pain. It was a deep, piercing ache in my heart. I had an overwhelming sadness. I could barely give the girl the blessing. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I said to her hoarsely, “God bless you.” She walked away, and the next child stood in front of me.

It was a little boy. He too had his arms folded over his chest. I blessed him, and my heart hurt again. My eyes welled up. I couldn’t understand why.

I was okay giving communion to the older students. But I felt this tremendous sorrow with the younger ones. They looked at me the way small children often look at adults. They had eyes that were trusting and innocent. They looked up to me.

Eventually, all the children had passed through the line. I calmed down a bit, but I was shaking. I felt exhausted.

As I took the ciborium (dish) back up to the altar, it occurred to me that I wasn’t really seeing those children for who they were. I was seeing other children; other children who are no longer children. I was seeing the faces of kids who went to war, or went to jail, or got hurt in a thousand other ways. I was blessing kids who maybe I never really blessed all those years ago. I was trying to look into eyes that are no longer innocent.

Are blessings retroactive?

 

 

 

Then I asked Juan, “So, what is ‘freedom of religion’ all about?”

Juan answered, “A person is free to practice any religion, or not to practice any religion at all.” Juan was proud of that answer, and he was right.

I wanted some more. “So, what does it look like? How would I know ‘freedom of religion’ if I saw it?”

There was an awkward pause.

I thought for moment. I had gone to the Lake Park Synagogue in the morning to worship with the congregation there. It was Yom Kippur. I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the black yarmulke that Karin had knit for me years ago. I put the skullcap on my head and told them, “This yarmulke is ‘freedom of religion’. Jews wear it to pray. When a Muslim woman wears a hijab around her head, that also ‘freedom of religion’. What a person wears, or eats, or does can all be part of freedom of religion. Got it?”

Christobal and Juan nodded.

I asked them, “What about ‘freedom of assembly’? What is that?”

Christobal said, “When we get together?”

“Exactly. Frank and Christobal and Juan can sit here in this room without worrying about the cops busting in the door. We are assembled here. When Voces has its May Day rally, that is an assembly too.”

“What do you think about ‘freedom of the press’? What is that?”

Christobal said, “It is about the news?”

“Yeah. ‘Press’ is an old word. They used to make newspapers with a printing press. Now, the ‘press’ means anything with the news: TV, radio, Internet, newspapers, magazines. The media can say whatever they want to say, regardless of that guy in the White House.”

The Bill of Rights actually means something. These guys need to know that.

We all need to know that.

 

 

 

 

September 16th, 2018

Father Jim is a priest and an Augustinian friar. He is erudite, witty, and eighty-eight years old. I try to imagine if I would be as spry as Father Jim if I was eighty-eight. Alas, I can only visualize being dead at that age. Karin and I went on a weekend retreat led by this priest. The purpose of the retreat was to learn more about St. Augustine, and to get closer to God somehow.

The Augustinian order is a small part of the Roman Catholic Church. There is a plethora of orders and groups, like the Augustinians, within Catholicism. This fact is sometimes a surprise to people, especially for those who have no direct connection with the Roman Church. Some people, viewing the institution from the outside, imagine that there is a monolithic Catholic community, with a rigid hierarchy that demands total obedience from the members of the Church. They assume that it is a highly disciplined organization whose members march in lock step.

Hmmm, not really. It’s more like herding cats.

The Catholic Church is this sprawling, mutating, living organism that currently includes over one billion people, each of whom has a different opinion on what the Church should be. The Church is a community where diversity and unity have wrestled for two millennia.  It is a family of sorts; a family that is profoundly dysfunctional, but also capable of constant renewal and reform.

There is a quote attributed to James Joyce. He was once asked to describe the Church. In reply, he said, “Here comes everybody.”

Exactly.

The problem with including “everybody” is that people have a wide range of interests and talents (“charisms” in spiritual terms). Different people are attracted to different paths to God. Thus, the Church contains a nearly limitless variety of groups, each of which appeals to a certain type of person. There are Franciscans; they are interested primarily in helping the poor and in protecting the earth. There Dominicans and Jesuits, who like to teach and preach. There is Opus Dei, which is very, very traditional (and to me, a little scary). There are the Catholic Workers, who are essentially Catholic anarchists. I like those folks a lot. Anyway, there is an endless list of groups and orders. The Augustinians just happen to be one of them.

So, what makes the Augustinians different from everyone else? Good question. Father Jim tried to allude to that question during the retreat, and he was somewhat successful in answering it. The answer is actually very difficult to explain in rational terms. A particular order appeals to a person in an intuitive way. It’s a heart thing more than a head thing.

From what I have gathered in the short time that I have spent with Augustinians is that they are deeply concerned with relationship. Father Jim spoke at great length about the Trinity, the doctrine of a triune God. The notion of one God consisting of three persons (Father, Son, and Holy Spirit) is a mystery, in the sense that nobody will ever really understand it. It’s a bit like quantum physics: it makes no sense at all, but it is apparently true. The value of discussing the Trinity is that it provides a cosmic example of relationship; three persons in intimate and loving relationship with each other for all eternity. That’s pretty wild. It seems a bit Hindu (think about the relationship between Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva). Augustinians care about relationship, about connection. They feel in their bones that absolutely everything and everybody is connected. It’s almost Buddhist in a way.

Each order has a founder, someone who was charismatic and who still inspires people to this very day. The Franciscans look back to Francis of Assisi. The Benedictines admire and emulate St Benedict. Augustinians base their lives on the words and actions of Augustine of Hippo, a 4th century Roman living in Africa. Augustine had an early life that begs to be whitewashed by the Church. He despised Christianity in his early years.  He fathered a child out of wedlock. He partied hard. He also wrote the story of his dissipated youth and his conversion experience, The Confessions, and he left out none of the juicy parts. So, it is hard for the church to clean up his background and stick him into a stain glass window.

Augustine is quoted as saying,”God, give me chastity and continence…but not yet.” It’s hard to dislike somebody like that. Augustine was earthy and pragmatic, and somehow still intensely spiritual. He was totally human. He was a mensch. His present followers tend to be the same kind of people.

The Augustinians have other heroes. They look back at Augustine’s mother, Monica, who constantly prayed for her son’s conversion (and probably nagged him incessantly). They remember St. Rita of Cascia, and Thomas of Villanova. They also remember one other Augustinian friar, Martin Luther. Yeah, him.

The Augustinians have a sense of humor. They admire Luther in a backhanded sort of way. I have yet to meet an Augustinian who failed to smile when speaking about Martin Luther. He’s the rebel that they all wish they could be. He’s the man.

I don’t think that I will join with the Augustinians. I am more of a Franciscan/Catholic Worker kind of guy. However, I really do appreciate their path in life.

 

 

 

 

 

September 17th, 2018

The doorbell rang late yesterday afternoon. That always makes me a bit edgy. There was a time, not too long ago, when the only time the doorbell rang was when the local cops wanted to discuss the activities of a certain family member. When I went to the door, I was relieved to find that it was not an official visit this time.

Duane was waiting for me on the front porch. Duane and his family live in the house on the corner. Over the years, our neighborhood has slowly become more diverse: we have Muslim families, Latinos, Hmong. Duane’s family is, thus far, the only black household. The folks on our street tend to get along pretty well. Duane and his wife have been to our house a couple times. They always greet us with a smile, and they are, quite simply, good people.

Duane often sees me walking our daughter’s border collie, Shocky. Karin and I take of her pet while our daughter is away. Duane is aware that I take Shocky for very long walks along Oakwood Road. Oakwood, at one time, was a quiet country lane. Now, after the building of several subdivisions in the local area, it more closely resembles a race track. The road still only has two lanes to it, and there is no shoulder or sidewalk. A pedestrian, like myself, is by necessity on the road. Sometimes drivers have trouble understanding that fact.

Duane greeted me as I walked out the door to talk with him.

He said, “I brought y’all a present. I know you walk that dog at night, so I got you a leash that lights up in the dark. I don’t want you to die, Frank.”

That was very neighborly of him. It’s not often that people on our block show that much concern for my welfare.

In all honesty, I am somewhat negligent about safety precautions. I generally do not  wear reflective clothing. It is not unusual for me to walk the dog along Oakwood Road at 4:00 AM. A portion of the road is completely unlit. I know for a fact that some of the people going to their shitty jobs at that hour of the morning are either inattentive, or bleary-eyed, or both. They don’t see me and my black dog until the last possible minute. That probably scares the drivers more than it scares me.

Duane told me, “Frank, I almost hit you one time on the way to work. Well, you know, it’s because I didn’t see you.”

It’s comforting to know that Duane didn’t try to hit me on purpose. That wouldn’t be so neighborly.

I thanked Duane, and we talked for a bit. Then he went on home.

I walked Shocky this morning at 4:00. It was a clear night, with a sky full of stars. Oakwood Road was dark as the inside of a cow. I used my new, illuminated dog leash. It worked great. It kept Shocky safe. That’s a good thing.

Our daughter would be really pissed off if her dog got killed while I was walking her.

 

 

September 13th, 2018

This letter from me was posted by the Capital Times in Madison, WI, yesterday.

 

“September 11th, 2001, is a date that I will always remember, just as millions of other Americans will. What strikes me most is not the actual terrorist attack that occurred on that day. What I find most disturbing is the after effect of the attack, our country’s seemingly endless over-reaction to that act of horrific violence. The 9/11 attack killed thousands, but our actions since then have killed even more. During the last seventeen years, the United States has been in a number of wars that were somehow initially triggered by the attack on 9/11.

 

My oldest son fought in Iraq. He was deployed to fight in a country that had absolutely nothing to do with 9/11, but we invaded that nation anyway. My son got shot. He killed people. He came back a very different man. In a strange way, his experiences can be traced back to September 11th, 2001. Would we have ever invaded Iraq if 9/11 had not happened? Would my son have gone to war? How many more young people will go to war because of 9/11?”