jon d wilke's blog

Where Have All the Real Men Gone?

The irony of the moment was too perfect to be planned.  While listening to the radio on my last camping trip to the Land Between the Lakes Recreation Area (LBL), I heard two female intellectuals debating the definition of modern masculinity on National Public Radio.  In the time it took them to analyze why Johnny Depp's character, Captain Jack Sparrow, wore lace on his wrists in the latest Pirates release, I had cleared the soggy ash from my fire ring using my Marine Corps-issued E-Tool, started a small fire and set up my water point. 

For source information, these two women questioned each other, referenced current gender roles in Hollywood movies and interviewed one of Maxim Magazine's editors and another media type, but didn't speak to any real men.  The hostesses went on to discuss other metrosexual wardrobe trends, which I knew nothing about.  What I did know was how to pick a campsite in the Land Between the Lakes Recreation Area (LBL) located in Western Kentucky and Northwest Tennessee.  I knew my campsite needed adequate tree cover to block out the noonday sun and protect from the falling dew.  I also knew the direction of the nightly breeze and how to steer clear of poison ivy.  More importantly, I knew to get in and out of the woods before the Fourth of July holiday brought in all the party people, RVs and tourists.

While exploring LBL a couple of weeks earlier, I had found a great, secluded campsite called Gatlin Point.  I was determined to spend some time here, sleeping under the summertime stars before moving to Albuquerque, N.M., hiking, exploring the hardwood forest, watching for wildlife and just relaxing outdoors.

In the background the radio program continued, mixing in with bird calls, the blowing gusts in the tree tops and the confusion in my head.  I wondered.  Where have all the real men gone?  Where were the experts in manhood?  Why was someone not heralding the true virtues of manhood, namely integrity, leadership, courage, ability, resourcefulness and strength.

I guess all the real men were all unavailable for comment.  Some were fighting religious lunatics half-a-world away, others were battling wildfire blazes in Utah and Florida, and others were rescuing people from the rising waters in Eastern Texas.  Some were just out camping.

I Shook the Hands of Men

On Saturday, I shook the hands of men.

Despite the doom, gloom and boom on the 24-hour news networks, despite all the paralyzing fear and worry and despite the efforts of lunatic jihadists, they all came home. Thirty-four heroes returned home Saturday after a 15-month-long deployment to the war-ravaged city of Baghdad. The soldiers of C. Co., 2/123d Armor, the small National Guard unit here, were nearly hugged, kissed and applauded to death by the small community of Benton, Ky., again.

No more sand, no more bunks and no more worries about ambushes, IEDs or snipers. Again, Benton's small town streets were lined with hundreds of familiar faces, American flags, homemade banners and happy children.

I was proud of these men again. They had left their lives and their loved ones to cross the Atlantic Ocean and fight the war on terror again. These courageous Americans witnessed first-hand the clash of civilizations and the struggle for democracy again.

And again I felt the overwhelming flood of newness, hope and gratitude that only deployed troops know.

Nearly six years ago, I deployed as a sergeant with these "weekend warriors," most of whom were just awkward boys, quick to talk about their high school days, dream cars and favorite baseball players. One guy, who I'd rather not name, was the company goof-off, the boy of the boys. And although you didn't know whether to laugh or blush at his jokes, you always knew he needed to grow up. Another was a part-time-working pot smoker with the worst mouth on anyone I'd ever met. His incessant and excessive cursing was both embarrassing and hilarious. And his well-known marijuana habit was demotivating and the subject of many jokes.

With a big smile and a firm handshake, I walked around welcoming home "Charlie" company. Those who shook back were not the goofy boys I once knew who guzzled German hefeweisen and shouted drunken obscenities down cobblestone streets. Those boys lived lifetimes ago. These men now had mature glares, confidence, presence and unspoken knowledge of weightier matters. The company goof-off was now a purple heart recipient; his Humvee was rocked by an IED, and he lost part of his right hand. He now shook with his left hand and with an awareness that life at home would be different now.  And the loudmouth pot-head was now a quiet, commanding sergeant with clear career goals and Visine-white eyes.

On Saturday, I didn't shake the hands of boys I once knew; on Saturday, I shook the hands of men I'd never met.

Fun Journalism

One of the great things about journalism is the flexibility of stories.  Print-worthy story ideas can be found nearly anywhere by exercising your curiosity, and boring stories can become interesting stories when approached from a broader angle.  Take these two for example.

My captain asked me to write an article for a state-wide publication about the dual enlistment of a son and step-father.  This story could've been a simple stand-alone photo, but he wanted a full story.  So, I attempted to extract all the interesting information I could and subtly highlight some National Guard key messages,  such as Employer Guard Relations, tuition benefits, and other community connections.

A broader angle made this routine homecoming story a bit more interesting for the readers who could relate to being deployed and contributing to national security, all the while adding value and meaning to their service.  (In a community of roughly 30,000 in Western Kentucky, the War on Terror couldn't get much closer than this.)

Drive-in Drunk Driver

It finally happened.  Nearly five decades of DUI-free driving have come to an end.  My dad, 65 years old and stricken with cancer for 10 years, earned his first DUI.

No, he wasn't caught on one of the dozens of drives to pick me up for the weekend, during which I learned to count by playing "Bartender," handing him cheap beers or chilled liters of vodka or whiskey.  Nor was caught the day he rode his Honda Goldwing 240 miles to my house just to lay the bike over in the front ditch after a morning of heavy drinking.  He also wasn't caught any of the other 200-plus days a year he drove drunk.

This swerving bandit was nabbed at the local drive-in theater while attempting to reposition his pickup for the showing of the third Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy.  Family members report that he was attempting to pull forward while sitting in the passenger's seat when his foot slipped off the brake pedal, lurching the truck into another mobile moviegoer's vehicle.  The cops came, the grandson cried and the show went on.  Thankfully no one was hurt.

DUIs are no laughing matter.  Ask the Mothers Against Drunk Driving or the thousands of families that lose loved ones every year.  According to a 2006 report by the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, "Alcohol-related motor vehicle crashes kill someone every 31 minutes and injure someone every two minutes." 

Not only is this story newsworthy and timely (think Paris Hilton), it is also irony at its best because my dad was a professional drunk driver.

Growing up he espoused the following drunk driving guidelines:
1.  Always keep your beer down.
2.  Never drive more than seven miles per hour above the speed limit.
3.  Stay in your lane.
4.  Don't touch the lines.

(Note the absence of any drive-in guidelines).

When he told me about this recent event, I was shocked and amazed.  For all the years and all the miles he drove while under the influence, he finally got caught in a drive-in theater when moving the truck less than 10 feet.

I love my dad -- even if his driving record is not perfect.

The Abject Poverty Next Door

A strange and strong feeling ambushed me today; a sense of real innocence, real hope, and real opportunity afforded here in the United States.

Three young boys, in a "Tigger-like" state, bound past me through a wide living room. The oldest blurted out, "Is this our new place?"  Another sped down the length of the 10-foot-long hallway, peering into the different rooms, closing and opening closet doors.  The third went absolutely bananas over a bright green, broken Batman toy he found under the front door steps.  Enthusiasm and adventure overtook them as they explored their "new" 16-by-80 foot mobile home together.  Their joy ran rampant.  It was spontaneous.  And it was authentic.  I haven't seen joy like that in a while.

This "new-to-them" mobile home came with central heating and air conditioning, two bathrooms, a miniature dishwasher, and a number of other "modern neccesities."  For these boys, it meant adventure, comfort, and change.  They had a new yard to play in, new neighbors, and new windows.

This trio of boys are very poor by American standards.  The last place they lived in reeked of dried urine and month-old cat litter.  Countless windows were broken, the shards dangled at awkward angles.  Four scruffy cats used these openings like kitty expressways to the outside world.  Cardboard boxes covered up the larger holes.  L-shaped cigarette butts and speckle-gray ashes decorated shelving and empty bowls.  Nearly a third of the living room ceiling was missing, exposing the wooden structure beneath.  Piles of discarded bicycle parts, dingy pillows, and other undesirable items littered the front yard.  I haven't seen poverty like that in a while.

Last summer, when I was in the poverty-stricken village of Njoro, Kenya, masses of energetic children ran alongside the van, welcoming and greeting our strange white faces.  Their exuberance made me forget that they were extremely poor.  As those three boys sprang past me today, I forgot how poor they were too.  I never anticipated experiencing that feeling here in America.