My stepfather came into my life
when I was nine,
a carpenter who liked to whistle
the Rolling Stones,
and sometimes play guitar.
He was tall,
and filled up the empty spaces
of my own father’s absence
in ways I still can’t describe.
And though my step father had a temper,
and was twice my size,
he never laid a finger on me,
though once, drunk as a skunk,
he pushed me down on the grass,
he let me go, and the very next day
he apologized,
and never touched alcohol again.
I was 12.
I was halfway through college
where the first war broke out with Iraq,
and everyone around me in my frat
was repeating things they’d heard on TV.
And some so caught up in the blood of war,
called the Iraqis “sandniggers,”
and “dune coons.”
I felt sad, alone, and confused,
trying to justify everything in my head,
and wondering what I was even doing in a frat
in the first place.
When I came home for Spring break,
I told my stepfather
that maybe we needed to be at war
in order to protect our interests overseas,
and secure peace for America.
“Bullshit,” he said, “It’s all about oil,
and all about money.”
“But what about Saddam Hussein?”
I asked,”isn’t he evil? Shouldn’t
we bomb them to stop him?”
“Look,” he said, looking me in the eyes,
and into my soul. “The only thing
I need to know about war,
is that when you drop a bomb
and kill somebody’s kid,
it hurts.”
I had no reply to this,
and everything I had said prior
to him about the meaning of war,
suddenly felt like a lie
I had been telling myself
so I didn’t have to feel bad
for what I knew was wrong,
so I told him I was sorry,
and he was right,
and I never took another drink
again.
