All Categories - Justin C. Cliburn

Books take time

1/31/2024

Happy new year. It has been some time since I posted here.

Reading The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot made me realize how absurdly optimistic my original goal for publication was. In a passage about the relationship the author developed with the family of Lacks, she wrote "in the 10 years that it took me to write this book." While I hope that my book does not take 10 years, family and career obligations have ensured that this book will not be complete by Christmas Eve of this year. And that's okay. Slowly but surely we'll get there.

Until next time.

Obituary for Robert R. Cliburn

10/7/2022

Unfortunately, my father died on October 3, 2022. He was a good man, husband, and father who went through a lot in his too-short life. His obituary is below.

Funeral service for Robert Rynearson Cliburn, 69 of Lawton, will be held at 10:30 a.m. on Monday, Oct. 10, 2022 at Lawton Ritter Gray Funeral Home Chapel with Dr. Bill Schneider, Senior Pastor of St. John Lutheran Church, officiating.

Mr. Cliburn passed away on Monday, Oct. 3, 2022 at OU Medical Center in Oklahoma City.

Viewing will be held on Sunday, Oct. 9, 2022 from noon until 8 p.m.

Robert was born Sept. 19, 1953 in Columbia, Miss., the son of a Methodist minister. After spending his early years living in rural Mississippi communities, Robert was the happiest 14-year-old alive when his father moved the family to Fort Walton Beach, Fla. There, he spent his formative years living and working along Destin’s white sandy beaches, graduating from Choctawhatchee High School in 1972. A year later, he met and fell for Tamara Weeks, but he was beaten to the punch when his friend asked her out first. In 1974, he reluctantly served as best man as that friend and Tamara were married. Shortly after the wedding, Robert joined the U.S. Army and was stationed at Fort Benning, Georgia, as an infantryman. When the Army sent him to West Germany, he answered the call for volunteers to serve on Pershing nuclear missile sites, obtaining a secondary military occupational specialty as well as lifelong friends and memories.

He was discharged from the Army in 1978 and returned to the Florida Panhandle to attend Pensacola’s University of West Florida. Shortly thereafter, he learned Tamara’s marriage was ending and contacted his long-time crush. Within two years, he graduated with a Bachelor of Business Management degree and received the greatest birthday gift of his life, marrying Tamara on Sept. 19, 1980. In 1982, Robert and Tamara welcomed their first child, and Robert was hired by the U.S. Treasury Department as a Revenue Officer. That job first sent him back to Mississippi, where he and Tamara had their second child, before returning him to Florida in 1984. In 1986, the job moved the family to Lawton, where Robert spent the next 36 years of his life, finding a new home and raising his two boys as first-generation Sooners.

Robert was a youth baseball coach for many years and loved nothing more than driving through the neighborhood to ferry players to practice or games. He recognized the impression youth coaches had on children and spent many hours successfully petitioning the City of Lawton to rename the park behind Park Lane Elementary School in honor of another long-time volunteer coach. Aside from honoring its namesake, Ray Henderson Park remains today as a silent testament to Robert’s appreciation of others over self.

In 1993, seizures forced him to retire from the Treasury Department and be discharged from the U.S. Army Reserves with the rank of sergeant first class. In 2000, he was selected as a research subject for a George Washington University long-term study on the effects of Gulf War-era accelerated vaccine schedules. In 2004, he organized the first large reunion of Pershing veterans since the program was decommissioned in 1991, and he remained in touch with those brothers-in-arms the rest of his life. He was overjoyed when his alma mater launched a football team in 2016, and he was in the stands cheering the Argonauts on when they won the NCAA Division II national championship in 2019.

Though medical challenges dominated much of the rest of his life, he always expressed a positive attitude — even after being diagnosed with cancer in 2003. Many times over the years, doctors delivered grave prognoses, but Robert always pulled through. He loved football, dogs, his beloved wife and sons, and playing with his grandchildren. He was a member of St. John Lutheran Church in Lawton, where he was honored to serve as an elder. He was kind and compassionate, and his dry humor and understated persona will be sorely missed.

Robert is survived by his wife of 42 years, Tamara, of the home; a son and daughter-in-law, Justin and Deanne, Oklahoma City; a granddaughter, Kayla Tiernan, Anchorage, Alaska; a man he always considered his third son, Metric Dunnings, Mesquite, Texas; a brother and sister-in-law, Charles and Madelin, Tallahassee, Fla., a sister and brother-in-law, Cecilia and Kevin Steiger, Tallahassee, Fla., and numerous cousins, nieces, and nephews.

He was predeceased by his parents, a son, Russell, and two grandchildren, Emma and Kristo.

Are you using the Libby app? You should be.

8/6/2022

My toxic trait is that I'm a constant evangelist (ironic for someone who lost his faith long ago). What I mean is, when I like something, I think everyone should like it. Everyone would like if only they knew about! Perhaps it's a product of conceit: I'm great, and I think this is great. Therefore, this is objectively great, and everyone should know about it. Flawless logic.

Three Christmases in a row, I bought my brother a wallet in the same style as mine—even though I saw him using the same, boring bi-fold year after year. And that's just one person I've tried to convert to the front pocket wallet. Josh, Duff, Metric, Ben, Ammar, Allie, Bennett, and I think at least one of my wife's cousins (via Dirty Santa) are all either using front pocket wallets forced upon them by me or politely storing them in junk drawers. There could be more. The same is true for old-school shaving, New England IPAs, You're the Worst, Honda Ridgelines, and even premium men's underwear (you can never go back).

You know where is going.

"If you want to write, you need to read," and that's what I've been doing with Libby, a free app that allows users to link their library cards for easy borrowing of e-books and audiobooks. Titles may be read via Libby or the Kindle app. You can sign up for libraries entirely within the app, and you're able to join more than one. I'm a member of six libraries on Libby:

All are free for non-residents except Brooklyn, which is worth it even at $50 per year.

Since my wife turned me on to Libby in 2020, I've read over 100 books for free (without stepping foot in a single library). I've found life is a lot less depressing when I read books rather than read (more) bad news and social media at night. It's easy to search for a title and view its availability across your libraries:

Nice, huh?

The check-out period varies from library to library—from seven days at the Metropolitan (OKC) Library to 21 days at the Brooklyn Public Library.

21 days!

In lieu of bugging you about it the next time we meet up, I'll trust that you've read this and reacted accordingly. Libby Is revolutionary. You should use it.

Shipwrecks

7/17/2022

Almost 100 years separates me from the people who experienced the Babbs Switch tragedy, yet I feel a kinship to those who survived. I know of no ancestors involved, and I did not hear the story while growing up in Southwest Oklahoma. I did not learn of it until after my life's second period. But I know loss, trauma, and grief. I know shipwrecks.

Shipwrecks may seem a poor analogy for a fire on the landlocked plains of the Southwest, but the word describes the aftermath rather than the event. Over 10 years ago, a user on Reddit by the name of /u/GSnow saw a post titled My friend just died. I don't know what to do, and we're all better for it. In a reply that elicits thanks even 11 years later, the user perfectly encapsulated what loss, grief, and trauma does to a person. It is an analogy that could be easily understood just as well in 1,000 years ago as it is now (save for the O'Hare and Starbucks references). It's something that I've read and re-read so often that I had a portion of it printed on glass for my office:

There is more to the comment, and the full response is worth a read. It has resonated with me ever since losing my brother, niece, and nephew in 2019. It makes me wonder what comforted the survivors of Babbs Switch, the families of the lost. Did they all seek refuge in the church? Or were there some, like me, who had to process what happened and how it transformed them through secular analogy? Unless I come across the holy grail of Babbs Switch research, it's something I'll never know. But I'll always feel that kinship, and I'll never stop working to tell their story—despite the long lull between posts here.

Below is the remainder of GSnow's post. What has comforted you after tragedy?

Alright, here goes. I'm old. What that means is that I've survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known and loved did not. I've lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here's my two cents.
I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it to "not matter". I don't want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.
As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.
In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.
Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.
Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too. If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.

Ahmed's Storm

9/30/2021

Fifteen years ago, I lost a friend in the biggest gut punch of my life—to that point, anyway. By that time, I'd lost a cousin and two grandfathers. In high school, one friend was shot to death, and another friend and teammate was murdered at our homecoming party. I lived in Oklahoma when the Murrah Building was bombed, and I was one of millions that watched the Twin Towers fall. While I lived a charmed life in many respects, I was aware that life isn't fair.

I was 24 and had been in Iraq for just over nine months. Death was all around us, and, even when it wasn't, it wasn’t far away—like an approaching storm. We were briefed each morning on the number of attacks in our AO the previous day. We read in Stars & Stripes about the KIA throughout the theater. We'd arrive to Iraqi Highway Patrol headquarters and learn that officers we'd trained the previous day had been arrested for running death squads. Other days, the IHPs would find bodies of their tortured and murdered colleagues dumped outside the compound overnight. We witnessed IHPs die in explosions—I almost shot one in the smoke and chaos immediately following one—and saw so-called insurgents executed after attacking the compound in broad daylight.

We weighed the pros (doing the right thing) and cons (being murdered) of exposing corruption in the IHP hierarchy, and we marveled at the terrible luck of the woman who was flattened by a concrete T-wall in a fluke accident on the side of Route Irish. Everything inside the wire was muffled by the sound of a thousand generators, like summer cicadas. Outside the wire, small arms fire were our wind chimes, warning of shifts in the hostile winds, and distant blasts—from IEDs or car bombs (VBIEDs)—reminded us the storm could come any minute.

We acted like the storm wasn't coming, like we didn't mind getting wet, but it was all a lie. We focused on the clear skies in front of us, pretending not to notice the highly-charged clouds to our backs, convincing ourselves that lightning couldn't strike us. That changed somewhat, at least for me, when SFC Isaac Lawson of the 49th MP Brigade to which we were attached was killed by an EFP in June. Then again in August when we heard the play-by-play of a soldier's death on the MEDEVAC frequency.

We convinced ourselves that these were men who knew the risks when they signed on the dotted line. They were admirable and courageous, and they died in service to their country. We told ourselves they played the game knowing the rules, as if that made their deaths any less tragic. But the Iraqis, the born-in-Baghdad civilians who never asked to be saved, they were the epitome of collateral damage. Their deaths just seemed cruel.

A few months into our tour, I befriended two of those civilians, boys named Ali and Ahmed. Fifteen years ago today, the storm broke, and lightning struck Ahmed. A suicide bomber killed him and his mother while they waited in line at a gas station. I wrote about it at the time and again after I returned. A decade ago, I spoke about it with my wife through StoryCorps. That was made into an animated short. A part of me is glad that Ahmed's memory lives on through it, but then I realize I'm just trying to make myself feel better and Ahmed's still gone.

TEARS IN BAGHDAD
It never ends.
Ali was trying to tell me something about Ahmed with a seriousness I had yet to see from him, and I took it to mean that Ahmed had somehow been injured in an explosion, but I wasn't sure. With the language barrier, it was difficult to understand what was being said all the time, even with the seemingly obvious body language. These boys had been regular fixtures in my life, sharing laughs and smiles, but we by no means always knew what was being communicated. One time, I thought that Ahmed was telling me Ali had been hurt in a blast, but it turned out he was saying that Ali was working on his home, so this could have been anything. I told myself it was probably nothing and tried to forget about it; ignorance is bliss.

I thought about what it was that Ali was trying to tell me all weekend. Ali and Ahmed were my saving grace in Iraq: those boys had been what had kept me sane for the last nine months. They couldn't have been more than fourteen years old, but they had seen more than I ever will. Their sense of humor and positive attitudes were infectious, however, and I and the rest of my squad had unofficially adopted them months before. Baghdad seemed a lot more like home with those kids around.

I wish I was right about it being nothing; I wish that Ahmed was simply working on his house. After a few days of walking around in denial, I again saw Ali and this time I had our linguist mediate the conversation. According to Ali, Ahmed and his mother had gone to the fuel station to buy fuel for their home. As they were leaving, a suicide bomber appeared and Ahmed, who was holding the can of fuel, and his mother were engulfed in a ball of fire. Ahmed's mother had died instantly. Ahmed was burned terribly from head to toe. As he sat in an Iraqi hospital, his father was out doing anything he could to come up with the money for his treatment, as there is no insurance and hospitals there expect payment up front. I felt like I had just lost a lifelong friend, if not a family member. For all I had done for those two young men, I felt so helpless that no matter what I did in our trivial hours together at that police station, I would never be able to protect them from the horrors of everyday life in Baghdad. When I left them each day, I returned to the heavily fortified base complex that allowed me to sleep easy at night. Of course, it was hard to rest easily when you know that your friend is in horrific pain in a sub-standard hospital, and the bags under my eyes could attest to how worried and tired I had become. Myself and two other guys did what any self-respecting man would do: we gave what little cash we had to help pay for our friend's hospital bill. Together, though, we were only able to give him roughly $30. If there had been an ATM nearby, I would have contributed my daily limit to that poor boy's hospital care, but life in Baghdad limits you in ways that you never know until they appear.

What upset me was the general indifference the rest of the squad treated the news. Some gave an unconvincing exclamation of their sorrow, but all said they had no money—something that I know was untrue. Some cited their inability to believe Ali 100% for their reluctance to help, but I found that to be nothing more than a cop out. Say, for example, that Ali made it all up and he and Ahmed were splitting the proceeds behind our backs; what are you out? $5? $10? Weigh the risk/reward of that scenario in your head: if you are right, you have thus gained a whole $10; if you are wrong, an innocent little boy waits in pain as his father searches for a way to pay for his treatment. Take into account the risk of infection and the prompt treatment of his injuries becomes imperative. What further blew their argument out of the water was that these were not exactly fiscal conservatives we are talking about. They blew money on two or three DVDs a week (at almost $20 a pop), ate Pizza Hut, Popeye's, Burger King, and Hardee's at least four times a week; paid crazy amounts of money for fancy coffee in the morning from Green Beans Coffee (usually $5 a cup); and the list goes on. These, aside from two individuals, were also the religious wing of the squad. They had told me that they are Christians and wish to live a Christian lifestyle and questioned my lack of faith. No amount of religious posturing, however, will make me forget how they elected to treat not only our friends Ali and Ahmed, but the Iraqi people in general. If anyone of them ever again in my lifetime attempt to tell me what Christianity is about or what they are about, I will not hesitate to throw this back in their collective faces. This is just one example of their hypocrisy, but I think it is the most glaring. Good Samaritans they were not. This is not to criticize the faith itself, but I never again want to hear these men pretend to be men of God.

All I could do over the weekend was hope that the money raised was enough to precipitate the treatment of Ahmed and that that treatment could have at least alleviated the pain he was in. I had said many times before that I will never forget about these young men and that hasn't changed. I am so thankful that my children, when I have children, will not be subjected to the things these boys were.

That night, an Iraqi girl instant messaged me out of the blue. She was worried that I might be reluctant to speak to an Iraqi woman, but I assured that was not a problem. We talked for hours about our respective lives and how different and alike they were. It wasn't long before she asked me about my Yahoo picture, which was one of little Ali wearing my helmet and goggles. I told her about him and Ahmed, what I had done with them and the bond we had forged. I expressed my regret that I had not been able to do more for them in my time in that country and she really put me at ease. She said, "I think you have done all you could have done and I think you are a very kind man. They will never forget you, you know." A peace truly did come over me after hearing that; perhaps I needed to hear it before I left my habibis, my good friends. It made the day's news just a little more bearable and alleviated any guilt I may have been feeling. If I was a man of faith, I would have been convinced that she was an angel because no one on this Earth could have made me feel as at peace as she did in that moment. Somehow, she picked the perfect time to come into my life and I thank her to this day for that.

I spent that weekend hoping against hope that Ahmed would be okay. I had hoped that our money was enough to get him the treatment he needed, that he received it in time, that he had not succumbed to infection, and that he was in as little pain as humanly possible. Within minutes of arriving at the police station, I saw Ali and knew that I would have some type of news. As I approached him, his eyes met mine, and I knew. As Ali made a digging motion towards the ground and repeated "Ahmed, Ahmed" over and over, the cold reality sunk in: Ahmed was dead.

Ali said that Ahmed's father had told him to please thank us for all we had done for him and especially for the money we gave him to pay the hospital. Ali thanked us profusely for trying. Of course, I didn't think we did anything incredibly special. Ahmed was a friend and a friend in need. I did what friends do; I helped as much as I could.

After sharing the terrible news with me, Ali begged me once again for a picture of me, him, and his best friend, and this time I couldn't drag my feet. I knew that I had to get those pictures developed and in his hands as soon as possible. In the meantime, he said he wanted a picture of me and my family and I obliged. I took out a photo of our family portrait and wrote "To my friend Ali, Justin" on the back. He was happy and said that he would try and get a picture of Ahmed with his family for me. The news was sobering and not at all what I was hoping to hear, but the memory of the day is bittersweet. Sergeant Bruesch and I talked to Ali for at least a couple of hours and we all shared nervous laughs. Later, Gonzo, our linguist, came out and translated everything. He said that Ahmed had given him the shoes I bought for him, but they were too small. I told him I would bring him a bigger pair the next week and we shared a smile and a firm handshake (Ali never hugged and gave cheek-kisses like Ahmed) as he left us to go collect some more cans.

The last time I had visited with Ahmed, I taught him how to play 'Rock, Paper, Scissors' and laughed as he went 'rock' twenty hands in a row. We goofed off playing for twenty minutes and I'll never forget him giggling like the little boy he was as I tried to explain something to him that he obviously didn't understand, as long as it was in English. No matter, we killed a lot of time and had some fun doing it. He again asked me over and over when I was going to give him a picture of him, Ali, and me together and I told him I would get it to him before I left. Oh, how I wish I had gotten it to him in time, but I always thought I'd have time later. When it was time for me to leave, he gave me two kisses on the cheek and told me he would see me next week. That was the last memory I will have of him, and it is a cherished one.

I know that I meant a lot to him, or at least brightened a number of his days. I know I did, but I don't think he ever knew how much he had meant to me. He and Ali were what I looked forward to on mission days; on weekends, I thought about them. I dreamt I had adopted them. They brightened my day as much as I did theirs and I worried about them when I didn't see them. Every time there was an attack or an explosion in that area, I held my breath until I saw them again. I knew that this day may come, and I wasn't particularly surprised or angry when I heard the news. I accepted it rather matter of factly, but I indeed hurt inside. Afterwards, I sat in my humvee silently as tears rolled my face. I didn't sniffle. I didn't wail or moan. I didn't punch anything. I didn't even breathe heavily, but I cried. It was a type of cry that I had never before experienced. I felt like I was watching myself deal with the news from someone else's point of view; I felt detached.

How had this happened? What did Ahmed do? All he was guilty of was being born in Baghdad. He was a victim of circumstance, bad luck, bad timing, and, some would say, fate. He did what millions of people do everyday: he bought fuel from the neighborhood fuel station. At that same time, someone detonated a suicide vest and Ahmed and his mother were lost. As I went from tears and sullen silence to bittersweet reflection and drier eyes, I took out my journal (which I had not written in nearly as much as I should have) and started writing what I was experiencing. At that time, the cutest little girl, maybe three years old, passed by holding the hand of her father. I couldn't help but wonder how long she'd be allowed to live, how long she'd be allowed to be a child. I certainly hope it is longer than Ali and Ahmed got. She looked so much like my brother's daughter; it was uncanny, and I was immediately grateful that she was being raised in the United States, far from IEDs, car bombs, and mortars. It is unfair indeed, and it is easy to feel a certain level of guilt. I know, however, that I had about as much control over where I was raised as Ahmed did. It's no one's fault, and there is no sense in feeling guilty over it. I took solace in what Sarah, who lived in Baghdad, had told me about these two boys in our instant message conversation the night I had first heard the news about Ahmed: She was certain that I had done everything within my power to help the young man, and I had made a difference in his life that I could never measure. That comforted me.

I was also slightly comforted in knowing that he was no longer suffering. Third degree burns can be extremely painful even with the world's best medical treatment; they must have been terrible in an Iraqi hospital with limited resources. I did not want to think of what pain he felt in his last few days; I was just thankful that it was over. If I had to pick one memory of him, it would be the sight of his face peering into the humvee window looking for me, and then his yell of "Justin!" when he spotted my face. I will surely remember that face for the rest of my life; I had never seen anyone, outside of my parents, so happy to see me.

Two weeks had gone by since I learned of Ahmed's death and had promised Ali a picture of the three of us together. My mom did a great job of developing the pictures I sent her and shipping them back in a folder for Ali. I was ready to fulfill my promise. Within minutes of arriving at the Traffic Police station, I heard the familiar voice yell my name; it was Ali. I walked over to him calmly, shook his hand, and simply said, "Pictures." "Ahmed!?!" he asked excitedly. "Yes." As I turned around to go retrieve the pictures, I heard Ali behind me telling one of my comrades in his broken English that I had pictures of Ahmed for him; it dawned on me just how important this was to him.

I brought the folder to him and recognized a familiar look on his face, yet it had been years since I had seen that look. It was the face of a boy at Christmas waiting for the go-ahead to rip open his presents. The folder had barely switched hands before he had pulled it out of its envelope and opened it to page one. Staring back at him was a full page picture of Ahmed, smiling like always. I saw a sudden shift in Ali's posture, and he slowly fell to his knees . . . and wept. He tried to hide his face, hide his sniffles, hide his breathing, but it was to no avail. Ali wept like a little boy, and I had never heard a little boy weep for such a right reason. These were tears of love, friendship, memory, and closure. I'd seen those tears before, but rarely had they come from the eyes of a boy so young, yet so aged. Such is life in Baghdad.

I tried to comfort him; I did what I could. I placed my hand on his back and told him it was okay. He was embarrassed, but no one could fault him for letting it all go. As I uneasily watched him alternately weep, look at the photograph again, and wipe his eyes, a strange peace came over me, and it was then that I realized it: this was my closure. I had fulfilled my promise to Ali and, posthumously, Ahmed to bring them pictures of the three of us together; we, the "Three Habibis." I even brought pictures of Hidar, whom I had seen less and less of as of late. I didn't get to witness a funeral, or a eulogy, or wake, or burial, or memorial, but I got to see the emotions that were present in all five. Ali was certainly solemn and depressed when he first told us of the news, but other than the deep sorrow I saw in his eyes, I saw very little emotion. If the tables were turned, I would have expected to see Ahmed cry everyday; he was a very emotional kid, but Ali had always been a little bit more reserved. Ali tried to be a tough guy; Ahmed just acted like a kid.

Ali was embarrassed and composed himself within a couple of minutes, but he cried just long enough for him to get it out of his system and for me to feel like a chapter in my life was indeed coming to a close. He cheered up and was back to his usual self again. I gave him some socks that he had asked for the previous week and he told us that someone had tried to steal his "junta" (backpack) after he left us last time, but he had thrown "chocolata" in the opposite direction for them to chase while he ran away. We all shared a laugh and were in mutual agreement that the awkward moment of before was over, although no one said it outright.

Before he left, he said, in one way or another, several times that it will be a sad day for him when I returned to the States and indicated that tears may flow by repeating a wiping motion across his eyes. He asked me if America would be good for me without Ali, and he asked how much time I had before I left him. Guilt is not the correct word, but I was sure I would feel something when I left and it wouldn't dissipate simply because I was home and away from the tears in Baghdad. I knew that I would be leaving one of my best friends, and I didn't like it, but I knew I would have little choice in the matter.

That day has come and gone, and I still think of my Iraqi friends and those tears in Baghdad. Not a day goes by that I don't wonder how Ali is doing or how Ahmed's father is coping with the loss of his wife and son. I left Baghdad eight months ago, but Baghdad has yet to leave me. I don't think it ever will . . . and I don't ever want it to.

Remembering SGT Jeremy King and the lessons I learned from his death

8/24/2021

I am an attorney and aspiring writer today, but I was once a grunt in a Humvee barreling down Route Irish in south Baghdad. Fifteen years ago, I mourned a man I never met, got back to the base, and tried to forget about it. Below is what I began writing one night in 2007 when I couldn't sleep and couldn't forget about it.

When I was in Mrs. Riner's junior English class at MacArthur High School, we were required to read John Cheever's The Enormous Radio. The premise was simple. A couple in the 1930s were given a special radio that allowed them to hear all their neighbors' conversations. At first they were elated, but, ultimately, they were haunted by the miracle of their ability. They could hear all the horrors of society that usually go unnoticed or are covered up and sterilized . . . and they couldn't turn it off. They couldn't change the channel. Like most high school boys, I soon forgot both the story and the assignment. But seven years later I felt that couple's horror and instantly remembered The Enormous Radio.

August 24, 2006 was a routine day for my squad in Baghdad. We had gone to Traffic Headquarters and I had gotten to visit with an Iraqi child we befriended. Business taken care of, we started to make the familiar trek back to Camp Liberty. It was a hot day, approaching 120 degrees, and I stood up just a little higher than usual with my sleeves unbuttoned to let the air circulated inside my body armor and clothing. It had been a good day.

Back on Route Irish, we were on the home stretch when the call came out over the radio:

"Eagle Dustoff, Eagle Dustoff, this is Red Knight 7 over"

"This is Eagle Dustoff, over"

"Eagle Dustoff, I need MEDEVAC; my gunner has been shot by a sniper."

The voice went on to recite the nine line MEDEVAC report and I marveled at how cool, calm, and collected he sounded. My squad leader plotted the grid coordinates and found that this had occurred only a couple blocks away from one of our two main destinations on Market Road.

"Cliburn, go ahead and get down; someone might be aiming at your melon right now," CPT Ray said. Sergeant Bruesch concurred and I sat down, listening intently to the radio transmissions that I couldn't turn off if I wanted to.

Five minutes in, the voice on the radio was losing his cool.

"Have they left yet?! He's losing a lot of blood; we need that chopper now!"

In the background, you could hear other soldiers yelling, screaming, trying to find anyway to save their friend's life. At one point, I swear I heard the man gurgle, although I could have been imagining the scene in my head.

Ten minutes in, the voice on the radio was furious.

"Where's that fucking chopper!? We're losing him! He's not fucking breathing! Where the fuck are you!?"

Every minute to minute and a half the voice was back on the radio demanding to know what the hold up was. Every minute to minute and a half the other voice on the radio, a young woman's voice, tried to reassure him that the chopper was the way from Taji. She was beginning to tire herself; I could hear it in her voice. She was just as frustrated as he was.

All the while, there I sat. Sitting in the gunners hatch, listening life's little horrors with no way to turn the channel. No one in the truck was speaking. The music was on, but no one heard it. There was just an eerie silence. All I heard was the radio transmissions; I watched as the landscape passed me by in slow motion. I didn't hear wind noise or car horns or gunfire or my own thoughts. I was only accompanied by the silence of the world passing me by, interrupted only by the screams of the voice on the radio.

At this point, I was as frustrated as I had been all year. Where the fuck was that goddamn chopper and why was it taking so long?! What if it were me? Would I be waiting that long? Would this pathetic exchange be included in the newscast if the guy dies?

I was angry, upset, frustrated, and anticipating the next transmission in this macabre play by play account. Forget about TNT, HBO, and Law and Order: THIS was drama. This was heart wrenching. Seconds seemed like hours; minutes seemed like days.

Finally, after several more non-productive transmissions where Eagle Dustoff attempted to reassure the voice, after twenty minutes and a few more frantic, screaming transmissions by the voice, the man's voice was calm again.

"Eagle Dustoff, cancel the chopper. He's dead."

. . . and that was that. The voice had gone from being the model for the consummate soldier (cool, calm, collected, professional) to the more human screams and frantic pleading for help to solemn resignation. Now, the voice was quiet.

"Eagle Dustoff: requesting recovery team. We can't drive this vehicle back; we need someone to come get the vehicle and body. Over."

"Do you have casualty's information?"

"Yes. SGT King, over."

I sat in that gunners sling in a fit of rage that I couldn't let out. I had to be a soldier; I had to keep my cool. We all did. I was so angry, I still am, about being an unwilling voyeur, forced to listen to the gruesome play by play of another soldier's life and death.

We had been told that the insurgency was in its last throes, that they were just a bunch of dead enders. No, not this day. Today, SGT King was in his last throes, and I was there to listen to the whole thing, whether I liked it or not. A soldier's death isn't anything like the movies. There was no patriotic music; there was no feeling of purpose. It's just . . . death. I wasn't there physically; I didn't see him, but I was there.

Any sane person would have wanted to turn the channel. No one wants to hear the screams of a man losing his friend, but I couldn't turn it off. We were required to monitor that channel. Either way, it didn't take long to become emotionally invested in it; was he going to make it? I hung on ever word until I got the final, sobering news.

My truck was the only one in the convoy monitoring that net. When we got back to base, no else had heard it, and SSG Bruesch, CPT Ray, and I didn't discuss it. I don't think we ever did.

A few days later, I felt like I had to find out more about his soldier. I felt like I had lost a friend, yet I didn't know anything but his name and rank. Looking back on it, I should have just let it go, but I didn't. Using the miracle of the Internet, I found out all I needed to know about the young man.

SGT Jeremy E. King was 23 years old. He was from Idaho, where he played high school football. He had joined the army to get out of Idaho and see the world. He was one year younger than I was, and he was dead. He sounded like any of a number of teammates I played high school football with.
I've replayed that scene in my head more times than I'd ever want since that day. I don't believe in fate or karma or any type of pre-destined events, but I often wonder what made that sniper hole up on North Market Road instead of South Market Road, where I often found myself.

I was fortunate enough in my time there to never have to call in MEDEVAC, and I didn't bury any of my comrades. But I will always remember what it was like listening to the miracle of modern communications, the radio, and for the first time in my life being terrified by it . . . much like the couple in the story so many decades before me.

It is not the best writing I've ever produced, and I like to think I've grown as a writer since then. It still encapsulates what that day was like, though.

Two or three years after I published the original blog post, SGT King's widow contacted me. She had searched her husband's name and found my story.

My heart sank.

I never wanted his family to read that, to feel that, but that is the risk we take when we share others' stories. SGT King's widow was grateful I wrote about her husband, that someone cared about his death, but it could easily have gone the other way. How would I feel if someone wrote a second-by-second story stitched together from the 911 calls on the day I lost my brother, niece, nephew, and de facto sister-in-law? I don't know.

I keep that experience in mind when I consider how to tell the story of the Babbs Switch fire and ensuing mystery. These are people with loved ones. They did not ask to be public figures, and it would cause great pain to those loved ones for someone to misrepresent the people they knew. It is a great responsibility to tell others' stories, and I hope I am up to the task.

Well, this is cool.

8/8/2021

HistoricMapWorks.com has a feature that allows you to overlay historic maps onto Google Maps. Below is a map of 1913 landowners laid over Hobart and its southern adjoining lands. The star is where Babbs Switch school was located. Although it is difficult to read at this size, in the bottom of the map are two plots of land owned by Edith Babcock—namesake of Babbs Switch. Just to the east and south of the school is the land owned by the Christian family. The Christians donated the land on which the school was built, and the school was first referred to as "Christian School" before adopting the Babbs Switch moniker.

The Hancock legacy.

8/5/2021

It has been almost a century since the Babbs Switch fire, and 64 years since Hobart Democrat-Chief publisher Ransom Hancock buried the biggest story of his career out of compassion and kindness. Ransom passed away decades ago, but his legacy lives on. One son, Joe, continued the tradition by running the Democrat-Chief until he passed away. Joe's son—Ransom's grandson—is Todd Hancock, who owns and operates the Democrat-Chief himself.

Ransom's other son, Bill, also spent time running the Democrat-Chief before a distinguished career in collegiate sports. He was the first full-time director of the NCAA Final Four and has served as the Executive Director of the College Football Playoff since 2012. He compiled This One Day in Hobart and wrote a book about dealing with the loss of his son, Will, in the 2001 Oklahoma State University basketball team airplane crash. And he has been kind enough to respond to my questions as I get a crash course in Hobart and Hancock history.

Right now, he is in Japan for the Olympics, which he has attended since 1984. Berry Tramel of the Oklahoman has been posting Bill's travel journal chronicling his time in Tokyo, and it's worth a read:

It's hard.

8/3/2021

Note: Austin Kleon of Steal Like an Artist and Show Your Work recommends being as transparent as possible during the writing process: what you're doing; where you're going; what you're reading; how you're feeling. This is the first in a series of posts to share where I'm at and what I'm feeling.

It has been almost a century since the Babbs Switch fire killed 36 mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, and schoolchildren. Although much has changed over a century, basic human experiences have not. The cold sting of a December night. The pride in organizing a community. The joy and anticipation of a child at Christmas.

Pain, sorrow, trauma, and grief.

As I develop this book, I ponder what these people felt. How did they reconcile what happened? How did they wake up every morning and face the day? When they were asked how they were coping, what did they say? All I can do is think of the traumas I've experienced and extrapolate from there.

On October 5, 2019, my brother took the lives of his two children, their mother, and himself, in our parents' front yard. In the coming days, I shielded my parents from media coverage, planned a funeral, and washed sidewalk chalk off my parents' driveway for the last time. I eulogized a five-year-old, walked past the embalmed bodies of my niece and nephew, and pulled it together to give a eulogy for the brother I knew rather than the brother he was on the last day of his life. In the weeks and months thereafter, I replayed my brother's life in my head, wondering what I could have done to prevent it. But mental illness and toxic conspiracy theories by definition defy logic.

My phone's lock screen.

My personal mantra became "Is, not if." This is what happened. This is my life. No amount of ifs will ever change it, so why torture yourself?

I wonder how many ifs were considered in the aftermath of the Babbs Switch tragedy, and I wonder how those affected responded when asked how they were doing. I know I always answer:

It's hard.

I don't know how many times I've uttered those two words in the last two years, but I don't know how else to respond. And, despite almost a century of dialectical evolution and expanding dictionaries, I imagine it's what the survivors of the Babbs Switch fire said, too. Unfortunately, some things—like the ability to describe the indescribable—don't change.

My goal with this book is to tell the stories of people who can no longer tell their own. That will take more than the just-the-facts-ma'am style of writing I learned as a journalist and legal writer. It will take time, and it will take work. In a word, it will be hard. But it can't be harder than what the Babbs Switch survivors endured, and it can't be harder than the last two years.

Hard isn't always bad though. I'm reading and learning from some of the best writers in the country, and I learn more about Oklahoma history every day. Thanks for following along.

A first-time author's toolbox

Nothing occurs in a vacuum

8/2/2021

Nothing occurs in a vacuum. I'm reminded of that every time I research this story. The people involved existed before the fire. They lived lives, navigated setbacks, and celebrated weddings, births, harvests, and grand openings.

When a years-long drought ended in 1918, Kiowa County scarcely had time to celebrate before the 1918–20 flu pandemic—often brought home by soldiers on leave from World War I training—killed millions worldwide. For Kiowa County, that meant 113 dead, 102 children orphaned, 64 parents burying their children, and 36 people widowed. The sons and daughters, nieces and nephews, friends and neighbors of the dead remained, and many of them were there on that fateful Christmas Eve.

Drought. World War I. A pandemic. Oklahoma summers without air conditioning. Life in Kiowa County from 1908 through 1920 was harsh . . . and then the fire happened.

If you are at all curious about the Spanish Flu pandemic, I recommend The Great Influenza by John M. Berry.

The book is a must-read in the era of COVID-19, but it is a fascinating read in itself. Of course, you don't have to read the book to learn that it was only referred to as the "Spanish Flu" because Spain was practically the only country in the western world that was no censoring its press. Since Spanish newspapers were the only ones honestly reporting the effects of the pandemic, Spain was blamed for the outbreak (although it likely began in rural Kansas).