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JOHNNY GET YOUR GUN

Michael L. Newell

Estonia
JOHNNY GET YOUR GUN

(Tashkent International School, 1998-99)


It was, as usual, a time of sabre rattling
someplace in the world. I can not recall
where or why, but students were arguing
who should do what to some enemy
they could not even find on the map.

One lad stood and announced that we,
(we being America, although he had been
born in Afghanistan) could kick their (their
meant anyone not American) butts faster
and harder than Shaq could throw down a dunk.

I suggested war is not a sporting contest, neither
is it a movie where the dead bodies get up
after a scene is shot and talk about where to go
for dinner, that fathers and mothers lose sons
and daughters, that children lose parents,

that wounds are not self-healing, that missing
arms and legs and eyes do not magically
regenerate. He sat. He scowled and said
you are not even a real American. You root
for the wrong side. Which team are you for anyway?

I could have tried again. I could have shouted,
scolded, argued. Instead I told the class to take out
their books and read the next chapter. I hid in the routine
of school life. I crouched in thickets of words and essays
and discussions about verb tenses and pronoun usage.

Perhaps I could have ambushed him with some Wilfred
Owen or Yusuf Komunyakaa poetry. Maybe I could
have used words from Gandhi or Martin Luther King.
He was only twelve, though, and I was not, am not,
that skilled. The leaders of my country talked about

us and them. How was I to convince this boy
that such words destroyed lives, burned cities,
left fertile fields in ruins--littered with mines
and broken bodies? He was in a classroom
with Malay, Korean, Iraqi, Israeli, Palestinian,

Indian, Bangladeshi, and blue-eyed, cornflower
haired American daughter of an Air Force NCO.
They played together, ate together, visited one
anotheršs home, danced and sang together, yet he
saw the world as battling teams. He yearned for glory.



Michael L. Newell






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