Art in Life, Life in Art

In the Fall of 2014, I was blessed with the opportunity to act in a show entitled Take Me Out, by Richard Greenberg. The director had expressed his interest in working with me, but as the roles in the show would have it, his hands were tied (thanks to the playwright and artistic integrity) and I was cast as Takeshi Kawabata, the Japanese character in the play.

The story follows a fictional baseball team called The Empires, and their star player, Darren Lemming, has just made an announcement (via press conference) that he is gay. There are plenty of racial and homophobic controversies that ensue, all on the canvas of America's past time, baseball, and my role spoke to me so much, not just during the rehearsal process, but throughout the performance run.

Kawabata is one of the closers on the Empires roster. He is from Japan and speaks no English. He was signed by the Empires after dominating at home, and needed no translator, only a coach to put him in as needed and take him out when his time was done. He was disowned by his family for following a hobby as a career path, but came to America to play. And play, he did. Shoving off the circus that happened around him, he focused on the one thing that granted him purpose and peace: baseball. And he doesn't succeed at that, he takes it personally. And when he does, it's about the team. 

I had no idea that being Filipino and moving to the Midwest (intentionally) would be such a springboard for my growth in theatre as well as teach me so much about who I am as a man.

I am the middle child of two Filipino immigrants. Yes, I proudly claim my middle-child complex, and my status as a first-generation American. I more often identify myself as American than Filipino, and to be quite honest, I'm still struggling (spoken: growing) with that too.

Some Asian (and Filipino) stereotypes have been fulfilled. I was raised on a lot of meals that included rice. I love basketball. I was great at math through grade school, I learned to play the violin at a fairly young age. I enlisted in the Navy.

But this isn't about being Asian or Filipino. This is about me bringing Kawabata to life.

My desire to go into the arts was often frowned upon at home. It was beat into me that I should choose a career in math or science if I want to succeed. Or something "noble" like being a doctor, lawyer, or accountant. Nothing against those professions, they just weren't what I was interested in.

And so I went into the arts, but not without sailing away and coming home. Literally and figuratively. Because of my home life through high school (#LongStoryShort), I enlisted in the US Navy, and since I scored high enough on the ASVAB (95, baby!) I qualified to take the Nuke test. This test would determine if I could enter the Nuclear Training Program, and out of 80, I scored a 62, which was higher than my classmates who took the Nuke test earned  (and they earned 99's on the ASVAB). And I took it with pieces of scratch paper and no calculator. But it's not about that.

So I go into the Navy and train to be an Electrician's Mate. Put simply...engineering department on a submarine. As far away from the arts I could imagine, and right in line with what I "should be doing" as a my elders decreed. But I separated for a service-connected disability, and was honorably discharged.

And so, in my early twenties, with a much better work ethic than I had gone into the Navy with, I was faced with a huge question: What now?

So I resumed the path I wanted before I graduated high school - I went into the arts. I moved back to California and started at a community college in Northern California, DVC. And I couldn't be happier to be back in the theatre. Acting was great, learning to direct was even better. I directed my first full-length show, Stephen Adly Guirgis' Jesus Hopped the 'A' Train, and it put DVC on the map, and gave those of us involved a huge gold star in our lives.

I finished up my undergraduate education at Long Beach State (#GoBeach) and earned myself a Bachelor's of Arts in Theatre with an emphasis in Directing. As love and life would have it, I got married and moved out to the Midwest (away from all those I had networked and worked with in California) to start a new chapter in my life. Eventually I had returned to the theatre (spoken: after my divorce) and now enter, Take Me Out auditions.

So here I was, in a state I've never lived in, isolated by my own doing (my ex had moved back to California) and I was here to do what I've loved all along: contribute my art in a theatre. Through Take Me Out, I found more of myself in Kawabata than I had initially realized. Not because I am Filipino, but because of my life's path. I chose to focus on theatre, much to the dismay of many around me. I left an area that I did not feel was supportive of me in the ways that I needed and went to a place that felt welcoming. There I begin to thrive. There I find solace in many things I could not find else. 

Here in Indiana, I've signed with the Empires.

And now, in almost exactly a year's time from performing in Take Me Out, I'm getting ready to open a show that I've been given the opportunity to direct Water by the Spoonful (by Quiara Alegria Hudes) at the theatre company that I was blessed with a full-time job at as well. In the world of Take Me Out, Kawabata misses the mark and (#SPOILERALERT) the fastball doesn't end up in the catcher's mitt.

But that's a play, a scripted play, and I'm not Kawabata. I'm Deleon. And this isn't scripted. So I take the mound every game I'm called up for, and I throw the best game that I can.

For information on Water by the Spoonful, click HERE for the Facebook event or visit the South Bend Civic Theatre site HERE

10 Lessons from a Navy Seal

This came up in my Facebook feed today, and I watched it twice. I've seen it before, but like many things, words, songs, movies, advice...everything can sound different at different points in your life.

Aside from the last three words in this video, I could watch this ad nauseam. It truly is worth watching in its entirety. At least to me, but then again, I clicked on the link because an admiral was pictured, not because it said UT Austin.

Here is a Table of Contents, if you will, of the lessons the admiral shares. Please note that the titles listed below are of my own creation/annotation (and are for my own future reference):

• 1:24 Make decisions, or The Butterfly Effect
• 4:40 Make your bed, or Tasks and Goals
• 6:14 The boat crews, or Find Your Teammates
• 7:20 It's about heart, or Size Doesn't Matter
• 8:38 Uniform Inspections, or The Struggle of Perfectionists
• 10:06 Learn from everything, or Own the Circus
• 11:30 Dive head first, or Fly Outside the Box
• 12:50 Don't back down, or Shark Punching
• 14:00 Keep your cool, or Calmness in Calamity
• 15:38 Don't lose hope, or Singing while Sinking
• 17:50 Don't quit, or You Can't Un-Ring a Bell

#BoomerSooner

PBDC Day 27/31: Something I Made

Orange marmalade. Soy butter. Wheat bread. I took a picture of this not yet assembled sandwich this morning when I made it in case I didn't find anything better to take a picture of for the day.

And then this happened.

Duolingo, I know you're just using words I've already learned, but damn, this hit a major chord in a minor key. In the direct (and possibly most generally interpreted) manner, this sentence says that said soldier has no immediate family. Immediate family to mean nuclear family, parents and/or siblings. Or if they have their own family, a spouse, pets, and/or children. In that case, it's a heartfelt tug for the soldier who is "alone" with no one to write to, get letters from, or greet him/her at the airport or pier upon their return.

But once become a soldier, sailor, airman, reservist, member of the National Guard, Coastie, whatever you may call it, you are part of a family. Perhaps it becomes your second family. Your family away from home. Or even the only family you have. In any case, the soldier serves with brothers and sisters in arms, to protect the flag and everything the stars and bars represent.

And whether you believe in the military, the wars soldiers are sent to, or "stories" you may hear (but veterans and active duty can call experiences and simply "their life") are real things that they go through with, alongside, and in no way without their enlisted and commissioned family.

Just like "home" can be a feeling, "family" is as close, extended, expansive, and diverse as you make it.

That being said, Duolingo presented me with a gruesome pebble of a lie that snuck into my boot right before my division left the compartment to do drills on the grinder. It was that last pallet of supplies on the pier that left me with a splinter in the palm of my hand as I tossed it on top of the others before we untied and sailed off. It was that one local that had way more than any of us in the bar did that night that bumped into me and spilled the "one for the road" shot just before we piled into the duty van to head back to the boat that final night in port.

And so, I really didn't get to truly satisfy the prompt of the day until now. My writing a blog about the picture for Something I Made was somewhat of a prophecy or prediction. But now that I'm here at the end of this post, I can now present something I made.

PBDC Day 24/31: One of a Kind

This is my class ring.

Here's a look from the other side.

California State University, Long Beach. Class of 2011. Bachelor's of Arts in Theatre Arts-Performance, with an emphasis in Directing.

I couldn't tell you why I've wanted a class ring since high school, but I have. I think it's tied to me being a first-generation American in my family and hearing about how letterman jackets and class rings are often handed down as mementos of family tradition, but I'm unsure if that's exactly it. Well, high school came and went, without the letterman or class ring to show for it. After confirming my acceptance to Long Beach State, I knew that I would definitely be leaving college with two items-a diploma and a class ring.

I don't ever remember being a fan of yellow gold, and I've never really been attracted to the traditional sunburst design of class rings that remind of me of mafia dons and high-ranking clergy. So I opted for the rectangle-cut, shiny, smooth onyx (also because my birthstone isn't the appealing of colors) with basic engraving on the side. There were plenty of other graduates that year who were conferred B.A.'s in Theatre Arts, and as to make it unequivocally mine, I had my name engraved on the inside. (Added incentive, it may not take as long as this guy's ring did to get back to him.)

I didn't go to college right after high school. I spent more than four years working towards my degree. And I paid for college primarily with my own military service through the GI Bill. So yeah, my class ring is a tangible reminder of success through my own path. There are many like it, but this one is mine. #riflemanscreed #usmc #oneflagoneteam

PBDC Day 22/31: Morning

Each morning, when I wake up, regardless of what time it is, I open the blinds at the balcony door. Most days, it let's the sunlight in, but on those days when I've woken up before the sun has risen, I still open them.

I do this because I was on a submarine.

Yes, I've been out for almost ten years, but what I experienced and learned while in the US Navy (not to be confused with Old Navy, which I'm still happy to be with), applies to my life every single day and helps me to appreciate what's around me.

Let's just be out with it: There are no windows on submarines. Yeah, I know the Yellow Submarine, Nemo's Adventure at Disneyland, blazi, blazi, blah. But on actual functioning, deploying, diving, Silent Service submarines there are no windows or portholes to "watch the fish swim by" or "look to see where you are."

There are so many things that I appreciate so much more after having served aboard a submarine than before, one of which is natural light. Think of all those times you turned on a lamp out of habit instead of opening the blinds or drawing the curtains? If given a choice, I go with sunlight every time. It just feels better. Really.

Those days when you walk outside and literally stop for a couple seconds to feel the sun warm your face? When's the last time you did that in a hallway under fluorescent lights or LED lamps? That's right, you didn't.

I fully recognize that there are billions of people who will never experience the privilege (or sentence) of serving aboard a vessel devoid of windows and natural light like the USS Hyman G Rickover, SSN-709, but that doesn't mean you can't appreciate things many still take for granted.

Like that coffee maker on your counter, or that toaster. Or that water heater, oven, or dishwasher. Or those windows in your apartment that you live in by yourself with out hundreds of other people in the room with you. Or fresh vegetables and fruit.

I'm very proud to have served in the Navy, but also a little bit ashamed that it took me such a drastic lifestyle change to appreciate things I was privileged to have as a child, and still today. Like I said, you don't need to serve in the military to appreciate certain things (like those who served in the military), you just have to open your eyes are really see. Open your mind and really feel.

Open your heart and really live.

PBDC Day 10/31: Far Away

I love my job. I really do. There are aspects that are more challenging than others, and of those there are some that aren't directly business-related. They're challenging on a personal level. Like most folks I know, I didn't have the greatest self-esteem in high school. My self-image, at least in regards to physicality, was not very positive. In grade school I was always more comfortable around the girls. I was neither athletic nor aggressive, so those quiet ones that played off to the side by the swings with their hand games and jump ropes were definitely the ones I felt more comfortable around.

In the Navy I had the pleasure of serving aboard a submarine. That sounds more generic than I intended. I had the pleasure of serving aboard the USS Hyman G. Rickover, SSN-709 out of Norfolk, Virginia. This boat, like many submarines, had a crew without a single woman as a part of the team (or a married woman for that matter). Being in a male-dominated environment was new to me, especially being raised in a house under matriarchal rule.

The gender-role-imploding shell shock I experienced was amplified after I was discharged when I began a period of time where most of my time was spent in bars, mostly for work but also because it was a bar. I'm not proud to admit it, but in this period of time between the first time I got my heart demolished after boot camp and around when my time spent in bars was being phased out by time in the theatre, I didn't respect women as much as I could have.

I was surrounded by plenty of negative influences, but remained in contact with enough people who were grounded and just flat out nice that I finally made my way into the clear.

College helped me back onto my professional, respectful feet, and realizing how off the deep end I was as a single sailor, a traveling Army contractor, a bartender, and a karaoke DJ, it became clearer that I was finally heading in the right direction.

Once I started at Old Navy I discovered a great opportunity for improvement in my interpersonal communication: how I communicate with women in regards to their physical appearance. From a traditional background (some may call it "old-fashioned") I was raised to never ask a woman her age, weight, or anything that may require her to divulge information about her body shape, size, or general opinion about her self-image.

Today I broke through a wall.

Two woman were in the fitting room area while I was at work today, the slimmer one, "Jane" we'll call her, with a couple pairs of shoes in her hand as moral support for "Jenny," the other, as she was looking for new jeans. Approaching them to help them out, Jenny was blunt in her request, asking if she could "possibly find jeans to fit this"--at which point she turned around and lifted her sweater to show her butt (still clothed of course). She said she had lost some weight recently and had no idea as to even what size she would start with.

I admitted that I felt like guessing her size would be as awkward and possibly as offensive as guessing someone's age, but she said I couldn't offend her if I tried. Luckily, she told me that the men's jeans she was wearing were a 32 or 34, and she had no way of knowing this, but having tried on some women's pants the other day (Day 7: Fly) I knew exactly what size a 34" waist would translate to being that was my size.

I told her that I wore a 34" waist and that perhaps a 12 would be best. She cringed at the number, and without hesitation I replied, "people won't be commenting on what number they think your jeans are, they'll notice if they fit you or not." To which her friend Jane turned to me and thanked me for my encouraging words and a good point. But it's really true. Take a wedding dress for example. Say you purchase a 12, but you need it altered as the wedding gets closer, or for an extreme example, you need a new one in a size or two larger or smaller. Guests at the wedding won't be sitting out there saying, "OMG she used to be a 12, but now she's in a 16," they'll be focusing on how good you look in whatever size dress you wear. (However, if your "friends" are guessing your size and criticizing that, then maybe you need to rethink your circle of friends.)

Over the next 20 minutes or so, I brought Jenny different shirts to go with a couple of pairs of jeans I was able to strategically suggest, and without realizing it until later this evening, I got over my apprehension for constructive criticism in the fitting room and was able to help Jenny go home with some new jeans that she didn't think she would find.

My point is this--we obsess over numbers. 14, 16, 2, 0, oh, the unattainable 0, or 6, whatever you were before. Or another example, benching 150 vs 120, running a mile in 9 minutes vs 8:30, or eating four slices of pizza versus 3.

Who's holding you to a certain size? The fashion industry? Magazines? Musicians and actors who have personal trainers and spend more time working out than you do working to pay your bills? So, I ask you again, who are you trying to impress by attaining a certain size? Who's putting that pressure on you?

YOU ARE.

One of the many things I've come to realize in the last seventeen months I've been with Old Navy is something very simple and in plain sight for everyone to see...

Clothes are made in multiple sizes for a reason. And that reason is that people come in multiple sizes.

Stop obsessing about what size you wear and pay attention to how it fits you. I don't care if you could fit into an 8 in high school, you aren't in high school any more. Or maybe you had a 30 inch waist a few years back and now you're a 36.

THEY MAKE CLOTHES IN ALL SIZES SO YOU CAN FEEL COMFORTABLE IN A SIZE THAT FITS YOU PROPERLY.

I know I'm just one guy. One man. One person at an Old Navy in Indiana, but hopefully more than a few people will read this.

This scale is in my bathroom at home. I don't use it often, and whenever I do I think to myself exactly what I was saying above, "Why am I targeting a specific weight when I could be focusing on just being healthy and being comfortable with myself?"

Well, today I've broken through a wall that will help me provide better customer service to Jennies in the future. And maybe I'll mention to a few more when I notice a cringe or hear a groan whenever a size comes up. I know it isn't in my job description to help someone feel better about themselves, but it is in my job description to provide excellent customer service. If I can do that by ensuring they leave with a new outfit that they love and that she feels great in, then yes, I'll keep providing great customer service.

The numbers of sizes and measurements are there to help us find what we can use. They aren't there to trap us or make us feel bad about ourselves. I took a big step today with this, and it may only be one step, but it's a step. Maybe I can help alter the perspective of a few people here and there. Or maybe just one. I wish I could see a time when there people stop obsessing over their sizes, but that day seems so far away.

PBDC Day 9/31: 10AM

Daylight Savings Time is just one of those things that a enough guys thought was a good idea. Similar to how being 18 means you're responsible enough to vote. Or the drinking age of 21. Or my favorite seemingly random bonus that gets unlocked at the age of 25--car insurance dropping. Now that one was awesome.

I get it, spring forward, fall back, let's squeeze more productivity out of daylight hours, and all that jazz. The only instance I really remember DST having an affect on my day was in the fall a few years back when I was still in the Navy. We were out at our regular bar and instead of closing at 2AM we set the clocks back an hour just like we're supposed to and the bar roared like it was New Year's Eve. Other than that, I really only hear about it by people complaining about "Oh, I lost an hour of sleep," or if someone's confused about "losing" or "gaining" an hour.

Whether you call it losing an hour of sleep or gaining an hour of sunlight, I got to take a little trip this morning when my wife took us to brunch to a place I'll never get tired of.

If you've lived in a state east of the Rockies there's a good chance you've played this wonderfully frustrating peg game at the table while you're waiting for your order that probably has grits, biscuits and gravy, fried apples, or fried okra, or all of the above.

If you don't know where I'm talking about, it's Cracker Barrel. Yup, that Cracker Barrel with the oversized checkers on the table by the rocking chairs outside and the Old Country Store inside with all the classic toys and treats you don't find in many other places.  The westernmost Cracker Barrel I've been to was in Utah, almost five years ago to the day now that I think about it. I was introduced to the down home goodness in South Carolina, and I was glad to see her again when I moved to Virginia. California isn't privy to these country delicacies, as it is one of eight states that isn't home to the national chain. And to complete the shunning of the west coast, there are none in Oregon or Washington either.

And boy was brunch awesome. I done stuffed myself with so much gravy-covered awesome that I took a nap when I got home.

This is my view at 1PM Eastern Time, and so that would make it 10AM back home in California. If I was back in the bay area right now I'd probably be with a pair of the coolest twins I've ever met, Mando and Mandy.

Alex, myself, Candy, and Mandy circa 2006

Banks, me, Mer, and Mando before the KCACTF closing in '09

Having lived in a few different states, calculating time zone differences has just been something I've learned to work around since I was seventeen in boot camp in Illinois (Central Time). Now living in Indiana (Eastern Time) state but staying in contact with family back in California (Pacific Time), thinking about time zones has happened a lot. I try to be conscientious when I text people because I know not everyone turns off their ringers when they go to sleep. (Note: I do, if you're looking for a captive audience in my voicemail when you're ragin in Vegas. I'll enjoy the hilarity the next morning.)

But anyway, it's Mando and Mandy's birthdays today and if I was in the bay, I'd be partying with them because if there's any crew that knows how to party, it's theirs. 

Happy Birthday, Mandy and Mando. Play some beer pong for me and pour some out for the Familia. Church! (Or as Meredith shared recently: Sooth!)

PBDC Day 3/31: My Name Is

Initial reaction: Roots. And I don't mean The Roots like on The Tonight Show. If you don't get know the reference, watch this clip.

Next up? Marshall Mathers.

(If you didn't get either reference, I applaud the degree of hermitic lifestyle, because you're still reading a blog on the internet yet you can't identify a pair of rather considerable pop culture references.)

Even after a month of taking daily photos, there are still photos that are point blank with little artistic composition (at least to myself).

Yep, that's my name as presented for public consumption every day I go to work. All of our name tags are typed in all capital letters, and that's A-OK with me because it alleviates any confusion.

Usually, when I introduce myself to people, I give them one of two taglines.

• Marlon, like Marlon Brando without the Brando.
• Marlon, like Nemo's dad from Finding Nemo.

I know that the latter is technically "Marlin" (ooh, like the sport fish!) but when it comes to pronunciation, it works just as well.

Around 2005, I was at a Starbucks in northern California, and after placing my order the young girl behind the register asked for my name.

Cashier: And your name?
Me: Marlon.
Cashier: What?
Me: Marlon. Like Marlon Brando without the Brando.
Cashier: Who?
Me: Marlon Brando. The Godfather? Streetcar?
Cashier: *blank stare* Uh, no.
Me: So, Marlon, like Nemo's dad in Finding Nemo.
Cashier: Finding What?
Barista: Finding Nemo. P. Sherrrrman 42 Wallaby Way, Sydney. Do you live under a rock?
Me: *deep breath* Marlon. M-A-R-L-O-N.

Obviously, had I just spelled my name out in the beginning, there would be no shameful expose of her lack of both a current pop culture reference and an homage to one of the greats. But I attribute my apparent whirling dervish of trivial pursuit to my shock that I was 0 for 2 in my references that, to this day, is the only instance in which neither option helped to clarify.

Most Marlons I've met have been Hispanic or Black. I've met one other Filipino Marlon, and one white Marlan. Yes, MarlAn. And he was the only Marlan I've ever met.

Occasionally, what starts as me saying "Marlon" at the register morphs into "Marlen" or even further than the original, "Marlene," to which I receive sideways glances when someone who is not a female as they anticipated walks up to the pick up counter.

Other times, What was scribbled as "Marlon" is read as "Marion," and the same confused glances are shot out. I did meet one Marion who is a guy, but he wasn't fond of his first name because he thought it was too feminine, so he went be his middle name, Lynn. True story.

My middle name has provided an additional layer of administrative awkwardness.

Until about junior high, I understood middle names to be the place for the mother's maiden name. After all, that was the structure of my name as I learned it.

Marlon de La Cruz de Leon.

"de La Cruz" was from my mother's side and "de Leon" from my fathers. (For more on the "de Leon," see February's Day 20/28: The Written Word.) Not surprisingly, when I enlisted, and I mean literally as I was enlisting aka filling out and signing all the paperwork at MEPS, I learned the true story of my middle name.

I didn't have one.

All of my papers I had signed with the full three-segment name from a few lines up. When they asked to see my Driver's License, I admitted I didn't have one. So they asked for my Social Security card, which only listed a middle initial of "D." When turning to my birth certificate for corroboration of "D." as the middle's place holder, we were faced with blank. Literally. There is no listed middle name on my birth certificate.

At that moment, I finally learned my official, legal name.

MARLON D. DE LEON

As the aforementioned Day 20 post outlines, my last name has evolved into "Deleon," but the "D." has held fast.

A few Google searches revealed that there are plenty of "Marlon Deleons" in the world, but I'm the only one consistently listed as "Marlon D. Deleon," so I hold onto it very tightly.

And so the issue of the Dee Period rears its head. Similar to Hiram Ulysses Grant, or as you may recognize it, Ulysses S. Grant, the middle initial is a floater. In Grant's case, the "S" was ill-placed by another gentleman, but then played it off saying it stood for his mother's maiden name (that sounds familiar...). As for myself, I've considered a few options

1. Righting the traditional omission and making my middle name Delacruz.
2. Leaving it as "D."
3. Picking a brand new middle name for myself that begins with the letter "D".

The third is my favorite option, and having a theatrical background and personality, I thought of one candidate that would be a wonderful conversation starter.

Danger.

Listed at the top of my resume, Marlon Danger Deleon, to which I would honestly reply, "Yes, 'Danger' is my middle name."

In response to the well-known Shakesperean question, "What's in a name?" I give you this post. But before I sign off, I will share the story behind my being named "Marlon", of which I only learned in the last ten years.

My mother's name is Maria Elena. To many she became Marilyn. And if you say it fast enough (try it with a Filipino accent) and masculinize it, it becomes...Marlon.

For a while it was nice to think that I may have been named after the great actor Marlon Brando, and sometimes it still does put a smile on my face to find a thin connection with such an icon, but learning the truth behind those six letters together drove another stake into the metaphorical plot of land I know as my life.

It's fun to realize how much I can actually say about my name. I don't think it to be conceited or narcissistic, but just generally interesting. And to think that my name is an anagram for "normal"...

The Post Game Show: Photo and Blog a Day Challenge-February

Ahh, March. The shortest of months is behind us, Saint Patrick's Day is just over two weeks away, and I can now say that I have successfully completed my challenge. On the first of February, I shared this post, Day 1/28: Light, which also outlined my self-imposed Photo and Blog a Day Challenge.

Here are the four most popular posts from last month:

#4 Day 5: On My Nightstand

With such little furniture in my apartment, taking the literal approach to this post was not an option. What became was a testimony to how important friends are, no matter how far you are, how little touch you may keep in, and the affect they have your life forever. Miss you all


#3 Day 27: In Love With

The cheesy road would have deemed a post about my wife. At least, I thought it would be the cop out plan, so I challenged myself by taking a photo I've never taken anything similar to. (I was going to say "a photo I've never taken before," but every photo I shoot is one I've never shot before.) What I mean is that I've never shot a composition like the one I did for this prompt. I not only took a naked photo of myself, but posted it on the internet (with little fear of reprisal or censorship).


#2 Day 8: Frozen

Growing up in California, having this long winter (first snow was in mid-November, and we're supposed to get more this first weekend in March) has presented me with plenty of new writing fuel--snow. You don't get to see individual snowflakes very often, and so I captured it for the day's composition...and turned it into a discussion about creationism and evolution with a direct connection to the Bill Nye/Ken Ham "debate" (term used loosely).

#1 Day 9: Under

When I enlisted in the Navy nearly fifteen years ago, I had zero piercings or tattoos, had never drank alcohol, hated country music, and thought pick up trucks were ridiculous. In the course of a 26 month period I volunteered for fourteen tats from seven different states. And then the ink stopped flowing. Until February 9th, 2014. A new man, married, living in a new state, with a new love for writing, the needle would meet me skin again.

So what did I learn in the last month? Plenty of things.

I love telling stories.
I love sharing positive messages.
I love my friends, who are my family.
Writing every day is easier than I thought it to be. (I didn't even write every day during NaNoWriMo last November, but I still won.)
Taking pictures is fun.
The versatility of the mobile phone camera is amazing.
The art is not in the camera, it's in the composition.
The story is up to me.

And so, with a new month upon me, I plan to continue to the wonderful writing workout plan with a photo and blog a day. There were plenty of times last month that I wanted to write more than one blog a day, but my structure-loving side did not want the list of Photo and Blog a Day Challenge posts to have a rogue post among them. But March, oh March...you're gonna get slammed like a frat boy on St. Patty's Day.

In the words of Barney Stinson...Challenge Accepted!

Photo and Blog a Day Challenge-Day 28/28: Up

I love seeing the sun rise. As I ready myself for March, having the long winter we've been experiencing here in Indiana, seeing the sun, even for just a few minutes is a sign of warmth to come. The sun coming up symbolizes so many things: new beginnings, a reminder of how the world operates in cycles, you've been at the strip club too long, the list goes on.

Typically, I view the sunrise in a positive light, accepting it as day greeting me with warmth, illumination, and a brand new start. Lately, because of the clouds, there have been plenty of mornings where the sunrise has been blocked from view, but I know it's still there.

I also enjoy a nice sunset. This next picture I captured just over a month ago as I leaving work. Enjoying a break in the clouds as the sun shared some warmth in the frigid Indiana air, I felt a sense of relief with the vision of an oasis of seasons warmer.

Whenever I look up at the sky, even at night when I see if I can find my favorite constellation, Orion, I take a couple of deep breaths and think for a few moments to bask in the concept of how large our world and universe really is. And most times, I smile about it because the perspective helps me refocus myself and realize that there are things I can directly affect and things I cannot.

Perspective is a wonderful thing, and as I got home today after work I paused for second to capture my view when I walk into our building.

Just a simple set of stairs, leading up to our second floor apartment. Here are the same stairs after completing the journey up one flight.

The latter of the two stairs photos I like more, and I think it's because of the red front door, appealing to the eye, inviting me to adventures of the day. But the first photo, the one looking up, it literally lifts me off the ground to a place where my wife and I call home. 

And when I think about that, us living on the second floor of our building, it shows me that where we live is literally separated from the ground we walk, drive, work, and spend most of our days. When we are home, we are somewhat isolated and above much of what goes on (but not in a condescending, "we're above you" in regards to social class manner). I mean that in regards to safety and security. As I take the stairs up to The Farm (as we like to call it), I am granted a physical indication that what happens at home is completely separate from any stressors in the outside world. Together, at home, we can rise above all the garbage and negativity and hate to create a safe place for ourselves where we alone can forge our identity as a married couple.

Perspective really is everything. How you look at things in your everyday life can truly alter how you view your own life. From a new pair of shoes (Day 21: Tiny), to pocket-sized tokens (Day 15: In My Hand), or even the music you allow yourself to be swallowed by (Day 12: Can't Go Without), these last 28 days, 28 photos, and 28 blogs have become a journey in finding my voice.

I absolutely love being able to find positivity, motivation, and encouragement in things that are shared by everyone, things that I am surrounded by every day. And furthermore, I am so thankful that I am able to share this message and these stories with anyone that feels curious enough to peer inside my soul for a blog post here and there.

But what I love the most about writing is that, as my friend Angela and I like to put it, as writers, we are gods of our literary worlds. When a writer shares their imagination on paper, or a screen, or a couple of napkins, or on the walls of a subway station, they bring you on a journey that you had no idea was even there before you saw it.

And the most accessible example of how creative writers can be is at the top of this blog, because both of the pictures I shared are of sunsets. But if you take a picture of a sunrise or sunset and show it to someone who has no perspective of the environment in which the photo resides, they leave it up to you to provide context, either in a caption or a well crafted introduction.

But I really do love sunrises.

Photo and Blog a Day Challenge-Day 27/28: In Love With

The first school play I was ever in was in the fifth grade, and it was a class play (meaning everyone in the class was in it). It had an educational theme to it, being set in a classroom and pertaining to much of the curriculum that year--states and capitals. Despite my enthusiasm for the production, I was not given the opportunity for a lead role since my teacher did not believe I could focus enough to learn all the lines. So I had one of the smallest roles in the show, a boy named Jimmy Johnson (maybe that's really why I don't like the Lowe's 48 #NASCAR #StandWithSmoke), and my first line in the play was, "I'll say!"

When I was in high school I landed my first lead role-with the church theatre group-and I later found out that I wasn't cast based on talent, but because I was the only male that fit the lead's character description. With my high school drama program I was cast in my first musical, Little Shop of Horrors, and although I felt my nerdiness made me a lock for the lead of Seymour, I was cast to appear onstage as an unnamed supporting role ("Wino) in the opening number, but then sat in the orchestra pit to be the voice of the plant, Audrey II. At five feet, two inches tall, and about 120 pounds soaking wet, most audiences didn't believe that such a little guy supplied the booming voice for the alien plant--but I did. Well.

Through my time at Diablo Valley College I was blessed with an array of works to perform with: Shakespeare's MacBeth, Moliere's The Imaginary Invalid, an original Greek work by Nicole Hess-Diestler and Zach Diestler called Iphigenia at Aulis. There were numerous scene studies, or Brown Bags as we'd call them, where I was given great opportunities to delve into pieces by John Patrick Shanley (Frankie and Johnny), Emily Mann (The Execution of Justice), David Rabe (Hurlyburly). And there were even a couple of musicals, Bat Boy, a contemporary rock musical, and Some Enchanted Evening, a Rodgers and Hammerstein revue.

At Cal State Long Beach I played a cholo (Los Lobos de la Noche), an Indian boy (A Chance, an original piece by Chetan Sanathara), a Shakespearean father (Gentlemen Redux), and a gay man (Our Lady of 121st Street).

With the shows that I have been fortunate enough to be in, I've been challenged and stretched and corraled and set free. And even with my tattoos (which are something many of my theatre classmates considered to be taboo or too cumbersome to have to work around), I didn't have to cover them up in as nearly many shows as I was asked to show them off. Actually, for my role in Los Lobos they actually added more tattoos. And through all of this: Shakespeare, Greek, Moliere, cholo, Indian, gay, original pieces, I never had to be naked onstage. In a piece I directed, The Big Funk, by Shanley, one of my actors had to be naked, and I mean fully naked, no socks, dance belts, or nothing, but I myself had never been naked on stage.

Being naked is a scary thing for many people. Taking a shower or bath is probably the one thing that most people can be comfortable doing naked. Yes, I omitted sex, because 1. you don't have to be completely naked (#socks #shirts) and 2. being this intimate with someone doesn't necessarily mean you're absolutely comfortable with being naked.

So that leaves showertime as the singular occasion of being comfortable with nakedness.

I write quite a bit about positivity, especially in regards to loving one's self, and although it probably won't come as a surprise, I feel it to be a strong gesture to say it explicitly. I'm not always happy with my body.

In more bathrooms than not, stepping out of the shower usually places me face to face with the mirror above the sink. Nothing like starting your day with a vigorously hot shower, reviving you from your slumber, only to be slapped in the face by, well, your face...above your naked body. This is typically not the best feeling. 

But recently, I've been better about accepting my awesomeness and being happy with who I am. How much better? I took a picture of myself after I got out of the shower today.

With my hair messy and still a little bit wet, unkempt eyebrows center stage, I took a picture of myself at a time when I would normally not want anyone to see me. But today I do. Because I love who I am and I'm in love with myself. Not in a narcissistic way, but in a way that is in reply to, "If you don't love yourself, why should anyone else be?"

I'm a pretty hairless guy. Have you ever seen me with a mustache? Or a goatee with some sweet chops to frame it? Nope. And my hairless back (which I'm not complaining about) pictured above is right in line with my unmanly (by stereotypical standards) hairless chest.

This commercial was a nice reminder that every style is ok. Thanks, Genesis. #CallMe

The tattooed cat is out of the bag, and my upper back tattoos are now for everyone to see in all its bloggy glory. Kanjis for "wisdom" (Connecticut) and "loyalty" (Virginia), an anchor-inspired Sagittarius symbol (NorCal), and a modification of the Alexander Pope quotation, "To err is human, to forgive divine." (Montana).

I used to think that tattoos helped to draw attention away from parts of my body that I did not wish to show off (especially in my beach bum days when all I wore was a hat and a pair of board shorts), but I have since then refocused my appreciation for my ink as I became a curator of my own gallery. The tattoos on my skin are like patches on a cruise jacket-symbolizing deployments, missions, and battle groups.

Being on stage naked was something that many of us talked about in school, mostly in a fearful light. Just thinking about all those people and making eye contact with them afterwards knowing that they saw you in such an adulterated manner without reciprocation. But with live theatre, after the moment it's gone. With photography, that moment is frozen in time forever. 

But what good is a moment unless it's shared with others. So I wanted to share it with everyone (thanks to body positioning and framing a tasteful shot).

I am in love with myself. That's the healthiest, most fulfilling love anyone can have, and everyone should.

Photo and Blog a Day Challenge-Day 22/28: I See

Last night I watched Good Will Hunting. Not on television, but on a DVD, uncensored and uninterrupted by commercials. It wasn't the first time seeing the film, and it certainly won't be the last, now that I own a copy I can watch at will. (See what I did there?) As I was watching the relationship between Will and Sean develop in the therapy sessions, I said to myself, "This movie is like Fight Club." Anyone worth their weight in homemade soap from the Paper Street Soap Company would immediately recognize the ridiculousness of that last thought. Allow me to expound. Even if you don't, it's my blog, so I will.

The first time I saw Fight Club (I had not read the book yet) it was 2001 and I was living in an apartment in South Carolina. I spent more nights sleeping on the couch downstairs because that's where the TV was. One day I woke up to a particularly interesting movie with Edward Norton and Brad Pitt, so I continued to watch. Unsure of how much I had missed, I tried to piece together what I could as the film went on. Needless to say, it was a mess trying to catch up. Here and there I would catch it on TV, but again would miss parts here and there. Finally, around the fourth or fifth time I had caught it flipping through channels, I finally saw it from start to finish. And to use a cliché (that I've heard many use, but I myself do not identify with) it's like the first time I heard the Beatles. The more I watched Fight Club the more I understood a little bit more of myself. Each time I watched I noticed a little bit more about the movie, Tyler Durden, and Norton's character.

2001 was full of turning points. I got my first apartment. I learned to drive. I got my driver's license. My paternal grandfather died. I graduated from  the Navy's Nuclear Pipeline. September 11th. My first love dashed any penciled in future I had in mind and wrote us into friendzoned cells with walls thicker than the Great Wall of China. I got drunk for the first time. I started casually dating (or at least attempted to).

Fight Club became to me a sort of fireworks display when my life's sky went black. It showed me that I could still be the same nice, friendly, fun-loving kid I was in high school, but still have the stereotypical sailor side that I was finding on my own. Marlon was The Narrator and Petty Officer Deleon was Tyler Durden.

Going back to Good Will Hunting, as I was watching the young punk of a genius feign and jab at the MIT graduate from Southie, I had a pleasant sense of déja vu. As I had mentioned earlier, this was not the first time I had seen GWH, but something about this time made it click differently. Maybe it was the way Will knew exactly what to say to all the other therapists in their pre-therapy screenings. Or the way he rationalizes not working for the NSA. Or maybe it's how Sean, serene and wise to most, instills fear in the tough kid from a broken past with a single-handed choke hold against the window. Whatever it was, whether it was the theme of therapy, acknowledging the truth, pushing away others, or welcoming someone into your life so much they have no choice but to see the truth, that movie rocks me like when Fight Club's Narrator realizes the gun is in his hand.

And then I realized I have a gross obsession with stories involving drastic personality dichotomies because I feel I can relate to them.

Fight Club--Narrator and Tyler Durden
Good Will Hunting--Will Hunting and Sean Maguire
The Silence of the Lambs--Dr. Lecter and Agent Starling
Hannibal (TV series)--Dr. Lecter and Will Graham

While the rest of my Facebook feed has been filled with Breaking Bad, The Walking Dead, and [insert Netflix series here], I'm like, "Hannibal! Hannibal! Hannibal!" Honestly though, I'm not generally one to follow a television series. I'll watch sports and movies if I have control of the remote. But with the magic of DVR during the show's first series, I dove headfirst into the most brilliant show I've ever chose to sink my teeth into. Everything in show amazes me. The acting by Hugh Dancy (Graham) and Mads Mikkelsen (Lecter) in addition to the strong ensemble around them, the writing, the scoring, the images, plotlines, and progressions...EVERYTHING.

They didn't pay me to write this, but who am I kidding, here's a Season One Recap if you didn't watch or if you wish to enjoy the quick trip down memory lane.

With today's photo, I showcase how I'll be able to do my own Season One Recap

When I saw the prompt for the day, my Fannibal mind immediately thought of Hobbs telling Graham to see. See the clip "See" for a turning point in Will's relationship with his psychiatrist, friend, and antagonist, Hannibal Lecter.

I know I'm one in seven billion. And more times than not it's fantastic. But there are times when I wish I was easier to relate to. To console. To connect with. To help. Sometimes I think I'm as complicated as The Narrator, or Will Hunting, or Sean Maguire, or Will Graham, or Hannibal Lecter. Or David Dunn. Or David Webb.

But then I see.

I see myself like Water.
I see myself on my own Two feet.
I see my Mind.

And more importantly. I like what I see. Well, to be more specific. I love what I see now. What I see now is very Different from what I saw nine years ago.

So yes, I see.

Photo and Blog a Day Challenge-Day 15/28: In My Hand

I'm not going to lie. I thought (for a period of  time longer than I wish to admit) of how I could take a picture of my phone in my hand. With my phone. Without making it a bathroom selfie. I did think of the pictures from posts on Day 1: Light, Day 8: Frozen, and Day 12: Can't Go Without, but I felt reusing photos went against the unwritten rules since the Photo A Day challenge is to encourage you to take new photos everyday.

I wanted to take a photo using the sky as the background, but I waited too long and the sun washed it out:

Looking at the picture again it reminds me of the turtles in the EAC in Finding Nemo. Like it's eating a Pac-Man dot.

So I came back inside and threw this bad boy together

My class ring I normally wear with the stone facing up, but I turned it around to join the Squadron 8 shark in today's composition.

What you see in today's photo is a command coin from SUBRON Eight. Submarine Squadron Eight, out in Norfolk, Virginia. Here's the flip side of it:

If this is your first time to my blog, I served in the US Navy from '99-'04, and my last year was with Squadron Eight as a Commodore's Assistant/unofficial yeoman.

We had a little get together before I had separated in September of 2004, and as Master Chief Bobby Allen shook my hand, I received what he had been palming on the way over. As a young sailor receiving a command coin from the Master Chief of Squadron Eight on his way out of the Navy that he would not be able to retire from (I was being discharged for medical reasons), this was a great honor, and wonderful token to take with me. For years I kept inside a nice wooden display case, alongside a coin from the Deep Submergence Rescue Vehicle team I had helped out while I was still stationed on the Rickover, but when I moved to Indiana, I decided to start carrying it in my pocket again.

I like reminders. Some I have tattooed on my body (see Day 9: Under for the latest one), others I wear, like my class ring, a symbol of the milestone I accomplished in education and art, and others, like the Squadron 8 coin, I carry with me. I started carrying it with me because moving here has been difficult, and I've been through challenging situations before: boot camp, deployments, involuntary medical separation from a Navy I gave myself wholeheartedly to, so as long as I remembered that I can make it through, and that I've been through worse, I keep going.

Maybe "reminders" isn't the best choice of words. "Affirmations" is more fitting, and although I'm not at the point that this little girl is at (see here for affirmation awesomeness), I bring with me reminders and affirmations that I can succeed, I have succeeded, and that I can continue to.

It may not be as easily recognizable as a gold medal, but that's the great think about tokens, reminders, and affirmations--they are better if they are personal and individualized.

So thank you Master Chief Allen, Senior Chief Baisley, Petty Officer Hilton, Captain Tanaka, Commander Ekker, and Commodore Connor for welcoming me into Squadron Eight and appreciating me as a young sailor on my way out. As you can see, it hasn't been forgotten.

Photo and Blog a Day Challenge Day 4/28: A Convenience

When I woke up this morning and finally got to my phone, I checked out the photo prompt for the day. Now, I'm not as creatively diligent about this photo a day challenge as I just made it sounds, I changed my phone's home screen to the list of daily photo challenges. (It isn't too late to join, so you can check it out in my Day 1/28 post here.)

Seeing that day four's challenge listed "a convenience" I almost took a picture of the toilet. Because yeah, think about it. Plumbing is a luxury. I know we've come a long way since medieval potholes, but still, you take that porcelain pot for granted. It swallows your waste every day and you don't even say thanks.

But I opted to pass on the first idea that came to mind. Another idea was my car, but that was quickly scratched. Then I thought about my shoes. Those are definitely a convenience. I may occasionally refer to them as a necessity, but they really aren't. There are sandals and socks, and even bare feet days. That being said, they aren't a necessity, they're a convenience. Even so, it was not the one I wanted to highlight.

On my way home from work I thought about some food we had in the fridge, and I pictured one of my favorites--eggs. Fresh raw eggs in their foamy box of a home awaiting your next culinary creation. Whether you're hard boiling them or getting ready to crack their shells and release they gooey, slimy goodness into a hot pan, a bowl of dry ingredients for a baked treat. I wasn't a huge fan of eggs growing up, they were ok, just not crazy about them. Hard boiled eggs I've always enjoyed, however.

It wasn't until I joined the Navy that I really began to appreciate fresh eggs. Large pans of what was being passed off as scrambled eggs. Not a sunny side up in sight for miles. And then once I got to my sub, the limitations of food storage on board meant plenty of canned foods, pouches of Just Add Water foods, and questionable substitutes.

But in port there were fresh fruits, vegetables, and eggs. Oh, the fresh eggs. The omelets with chopped veggies, the sunny side punctured on my plate wiped up with toast, reaching out to my bacon. EGGS.

But still, I do not nominate them to IG/Blogger stardom.

And then I see it. This...

My contribution to the Photo and Blog Challenge for A Convenience is a dumpster.

(I'm taking a moment to pat myself on the back for the happy accident of a full literary circle that I've created for myself.)

The dumpster, like the toilet I saw earlier this morning, is a vessel for our waste. Granted, it's not the same type of waste, but it's still trash we don't want around our home. Another convenience I believe many take for granted.

What if the dumpster wasn't there and we had to all take individual trips to landfills, or incinerators, or worse, just litter? Maybe we'd be better at composting, or creating less waste, so maybe it's partially enabling, but still..the dumpster is a sweet convenience.

And as I think about trash aboard the submarines...crushing cans and keeping them on board for weeks at a time...it isn't pretty. So yeah, the dumpster wins my vote for today.

And it helped me take another few moments today to realize how good life really is, and that too many things are taken for granted and are just accepted as necessity.

sailor completes the circle

We’ve all heard it, and probably at some point said it,

“There’s no ‘I’ in ‘team’,”

…but in the first three minutes of the OU/Notre Dame game this past Saturday there were a couple of INTs (#boomersooner)

(As a Sooners fan living in the South Bend area, I had to bring that back up, but it really does keep me on track.)

Whenever I think of teamwork, I think of sports. To some extent, I find this ironic because I’ve never considered myself an athlete, and growing up as a first-generation Filipino American, a life in the big leagues just wasn’t in the cards for me. My owners force-fed the importance of science and math in my life and wanted nothing to do with sports as a recreational activity.

Growing up watching His Airness on TV, I had a literal hoop dream of being the first Filipino-American in the NBA.

Our pastor at church even approached my mother and asked if I could play for the CYO team at church, and she said, “oh no, no, no. He’d get run over by all the big, black people.” True story. She said this to the pastor.

In high school, I wasn’t allowed to even try-out for the basketball team (not that I would have made the cut), but I did get to participate as a team manager at home games. The basketball coach was also the men’s tennis coach, and after noticing my ability to cover the court fairly well in gym class, he asked if I’d be able to try-out for tennis. Surprise. No dice. Not even with Michael Chang’s fame at the time.

My 10^th grade science teacher was also a wrestling coach, and after “breaking up” some horseplay on The Stoop (aka me writhing my way to survival out of my larger friends’ grips), he asked me later if I wanted to go out for the wrestling team—in the 105lb class. Once again, the parentals shut it down.

Once I moved out of the house and left for the Navy, my physical activity level increased tremendously, and I picked up quite an enjoyment for beach volleyball.

I did still try and a play a pick up b-ball game with some of the senior enlisted members and officers I worked for and in an attempt to throw a pass down court, my right shoulder decides it wants the same fate my left shoulder had previously.

Staying away from the hardwood court, I came back to the sand, and as much as I loved it, Mr. Wilson was no good for my shoulders, and the last time I injured my left shoulder, I literally threw it out of socket on a dig, and that, well…led to an ambulance ride and a long night in the ER.

A couple years later, down in Southern California, I was cast in an original play. A site-specific piece to be performed on basketball court in the Hollywood Fringe Festival—this was to be a huge break for me landing a gig outside of school—and I pop my right shoulder during the first rehearsal…playing basketball.

So yeah, sports weren’t really in the cards for me anyway, but I did enjoy them when I could. However, that didn’t mean I couldn’t be a fan of them and marvel at those that excelled in their respective fields, courts, and tracks.

I eventually started following college sports after I got out of the Navy (See: “I Am Mr T.”) and as much as I love watching the games, I also love watching coaches’ speeches, motivational videos, and documentaries.

So yeah, I may not have been part of a sports team, but I still learned about what it was like to be on a team when I was stationed on my submarine. (Hooyah, Rickover!) However, learning about teamwork on a submarine, in the military, set a really high bar early in my professional career, and that has been something I’ve struggled with at several jobs.

All this came to a halt in the last couple of weeks, and to add some coincidental irony, what I learned in the US Navy led me to my decision to leave Old Navy.

Every veteran has a different story

I have a lot to say, and much of it I shouldn’t, so what does make it out of my head often ends up in a blog.

Before the age of 22 I had graduated from Navy basic training, Nuclear Powers school, qualified submarines, trained in firearms (9mm, shotgun, M-14, and M-16), went on deployments, and separated from the military as a disabled veteran from a service-connected disability.

I am not a combat veteran. I was never deployed to Iraq, Afghanistan, or anywhere in that part of the globe.

In junior college I had taken a speech class as a requirement and one of our projects was to present an argumentative speech. I chose a topic that centered on I don’t know what else to call but deployment guilt.

I graduated from nuke school the weekend before 9/11/01 and, with good reason, was asked by all of my friends and family if I was deploying to the Middle East with the orders I had just received. After separating, whenever my veteran status came up in discussion I was posed the question if I had served in Iraq or Afghanistan. When sharing with them that I had not, and that I was on a special-ops submarine (aka sans battle group), their mood often changed, seeming disappointed that I was not a part of the military that was the focus of every media channel. I don’t remember the exact statistics of my speech, but I remember the proportion of it. Of all the service members of the United States Armed Forces, approximately a quarter of them deployed to Iraq and/or Afghanistan. For a fairly recent article with more credible sources, click here.

Now, I can’t blame the general public for inquiring about my location of deployment, and this is in no way a statement against those that did deploy to (or currently still are in) those locations—this is just the opinion of one veteran with one story. Contrary to the belief of a couple of my professors through college, I am not the singular spokesperson for the military, my experience is not indicative of everyone’s, and I am not making the decisions that send our troops over there.

I just occasionally feel like my time in service was negligible.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not asking for some national commendation, a movie deal, or a free lunch, but with the recent events of seeing Ajax in Iraq at CSULB and attending the Vet Net Ally seminar for CSULB staff and faculty, the story of my own service has been fresh in my mind.

Aboard the (now decommissioned) USS Hyman G. Rickover(SSN-709), I lived and worked among men—only—no, really, there were no women on board, and many times, these are the guys that I want to go grab a beer with after work, watch football with, and talk about what’s going on with my family, my upcoming nuptials, and life in general. We were brothers, fathers, sons, boyfriends, uncles—we were shipmates. We were all very different, but because of our isolated world of the silent service, we all held a common bond. On liberty, you may have different interests and drink in different bars, but underway, in the waters that have absolutely no regard for your skin color, your age, your creed, or even what flag you fly in port—we knew what it meant to get a job done. We left our families, friends, homes, and everything we knew for weeks at a time to do a job that we all voluntarily signed up for. Yeah, sub duty is voluntary. Many other details are assigned, often with preference, but submarine duty is something you go out of your way to take part of.

For weeks there is no sunlight—just fluorescent, buzzing ballasts and maybe a personal incandescent lamp. There are no windows, and fresh air is determined by the efficiency of the fan room. You smell of carbon dust, lube oil, and tin cans. After two weeks, your crew has already gone through all the fresh vegetables and fruit and you’re back to canned tomatoes, breaded chicken patties, and what resembles scrambled eggs. Emails were few and far between, and even then it’s extremely limited, and it’s probably mission-related. Television was limited to whatever movie the crew’s mess voted on after each meal, and if you’re lucky, you can stay awake for a couple games of spades or maybe a jam session or two with the guy that brought his guitar (or bought a violin “just because” in Norway).

There is no sand, incoming fire, or 120 degree heat (unless the fans go out back aft). There are no 70lb rucksacks, IEDs, or fear of snipers. CNN isn’t sending any reporters to talk to us, and there aren’t any photojournalists scurrying around hoping to shoot the cover of TIME magazine.

I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t challenging, or if I said there weren’t many times I just “wanted to go home.” Likewise if I told you I loved eating those unidentifiable meals or hot racking. I will say that those weeks and weeks underway, and those days I stopped in my tracks on base to observe morning or evening colors are missed more often than not, and that joining the military right out of high school (or technically, while I was still in high school) was the best decision I’ve ever made in my life.

I did what I signed up to do, most of it completely unplanned and usually by orders of people I had never met, but the intangibles that have stayed with me years after my last LES have continually reaffirmed that I learned what I should have and that my status as a veteran is hard-earned—combat veteran or not.

Fortunately, I’ll never truly know what those men and women experienced in Iraq and Afghanistan, and to be honest, had I not been medically discharged, I probably would have tried to go back into the military at different times in the last eight years.

This “deployment guilt” I write about is no result of your actions—it’s from within my own mind as a result of my own environment and I see myself, and as blogs would have it, writing it out has produced another clear realization for myself—every veteran has a very distinctive story, and no person, organization, channel, or medium can diminish that. It is what it is for yourself, and my only hope is that it benefits you in the long run no matter where your story took you.

Quikrete: Foundation

You know, as in cement, or was it a spin off for what I titled in my head "Quick write"?

It's now both. What started as an itch to post a "quick write," I thought of Quikrete (and several bags that sat in the garage growing up), which led to cement...and a foundation.

I've been learning a lot since graduation last May, and as my fiancee approaches her graduation in three fortnights, it's amazing to think I've been done with school for almost a year.

Quikrete. Foundation. Moving on.

I turned 18 after I graduated from boot camp. I enlisted in March of my senior year in high school, and left for boot camp less than two months after crossing that stage as part of the first ever graduating class of Deer Valley High School, Antioch, CA.

Having served in the Navy for 5 years and now having been conferred a Bachelor's degree, I can now reflect and compare the process of both paths. 

1. I thoroughly enjoyed both chapters.
2. Neither path was a cakewalk, but that doesn't mean I didn't enjoy the journey. See #1.
3. From my first full semester at DVC, I was glad I went into the Navy right out of high shcool.
4. Through my final semester at CSULB, I was glad I went into the Navy right out of high school.
5. While in the Navy, I had a CO tell me I was too immature to holder a senior position.
6. While in college, I had a director tell me I took my job as an actor too seriously.
7. Thanks to the Navy, I developed a work ethic with respect and understanding for superiors and rankings.
8. Thanks to the Navy, I learned not to be afraid of superiors, regardless of rank, as long as I addressed them with respect for their rank in regards to my own.
9. Thanks to my time the Navy and in college, I developed my work ethic, discovered talents and strengths, and gained confidence in my work to where I no longer felt necessary to hide behind a smile like I did through high school.
10. One year out of college, and I'm starting to feel like the confidence, work ethic, and foundation I built from the Navy and forged through the diploma isn't right.

Before and after.

• Before: Address with respect to the rank/title first, with consideration for the personality second.
• After: Address the personality you're dealing with first,  with consideration for the rank second (if it all).

• Before: Seniority paralleled rank/experience.
• After: Seniority trumped rank or experience.

• Before: Work out issues with a fight, over a couple beers, and show up the next day ready to work.
• After: Let it stew, complain to HR, attribute it to personality issues and not really fix anything.

I've said it plenty of times in the last year, but I never thought that being in the Navy would be easier, less complicated, and have less drama to deal with.

For whatever reasons, the foundation that I've set does not offer solid footing for my current situation. I never thought respect for higher ranks (including, but not limited to honest, tactful criticism/conversation) would be wrong or discouraged, but I genuinely feel like it's not the way it works.

This, among other things, means it's time to go, and go I shall.