"The Forever War" by Dexter Filkins=Brilliant

I’ve read a lot of books in my life. It took me until the age of, let’s say 13, to read the entire historical fiction section of about three libraries—children’s and young adult. Ann Rinaldi wove the best stories, I was all about anything WWII related and I basically memorized “Lily’s Crossing” by Patricia Reilly Giff. I even got some classics under my belt with “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn,” “Little Women” and the “Anne of Green Gables” series.

Then I hit high school and switched to murder mysteries; Patricia Cromwell’s medical ones and Sue Grafton’s ABC crime novels like “N is for Noose” were my idea of quality reads. My pathetic excuse was that I read enough scholarly books at school so reading for enjoyment should be light and casual.

The truth is, I didn’t actually read most of the books for English class—“Catcher in the Rye,” “The Stranger,” “Raisin in the Sun” and “Chocolat” are the only ones that vaguely ring a bell. Thank you, Sparknotes. I tried to maintain a glimmer of literary pride by devouring “The Da Vinci Code,” “Angels and Demons” and all else Dan Brown, but even that’s stretching it.

After my trashy literature phase I got to college and felt the need to acquire a more mature taste in books. Enter “My Horizontal Life” and “Are You There Vodka? It’s Me, Chelsea” by my girl Chelsea Handler. What a step up. While wildly entertaining and further fueling my obsession, these were obviously not going to help my image.

So, I made a legit attempt at this literary makeover and found a book and author that ended up leaving a huge impression.

“The Forever War” by Dexter Filkins is a book everybody should read. Written by a New York Times correspondent, it candidly explores how we (the United States) got where we are today. It exposes with raw observation the rise of the Taliban in Afghanistan in the 1990s, the Sept. 11 attacks and the war in Iraq. It was named best non-fiction book by Time Magazine and was the New York Times Best Book of 2008.

Filkins infiltrated himself into Iraqi and military culture, spending 2003 to 2006 at The New York Times’ Baghdad Bureau. During this time he went above and beyond that of an average reporter and got down to the bare fundamentals of what this country is all about.

He presents an intimate landscape of characters, from innocent locals to ruthless Iraqi insurgent leaders to hardened American military commanders and baby-faced soldiers barely out of high school. Filkins’ unwavering commitment put him in often fatal situations with the odds constantly stacked against him—trolling the streets past curfew, tagging along on active military missions, dodging snipers, racing past roadside bombs and perhaps most daring, running along the streets and paths of Iraq cities beyond the fortified confinements of the Green Zone.

Filkins was told over and over to leave Iraq and return home. He didn’t listen such was his desire to capture the true essence of the war-torn nation. He was one of the last American reporters at the Baghdad Bureau.

The scenes are told vividly, leaving no detail to the imagination and painting a starkly shocking portrait of the Iraq war from both an American and Iraqi perspective. Straight reporting tells us the U.S. military presence is getting the job done, reforming Iraqi culture and implementing democracy. Interviews with Iraqi families and candid relationships with Iraqi translators tell a different story of terror, destruction, heartache and a country so set in its ways that any democratic progress is ultimately torn down—again and again.

Filkins weaves a tale that is deeply personal, sharing each interaction no matter how disturbing or touching. He tells of carnage from suicide bombings and public displays of punishment.
A man kills another over farmland. His punishment? The victim’s family members deliver death with a shot to the head, sometimes preceded by torture to draw it out, all playing out in front of crowds gathered to watch as if it was an afternoon soccer game. Children frolic in mine-ridden fields, indifferent to the accidental victims that are often blown to bits. Lines to vote stretch for miles, only to be interrupted by suicidal explosions.

What Filklins sees, the reader sees. What he feels, the reader feels. He goes beyond relaying first-hand accounts and observations to put himself in the story, making him not just the author, but a pivotal character.

He said that he wanted “The Forever War” to be vastly different from other war books out there. Most are told from a certain distance; from the outside looking in point of view. Filkins is in the middle of battlefields, shares dinner with locals, spends extensive time on military operations and readers travel right alongside him. He said he didn’t want to write a play-by-play of the war but what it felt like to be there. He succeeds.

Before this December I was admittedly ignorant to the war in Iraq. I knew the basics, whatever the news told me about casualties, bombings, elections and spending but it’s difficult to fully decipher what it all means and why we’re there from bare, spotty and detached reporting. “The Forever War” triggered a profound reaction as I scrambled to finish it before spring semester when I would have no time for leisure. I realized that the articles we read and broadcasts we see don’t even begin to tell the real story. In many ways, they don’t tell anything at all.

Suddenly, everything is clear. The good the U.S. has done pales in comparison to the destruction it has imposed on a confused and unsuspecting nation. Iraq is a country that’s culture leaves little room for flexibility. Democracy will forever be a notion, an idea implemented here and there but ultimately dismantled. I’ve always been against the war but for no solid or passionate reason. I just knew that we didn’t belong there and we never did. Now, I’ve realized why this is painfully true and for the first time, I care.

“The Forever War” cannot be summed up in a one-page book review. I wouldn’t even call this a book review; let’s call it more of a book suggestion or recommendation. Its impact, relevance and necessity cannot be put into words, will not be given justice. Read the book. Your impression of our country and this war will be forever changed. Filkins is brilliant, courageous and has made, perhaps, the most vital contribution to this war.

To learn more about my new favorite writer and journalist, trek over to www.dexterfilkins.net. You can also read more about the Iraq war on nytimes.com, the At War blog where reporters contribute photos and posts directly from Iraq. Check it out!

My Debut!!! =)

Check out my first post about the Bills on www.chicksinthehuddle.com! Scroll down a bit to see the post titled "Meet the newest Bills"

If you're confused about what that is, go down a few posts on here and read one of my earlier entries about it! It's about the draft so not the most entertaining, but it's something! Click on Scoop the Coop to read my bio!

YAY! =)

By the way...how amazing is that photo?!

Knowing when to shut up

After returning from a thrilling Law & Order: SVU or Castle type stint for the Poughkeepsie Journal (I covered a crime scene!) I returned to my daily tour of cnn.com and came across a headline that read "When you should just shut up and listen." Obviously, I'm all about finding out how to get people to stop talking...or at least stop talking about themselves. So I clicked on it.

Well it didn't actually address my issue, but it did offer some insight into when it's time to offer advice and when to shut up and let the other person talk, rant, whine, whatever.

Now I don't think I could abide by this "shut up tactic" if I was with a whiner--I hate whining so I guess I would put a twist on me shutting up and just tell the other person to shut up. But I can totally relate to what the article said about sometimes it being best to listen to what the other party has to say and not put in two cents. Nothing drives me crazier than when I'm venting about something and the other person tries to tell me either a) why I'm wrong, b) what I should do to improve my situation except their suggestion doesn't make sense or c) offer advice that is stupid because they're stupid and don't understand or relate to my situation.

Sometimes when we're angry, frustrated or upset we're talking because it makes us feel relieved to get it out--we don't necessarily want answers or commentary, we just want to be listened to. Therapists and counselors cited this mistake as the reason for many couples' problems and said once it was addressed, relationships improved.

I could think of a lot of people I know personally who might benefit from reading this article...people who think they know everything but really don't...people who always have to "be right"...people who always have something to complain about but don't care enough to listen to anyone else's problems because it's all about them...people...

On a side note, much of the latter part of the article laid out tips for being a "good listener" and a "supportive listener" provided by professionals and experts. I KNEW ABOUT EVERYTHING THEY SUGGESTED! It was all basic interpersonal communication skills that come as second nature to me but can be learned in any college communication course. So, I think this implies I could be considered a communication wiz on numerous levels and don't need a license, Phd. or any official documentation to put my skills to use. Anybody want to give me a job?

Rejection is a part of life but...

this time I'm not taking it lightly and I'm not taking it well. I submitted a story to I Love Cats magazine about Fur. It was called "A Tail of Friendship and Strength." I didn't send it in randomly, I sent it because the editor called for submissions for 2009. Well, she send me a rejection email the very next day that was one sentence along the lines of "I've published a lot of these types of stories before, I'm going to have to pass." First of all, her email came off as flippant and rude. Second, IT'S A MAGAZINE ABOUT CATS! I do love cats, but honestly, how many different types of stories do you expect to get? Cats sleep, eat, chase fake mice and purr...did she want me to pretend my cat had superhuman powers like the dog in Bolt and could fly or had supercat strength or extra sharp nails or had a super-meow? I mean come on, what did she expect to receive? Maybe she should specify that the cat needs to have magical powers and be out to save the world.

Whatever, no skin off my back. I never even heard of this magazine before so I'd say it is the one losing out, not me. Here's the story I wrote about my furball--I Love Cats magazine doesn't deserve my talent or Fur's face to grace its pages anyways.

Some people have a security blanket, a favorite stuffed animal, a best friend or a close sibling that’s been with them through thick and thin—a fixture that remains stable and constant no matter how tumultuous life becomes. For me, it is my cat and I never thought that he might not always be here. Until now.

Zachary, more frequently and affectionately referred to as “Fur,” became part of the family 13 years ago in August. I was in third grade when my family and I went to a local animal hospital to look at kittens. When I held him, he nibbled on my shoulder and I knew he was the one. When he came home to us a couple weeks later, officially my mother’s 40^th birthday present, he was skiddish and didn’t like to be held. But I scooped him up anyways and he stayed—I knew it was the start of a special relationship.

Fur became more than a pet, he is part of the family. He seems more like a friend that talks cat instead of English because of his distinctive personality. He’s lovey dovey and feisty with my family, staring up at you and meowing until you grant his request for food and nestling his head into my mom’s shoulder when he wants a morning hug. Every morning he sits on her newspaper while she tries to read around him and drinks coffee. He knows it’s their ritual. We used to lock him in the kitchen when he was young and his meows to be released each morning sounded like “mommm.” On the flip side, he’s hostile and downright mean to guests (we blame his cold demeanor to a traumatizing event as a kitten that involved wild, screaming children).

But above all, he is a companion; the most loyal friend who knows when I’m sick or sad and lays by my side until I recover. He owned half of my bed every night and since going away to college, has taken over my parent’s bed (he seems to think he’s entitled to the space between them, sprawling out and taking a portion of the pillow).

Anybody who knows me has heard about Fur. Most likely they have met him and been rejected—probably hissed at, growled at, scorned. They know it’s safer to like him than to ever speak against him, for fear our friendship will come to a screeching end. They’ve seen the thousands of pictures around my room and on Facebook—this black ball of fur with a patch of white on his tummy, under his arms and in the shape of a heart beneath his chin loves photo shoots, posing with me as his eyes turn from green to blue.

So when I found out in March 2009 that my baby has vaccine induced cancer, everybody knew things were about to be turned upside down.

He’d been growing a hump on his back that makes him look like a camel for a few months. Debates were had about when to bring him to the vet to have it checked. We were a bit reluctant because last summer he got diabetes and made monthly trips to the doctor. He hates this with a passion and we don’t like to traumatize him too often.

But eventually my mother sucked it up and took him for testing. Turns out he also went to a cancer specialist and when I got home for spring break, I was greeted with Fur in a “bonnet” (those plastic cones to stop animals from pulling out stitches) and his tumor the size of a small mountain, protruding from the middle of his back right between his shoulder blades. Shaved with little pink stitches sticking out of it, it mocked me, taunted me as a constant reminder that it was the reason Fur was sleeping even more (shocking) and barely eating (even more shocking).

This was not the furball I knew and it triggered a dramatic reaction on my part. I went on a long run and would start crying at random moments. I felt horrible because for the time being, Fur was okay and I knew I should be having positive thoughts and making him feel as if nothing was wrong. He knows he’s handsome and takes such pride in his appearance, grooming for hours. So I knew I couldn’t treat him any different, just because he looked sick.

Chemo wouldn’t do any good and removal would basically make him lame, so there’s nothing we can do. My mother said to visualize his bump shrinking and that’s what I’m trying to do. As hard as it is, no more negativity—it’s more important to enjoy every moment with him than to dread the future.

In the recent weeks he’s been getting back to his old self. He’s more active, eats fairly normally and has been much more talkative. Perhaps this is partly because he’s been getting spoiled and receives the royal treatment. He gets table treats that were previously banned because of diabetes and is allowed to sit on laps on the couch, also formerly banned. But he deserves it. After all, he’s a prince.

Country Music Is My Guilty Pleasure...well, one of them

When I was younger I was always adamant about despising country music. I thought it was all hillbilly twang that got on my nerves and was very uncool to listen to. Well either I've broadened my horizons or the genre has evolved because I now admit (if still a bit sheepishly) that I'm in love with some country artists and it's far more than cowboys rockin' out on banjos. And after watching the Academy of Country Music Awards on CBS last night, I realized I like even more country than I thought I did.

Two of my favorite and most played iTunes artists are Taylor Swift and Carrie Underwood. Their songs are personal, tell a story and are relateable. They're catchy and I think I'm on the verge of overplaying them. At last night's award show, Taylor Swift won two awards she didn't see coming at all. She was given a crystal award for selling the most albums in a year and also secured Top Country Album. She was absolutely adorable, in shock, hugging her mother, jumping up and down on stage and she totally deserved it. Carrie Underwood won Top Female Artist and was nominated for Entertainer of the Year--the only female to make the category since 2000. SHE WON! She's still the same old small-town girl that won American Idol four years ago and you can tell she's genuine and still in awe of her own success. She cried, admitted she never expected to win, got a kiss on the cheek from Matthew McConnoughy (!!!) and spun around in a circle because she didn't know what to say or do. Love her.

It's refreshing to see two artists who really appreciate what they have and get giddily excited over awards they honestly don't expect to win. I stood about 5 inches from the television, beaming like a proud parent. Can you say, LOSER! If you think you're against country, give it a try. YouTube or imeem my girls and see for yourself that country's not that bad. Chelsea Handler likes Carrie and she gave Taylor Swift "her blessing" (a HUGE deal). You know that anytime I find something else the two of us have in common, it's not only 100percent okay in my books, but borderline amazing. =)

Is Passion Really Enough?

I wrote this for the Web site my Advanced Editing class is launching this semester. Figured I'd post it on here since the news is not inspiring any commentary or even worth discussing. Killing, killing, killing and not much good. Plus the weather is crap.

You have to be passionate about what you do. This seems to be the age-old mantra for getting ahead in life. And it is, perhaps, even more necessary for student journalists. It’s actually not even an option. Holding the title of “journalist” is not to be taken lightly as you hold the irreplaceable task of informing the public about things that directly affect their life. If you’re not passionate about what journalism really means (and I don’t mean reporting on the latest fashions and celebrity gossip) than pick another career, and hurry.

Professor Howard Good once said something along the lines of “I see these high school seniors and college freshman that say they want to be journalists, but when I ask them why, they give me a blank stare or say ‘I want to be famous.’”

He then gave his signature satirical laugh and launched into a discussion about why you have to be truly committed to journalism to make it and that half of us sitting in class would never end up doing what we set out to do upon entering college. This year’s Ottaway professor, Byron Calame, reinforced this need for passion, especially with the ultra-competitive job market right now.

I’m in love with journalism. I love writing, talking to people, telling stories that change people’s lives. But I was a little unsure if this passion or commitment was evident. I was afraid that I’d be lost in the sea of aspiring student journalists that aren’t taken seriously.

I recently sat down with a long-time friend of my father who wanted to get to know me a little better. We talked about my plans for post-graduation and why I wanted to be a journalist and had pursued it in the first place. Right before we said our goodbyes, he told me one thing that struck him about me was my passion. He said he could tell that I truly cared about the deeper meaning of journalism and what it meant to be a part of it. This was the vindication I needed. To have someone I had only known for about an hour tell me the one thing I feared most about myself was a relief and almost roused me out of the somewhat discouraged slump I was in, courtesy of my dismal job search.

Yet despite this esteem boost and my mother’s best efforts at positivity, I’ve found it difficult to remain optimistic about the future. I graduate in May and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t more terrified than excited. There have been 2 million jobs lost since 2009 started and 663,000 in March alone, according to the latest government statistics. The nation’s unemployment level rose to 8.5 percent, the highest it’s been since 1983 and that’s generally speaking.

To zero in on how my chosen field is surviving is enough to make even the most gung-ho job searcher pull the shades and crawl under the covers. Newspapers are folding all over the country with some cities facing the possibility of having no print newspaper at all. The Sun Times Media Group that owns the Chicago Sun and 58 other newspapers recently filed for Chapter 11 and other companies are imposing salary cuts and mandatory furloughs to remain afloat.

The possibility of finding a job doing what I love looks bleak. All the passion in the world is no match for an economy teetering on the brink of depression. So what should I do? What should any college graduate do?

My initial thought was that I could find a lowly state job to tide me over while I freelanced and looked for a stable position. Now Gov. Paterson proposes to cut 8,900 state jobs, so I guess that option’s out the window. My mother told me in hushed tones to follow the stimulus package, hoping this was a cutting edge idea that people might be slow to pick up on. Well the media must have heard her because there have been articles suggesting that very idea all over the place. Fabulous.

I don’t have an answer. I don’t think anybody does. Professors harp on what a terrible state the country is in and can draw direct comparisons to the climate when they graduated years ago. Graduate school is always an option. This might be the right path for some, but I’m going to battle it out in the real world before returning to the classroom. Since J2 I’ve been antsy to get on with my life and start working. It’s not that I want to rush college (believe me, it’s true what they say about it being the best years) but I’ve felt ready to get my hands dirty in the professional journalism-scape for a while now.

My life looks nothing like what I envisioned—and I’m not a head-in-the-clouds, overly optimistic dreamer with an unrealistic view of the world type of girl, so times are pretty bad. I guess all I and anyone else can do is wait for the tides to turn, ride this recession out. Times might get harder before they get better but I’m hopeful that eventually there will come a day when jobs aren’t scored by personal connections and luck of the draw, but by passion. A day when this passion that is so crucial and needed to revamp the media’s reputation, can be put to use—when journalists like myself can find our place.

I Love...I Hate...

In high school I was a master bullshitter--seriously, the best. The only class I ever really studied for was French and sometimes history, essays were written the night before (or morning of) and my best friend Erika and I were pros at divvying up necessary reading or copying AJ's economics/government homework. For the most part, classes were boring and a huge waste of time...I didn't want to sit there and listen to incompetent teachers talk about what they didn't even understand themselves and I found it difficult to sit still for so many hours...it would be quite appropriate to compare my attention span to that of a 5-year-old. I much preferred to spend my time in the College Center taking naps on the couch or making paper chains and decorations for various holidays. "Our Spot" in a second floor hallway and ironically next to the South House office was another favorite area; being friends with the South House principal, nurse and all the hall monitors was helpful in not getting sent where I was really supposed to be. So given my impressive commitment to high school academia, I surprise even myself at what a responsible (and I'd go so far as to say devoted) college student I've become. Whereas in high school it was easier to list the teachers I liked (a scant 5-sh), college flipped that and it's quicker to list the professors I've despised (maybe 2). What an accomplishment (on SUNY New Paltz's part).

So what's the point of this blog? Good question. I've been severly disgusted by the news lately (why are people going on killing sprees?!) so I couldn't find much that I was motivated to offer my "insightful" commentary on (shocking, I know). But I wanted to post an update since the whole point of me starting this blog was to force myself to write on a regular basis. So this is where the above confession fits in.

One of my favorite professors, Larry Carr, is the most adorable little man and after taking two of his classes I actually learned a lot about writing creatively. One exercise he made us do was relatively enjoyable (for an assignment) and I figured I'd recreate it here to share a bit more of myself. He had us list 10 things we love and 10 things we hate. Then we moved things around and created a list poem. It sounds stupid but you'd be surprised what you come up with and how it really helps turn something basic into a creative work of art. Feel free to try it yourself and post it as a comment. And FYI, I think I programmed my settings so that you don't have to create an account to comment, so you people should humor me and stop being shy and leave me some entertainment. Thanks! =)

I love Fur with his distinctive personality, rough pink tongue, curiously cute kitty breath, shiny black coat and soulful green eyes.
I love breathing hard, pushing myself to go farther while my joints scream at me to stop as I run through the streets of Albany.
I love laying outside and feeling my skin turn to a deep bronze.
I love dark roast coffee with skim milk and splenda, iced in the summer.
I love my ridiculous taste in television and music--reality, Disney, drama; R&B/hip-hop, country, rock.
I love living in the center of a bustling, polluted city; cows and mountains just don't cut it.
I love my mother's cooking and nightly family dinners.
I love watching my favorite movies over and over and over and...
I love talking.
I love abandoning feminity and becoming an overly obsessed football fanatic--go Bills!

* * * * * * *

I hate most people--selfish, ignorant, annoying, egotistic, hot messes.
I hate snaps--yes, the kind on coats, pants, purses, onesies.
I hate brushing my teeth within 10 feet of someone else; something about it grosses me out.
I hate when my head invites migraines to visit; throbbing in my temples, at the back of my head, behind my eyes.
I hate when people walking in front of me think it's okay to walk at .00008 miles an hour--c'mon, speed it up!
I hate commercials, the biggest and most repetitive waste of time ever.
I hate sand and saltwater, the way it coats skin and gets everywhere.
I hate thunderstorms that make me hide under the covers, no matter the weather, until they pass.
I hate how my bladder can't hold pee for more than an hour at a time.
I hate how people who don't speak English are taking over our country, and more specifically, NEW PALTZ!