the boys i mean are not refined by ee cummings
the boys i mean are not refined
they go with girls who buck and bite
they do not give a fuck for luck
they hump them thirteen times a night
one hangs a hat upon her tit
one carves a cross on her behind
they do not give a shit for wit
the boys i mean are not refined
they come with girls who bite and buck
who cannot read and cannot write
who laugh like they would fall apart
and masturbate with dynamite
the boys i mean are not refined
they cannot chat of that and this
they do not give a fart for art
they kill like you would take a piss
they speak whatever’s on their mind
they do whatever’s in their pants
the boys i mean are not refined
they shake the mountains when they dance
An American soldier overseas is a bit confusing at first. My first
encounter was at a rooftop pool party at the Belgian Embassy in
Kinshasa. The embassy was a tiny little colonial apartment hidden away
between the diplomatic quarter of Kinshasa, a quiet little remnant of
what Kin la Belle used to be before garbage and refuse poured
down the streets, shards of glass lined the compounds, and squatters
huts piled up like strewn tin cans over the jungle landscape. It was
well put together, and the Belgians, along with some help from some
Canadian foreign service workers, had gotten a large group of expats
drinking. I can’t remember how we ended up there, but a mish mash of
Western faces dotted the roof as we all slowly got drunk and whittled
our time away in the DRC.
The soldier was a cut out stereotype from Fort Hood. Assigned to the
embassy at Avenue des Aviateurs, he had every look of an American who
was a fish out of water, and even though we were just drunk Canadian
contractors (known to behave like Russians but speak English), I
couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.
His talk was mostly about back home, about his dislike of the Congo
(too hot, not like Kansas) his love of country (Bush wasn’t all that
bad) and his naive sense of what they were doing there (America always
lends a hand). If this had been my only meeting of soldiers overseas, I
might have left with a neutral opinion, hearing so many stories of why
America has the reputation it does. Unfortunately, the bar slid as my
time continued. I excused myself, hoping for better conversation with a
girl in a red dress from the state department, while I left him to be
preyed upon by two British Marines just itching to throw him off the
balcony. Why? Well, he was an American soldier, and I soon learned why
this seemed like a good idea.
Kinshasa is a place for parties. On a weekend, if the timing is
right, you hop from embassy to embassy, grabbing a drink here, saying
hello to an ambassador there, and maybe sneaking a 40 oz of vodka for
the ride home from the grinning bartender. One such party, at the
British consulate, I had my first taste of that true Yankee pride.
Two guys happened to wander over to our table, dressed for Long Beach
in the Bas Congo. Two of our female flight attendants were out for the
night, and subtlety didn’t seem to be their strong point.
“Who’re the girls?”
“Pardon?”
“Hey. I’m roger. We’re American. AFRICOM. Who’re the girls?”
Heavy handed was half of it. They walked like they owned the world,
and proceeded to alienate us one by one with macho stories of African
subjugation (Oh yeah. We like training these guys. Shitty fighters.
Don’t think Africans were ever good at fighting) thinly veiled as
commentary. It only turned for the worse when they said it was a “shit
posting” and were hoping to get onto something else soon. Needless to
say, they didn’t fare well. The girls ignored them, they called them
stuck up, and then left to pursue the wives of elder diplomats, eager
for anything they could get their hands on.
I never believed in American arrogance overseas, or why they failed
to make any dent in Africa. Was it slavery? Was it old cold war
mentality? Or was it simply just ignorance? The Chinese were here
building roads, making bridges, fixing infrastructure. America came in
unmarked Dash 8′s with black suits and mirror shades, and offered
nothing more than the chance to be friends with the big dog, throwing
scraps and taking everything. Everything seemed out of sync, as if the
military had no idea what its top half was doing, and everything was
running amok. I still can’t verbalize it. It’s as disjointed as a large
African city, dysfunction running through the ranks until the whole
thing is a hot mess.
To sum it up, I hope to never see an American posted on active duty
again. There’s a raw edge, a mark of mild stupidity, and a scary amount
of tunnel vision that goes along with the digital camouflage that still
makes my hair stand on end thinking about it.
I was walking the boardwalk in Kandahar 24 hours before I was set to
go home in Afghanistan. I had spent the morning watching the live press
conference by Obama saying Osama was killed. The drone that oversaw the
operation quietly took off while I was fast asleep in my container, the
runway a scant 500m from where I was. I could not wait to get the hell
out of dodge. I walked the boardwalk for the last time, coffee in hand,
overhearing conversations. A group of West Virginian reservists were by
the coffee shop, and I stopped for a cigarette. Captain’s bars on all 3.
“Did you hear we got that sand nigger last night?”
“Damn straight. Bet he was dead ages ago."
“Well we got one nigger, now all we gotta do is get that nigger in the white house.”
I tossed my smoke and walked away briskly.
These are the men watching over you. These are the people who
represent you overseas. These are the people who you send over as the real
ambassadors. Sleep tight, America.
-----
Colin
Nash is a writer and former actor who fell into contract work with
the United Nations. He has worked in different parts of Africa and
spent
a six month stint in Afghanistan. He currently resides in Toronto. This
post originally appeared on his personal blog, which you can visit here.
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