The Biscuit Party

By:

Javan Bair

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is an unabridged and very honest recollection of three men attempting to vacation during the summer of 2020. This story is being presented to you by one of those men. 

 

These events, while at times whimsical and humorous have deeply impacted my views on suicide, servitude, and that which is truly important to me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Hey, dipshits!” I shout from my front porch as I watch my friends Brett and Carlin drive right past my house, slam on the breaks, and perform an illegal u turn in the middle of the street. Witnessing this caused my soul to feel at ease. They still had the sense of reckless abandonment that I had been needing in my life for a while. As I watched these two block the road in front of my house, I had the much needed realization that after all, nothing had changed and that was indescribably comforting…

 

As I jumped into the backseat of Carlin’s Subaru Forester (more commonly referred to among the three of us as the “mobile home 2.0”. The original mobile home was a 2005 Ford Mustang that that we had quite literally driven the brakes off of. But that is a story for a whole other time). I took a good look at my two friends. It had been a little over a year since last time I had seen these two, and I quickly noticed that they were both wearing those corny ass, gas station “VETERAN” hats. “What the fuck are you two wearing?” I ask. “Veteran hats, dude!” They both exclaim. “We got you one too! Thank you for your service.” Brett slapped the hat on top of my head. I looked at myself in the rear view mirror and laughed, hard. Not a single one of us took ourselves too seriously. Nothing had changed and that was reassuring. 

 

Brett and Carlin had just come home from Afghanistan and gotten out of the Army about a month before all of this.

 

Come hell or high water, we were taking the road trip we had been talking about since we first met in basic training. But, both hell and high water came very hard just months before our trip in the form of COVID. We were taking this trip in the midst of a global pandemic and there was not a singular fuck to be found amongst the collective three of us. Even if every conceivable business and establishment was closed down across the country we were making our way from Colorado, down to Dallas, and over to California. Resiliency in conjunction with the proper amounts of stupidity and stubbornness can sometimes cause life changing events to occur.

 

I had been out of the Army for about a year at this point. My life had calmed down significantly since I said my final goodbye to the center of the Universe. Fort Bragg, North Carolina. I had replaced the barracks with a little townhome. It was a townhome surrounded by homeless people, so in that way it wasn’t much different than the barracks. I was in college and writing essays about contemporary art. I went to a play and enjoyed it thoroughly. I owned Chaco’s and wore them proudly. My life was almost unrecognizable to the one I had led as a Paratrooper. Admittedly, I was slightly worried that the boys and I may not mesh the way we did before. But before I knew it, we were all smashed off of Miller Lites and I was chasing Carlin down the street with the cover of a street side utilities box. Nothing much had changed aside from the world around us, and that was calming.  

 

The Mobile Home 2.0 was hurdling down I-25 South. The highway was empty in either direction. There was so little traffic on the road it felt surreal. We had no agenda other than achieving a sense of escapism. We were unknowingly on our way to take the controversy ridden country by storm in a Subaru Forester. It is the perfect premise to the great millennial novel. Nothing made any goddamn sense. Chaos was a normality. Uncertainty had encapsulated the aura of all that surrounded us. Considering the circumstances under which the three of us met, nothing had really changed at all. 

 

******************

 

The first stop was the big D, and I am talking Dallas. We were on our way to see Uncle Matt and Aunt Nancy. Brett and I are of no relation to these two wonderful people. They are Carlin’s aunt and uncle who had invited us into their home for Easter the year prior. The second most unholy Easter of my existence. But that story much like the Mustang with no brakes, is a story for another time. 

 

Despite the Easter we shared together, they had once again extended an invitation to their favorite degenerates. 

 

The second night at Uncle Matt and Aunt Nancy’s we decided to go out and decided to take part in our collective past time. We were going out to see how many different places we could find to get drunk inside of. “But how did you do such a thing in the midst of a global pandemic?” Simple. We were in Dallas. And Dallas did not seem to give a fuck about COVID.

 

We were pre-gaming our night of projected debauchery by having some back porch drinks with Matt & Nancy. That’s when Uncle Matt leaned over to me and said, “You’re out of the Army now too, right?” “Hell yes.” I replied. “Do you partake?” Matt gestures as though he’s ripping a joint. “Yes, sir.” I replied. My man did not pull out a joint. He pulled out 2 edibles. To be more accurate, he pulled out two Rice Krispy treats that were each the size of a VHS tape and said, “down the hatch.” And down it went. Because, when in Dallas. 

 

Our Uber pulled up. We piled in and headed to the bar. One of Dallas’ finest was behind the wheel of this particular Nissan Altima. His driving was erratic to say the least. But homeboy’s subpar driving skills were now the least of my problems. Uncle Matt’s cinder block of an edible was now taking a hold of me. I’m in the backseat of a strangers car and stoned out of my ever loving mind. As I’m trying to make odds or ends out of who the fuck the guy driving the car is or how I know him, another thought had entered the chat. “What part of the country am in right now?” 

 

The car comes to a literal screeching halt. Partially because the driver was all the way turned around in the back seat talking to Carlin and myself instead of looking down the road. But this close call of a potentially catastrophic accident was not totally caused by this man’s lack of awareness to the fact that he was driving a car, but partially due to a sea of people that were making a wall of human beings that stretched across almost every part of the Dallas Fort Worth freeway system. If you’re unfamiliar with this particular stretch of highway. There are no useful analogies that do it justice other than, “it’s big as fuck.” 

 

Thousands of people were joined in protest over the death of George Floyd at the hands of Minneapolis Police Officer Derek Chauvin. They stretched across nearly every avenue of travel on this monstrous freeway. As I mentioned earlier, the good people of Dallas did not seem to give a singular fuck about COVID. But they cared deeply about what happened to George Floyd. They were out in literal droves taking part in one of the largest human rights movements (in terms of the sheer number of participants) that the world has ever seen. Maybe it was Uncle Matt’s brick of weed that I ate, maybe it was the overarching seriousness of the situation and what it meant for the future of our country. Maybe it was simply astounding to see that many people standing together on a highway. Nevertheless, the situation was prolific. As far as prolificity can be experienced while stuck in traffic for any reason. Distress was in the air. Tension encapsulated the ambience. The chaos of the world we had been trying to vacation from had slapped us in the face. We were looking for a place to party while the world seemingly fell apart around us.

 

Outside of a bar in Dallas stood Carlin, Brett, and Brett’s friends Joey. Joey met up with us later in the night and offered to be our DD for the evening, which was wonderful because I don’t know if I could withstand anther existential breakdown in a strangers car. We were all making our way to Joey’s truck and our night was coming to a close. But while we were in route to said truck, the man with the biggest dick in Dallas decided to do a drunk burnout in the middle of a decent sized group of people. The crowd booed and yelled obscenities at the driver of this all white Jaguar as he laughed and continued to drive through the crowd. In addition to the burnout that made everyone woman in attendance swoon so hard their panties went missing, this clown hurled an empty beer bottle from his window. The beer bottle flew by my face and smashed on the wall behind me. Before I had the opportunity to say a word, one particular insult hurled by none other than Brett, changed the trajectory of events in that parking lot and created one of the more absurd memories that lives inside of my head. “I hope your mother gets cancer.” Shouts Brett. The tires of this Jaguar screech in response. The statement may come across a bit severe on paper. But I must admit that is the fastest I’ve ever seen words provoke a man to get out of his own car while not even in park yet. So, if you’re ever in a position where you need to start a fight in record time, feel free to borrow that adage. “Who the fuck said that?!” Hollered a man that looked like Don Johnson fucked a Cocaine Cowboy. “I did.” said Brett. Then proceeded the normal pre brawl shit talking between the two. I saw the driver’s friend who closely resembled a boot barn mannequin get out of the vehicle thus causing Carlin and I to pipe up. And just as we were all getting ready to have a good old boot scooting boogie of a good time with these Dallas boys. Boot Barn mannequin looks at Brett as he was standing there pushing Joey back and forth while making race car noises with his mouth. At this time it is important to note that Joey is in a wheelchair. It is also worth noting that Joey was also talking shit as Brett “revved his engine”. In response to Brett and Joey’s antics, Boot Barn audibly said, “fuck no.” And got back in the passenger’s seat of his best friends ride. Once Don Johnson realized that even the dude with no use of his legs in our little group was ready to get in the mix, he hurled a few more insults at us and dipped.

 

I’ve told that story probably a hundred times to try and adequately convey the blatant absurdity of that short yet ridiculous occurrence. Never in all my life have I seen a fight avoided in such a preposterous manner. My friend was using his disabled friend as a potential battering ram. That kind of shit does not happen outside of some very dark corners of the internet. That story may seem pointless other than conveying a sense boisterous masculinity, but it reminded Carlin, Brett, and I that we still shared a sense of unique cohesion and brotherhood that will stand in the face of anything.

 

******************

 

After a few days it was time to leave the fine city of Dallas and embark on the latter portion of our journey to Southern California. Most of the drive was spent discussing the state of the country. It was after all falling to fucking pieces around us as we drove across it. Specifically, the topic of racism. Considering what we saw on the highway in Dallas and saw unfolding all over the country, it was certainly worth talking about. And after hours of discussion, we came to the realization that if more people learned the importance of drinking black coffee from Drill Sergeant Wiggins like we had several years prior, the country would be far better off.  

 

We were nearing the end of our time at basic training on the nation’s one and only Sand Hill located in Fort Benning, Georgia. The last week or so of basic training is spent cleaning weapons and playing “fuck-fuck” games because your Drills are bored. And one particular private’s lack of motivation for cleaning his weapon presented the rest of us with the opportunity to behold the most spectacular “fuck-fuck” game I have ever seen.

 

In basic training some privates are given the role of “platoon leader”. At this point in time Carlin was the designated leader of 3^rd platoon. He was ensuring that everyone was actually cleaning their weapons. He recognized that Phinney was not cleaning his weapon. Phinney was a shit-bag. So, this type of behavior was not surprising from a kid that showed up to basic training with a Ranger tab already tattooed on his chest. But once again, another story for another time. Carlin tells Phinney to clean his weapon like everybody else. Phinney responds with, “Fuck off you black piece of shit.” My friend Carlin is a lot of things, but a piece of shit is not one of them. Especially, when the only factor that led you to that conclusion about his character is based on the color of his skin. The fact that Carlin did not obliterate all five-feet and two-inches of Phinney that very moment, must have taken a great deal of self-control on Carlin’s part because he is built like the Dallas freeway system. He is a big fucking dude.

 

Carlin walks over to Brett and I as we were cleaning our weapons. He sat down and didn’t have much to say. It was immediately apparent that something was wrong. We inquired about his issue and Carlin explained to us what Phinney had said to him. It took me off guard. I have never been on the receiving end of a racial slur that meant anything. Sure, I’ve been called a “mick” but I didn’t immigrate through Ellis Island and I’ve never worked on a railroad so it’s never had the gravity to hold me down. But seeing the look on my friends face after someone like Phinney who was built like a pre-pubescent boy with the face of an ogre tried to make Carlin feel inferior based on his physical appearance. “Fuck no. Fuck Phinney. Let’s take care of this.” That’s what I was thinking. But I am irrational, impulsive, and have a propensity to make awful decisions. Brett reminded me that when we get caught fighting, and we would have been caught, it would be the same as all the other times that fights had broken out. We would collectively get punished and nothing would get resolved. And I must admit that beating the racist notions out of Phinney with little bars of Irish Spring was such an appealing idea to my erratic sensibilities. But I am happy that I listened to Brett and let our loose cannon, alcoholic of a Drill Sergeant handle the situation.

 

Drill Sergeant Wiggins face was strewn with the look of disgust that quickly turned to anger when he heard of a racist in his platoon. A look of anger that is unique to man that has multiple deployments, divorces, and a plethora of demons under his belt. A look that you can only find in the eyes of a man that would probably kill a homeless person for a pack of Marlboros. “Phinney, get the fuck over here!” Wiggins voice thundered through out the company area as everyone fell silent. Phinney’s tiny ass scurried over there and stood at parade rest as Wiggins maniacally peered at him under the brim of his brown-round. After he tells Phinney to stand at the position of attention in the middle of the company area, he instructs Brett and I to go and gather “every single black private in this company.” And so we did. We ran to all four platoon bays and told every black guy we saw, “Drill Sergeant Wiggins wants all the black people downstairs now.” We did not have a single fucking idea what for, we were simply the messengers. But just take a moment and imagine two white boys running into the racially eclectic rooms that platoon bays are and requesting that all of the black people, and only the black people, go downstairs at the request of a man we all knew to be mentally unstable. 

 

Phinney stood at attention, facing a formation. A formation that was comprised of every single black kid in our Company. Drill Sergeant Wiggins walked back and forth between Phinney and the formation. “Phinney, do you have any idea why you are in this situation?” asked Wiggins. “No, Drill Sergeant” Screamed Phinney. “No? You have no fucking idea why I have gathered all of these fine young African American men in front of you today?” Wiggins asked in a calm yet volatile fashion. There is a certain rhythm one becomes accustomed to in the vocal deliveries of a drill sergeant. The rhythm is a stream of calm and calculated rhetorical questions that result in a chaotic outcome for those being questioned. We all knew something was coming. “Phinney, go ahead and tell this formation what you said to Private Page.” Said Wiggins. The well-deserved look of fear in Phinney’s eyes as he stood with his jaw on the floor will reside in my mind for the rest of my days. “Uh, uh, uh… I didn’t say anything to Page, Drill Sergeant.” Lied the coward. “Oh? You didn’t?” Asked Wiggins. If you listened hard enough, you could hear Phinney’s knees knocking together. The chaos had entered the room. “You are fucking telling me that you did not call Private Page, your platoon leader, ‘a black piece of shit’ after he asked you to clean your weapon?” A noise of collective fury arises from the formation of young angry men that Wiggins assembled. It was at this time that Wiggins gave every member of this formation permission to take turns hazing the ever living dog shit out of Phinney. This went on for a long time, a very long time. It was truly a pleasure to witness. Wiggins had pulled up a chair and watched as these young men commanded Phinney to degrade himself in the presence of those he had very recently seen himself above. In Wiggins hand was a cup of coffee that he would sip from as Phinney had what I imagine was one of the worst days of his life. And then he uttered a joke that should be immortalized in stone, as far as I’m concerned. “Phinney. I like my coffee like I like my women… not fucking racist!”

 

******************

 

The rest of the trip was spent in Gavin Newsom’s social experiment, better known as the state of California. There were only a handful of establishments that were open to the public at the time. But that is not to say that there were not memories made out there. Classics such as, Tina’s outdoor sleeping habit, more marijuana escapades, Brett’s upper decker’s, and a slew of other stories that are once again reserved for a different time. What we were able to do was eat a lot of biscuits.

 

Eating biscuits: an analogy for lifting weights with the boys. Brett came up with this name for weightlifting years ago and it stuck. In fact, we eventually dubbed the entire process of exercising as some sort of biscuit variant. There’s cardio biscuits (running). There’s riding biscuits (biking). And there is the scared tradition of throwing a biscuit party. A biscuit party occurs when two or more individuals join together in the process of the iron discipline. We would lift weights together and share ideas just as some of the world’s finest philosophers before us. Although our philosophical dialogue may have differed from that of Socrates or Plato, I’d like to imagine a world where Socrates would have made line crossing jokes about becoming Plato’s stepdad in the name of good natured shit talking. 

 

The Biscuit Party had adapted to the gym closures that were in place due to COVID in California. We were eating our biscuits in Carlin’s stepdads garage. He had one of those midlife crisis weight collections that every older man has but never uses. A handful of dumb bells, a standalone bench, and a cable machine that we had to dig out under piles of tools and other garage shit. But it got the fucking job done. We were getting in solid workouts. We were sweating out the remanence of the prior nights Miller Lites. We were poking fun at another purely based on physicality over the sonic backdrop of an eclectic playlist that contained everything from Rage Against the Machine to Levin Kali. It felt familiar and we all fucking needed that. 

 

The next several days in California seemed to be somewhat free of the calamity that was occurring just outside of our own perspective. COVID hit the United States and the country collectively shit on the ideas and principles of civility. Protests and riots were consuming the streets of every major city in the United States. Our president became one of the most polarizing figures in the history of this nation. Biden and Pelosi took a figurative knee in solidarity with the African American community by draping themselves in Dashikis rather than fixing the issue of police brutality. Modern Medicine had become an enemy. A piece of cloth meant to be put on ones face became the principle talking point of democracy among people that live in an oligarchy. And an all but seemingly never ending conflict continued to wage on in Afghanistan. 20 years. A lifetime longer than some of those that died fighting it. 

As the trip was finally coming to a close and I was having the surreal experience of walking through an empty airport, about to board a socially distanced airplane (By the way, being forced to sit at least six feet away from the farts of a stranger was the best part of the pandemic) I realized that I was heading back to my mundane state of existence.

 

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Before Brett, Carlin, and I embarked on this escapade of ours, my life was much like most of the world’s during the initial quarantine period. Life had begun to feel mundane in the midst of an eerie silence that seemed unshakable. The foundation of immediate gratification and immediate stimulation to which I had become so accustomed, had been ripped out from underneath me. Every day began to blur into the next with faint hints of excitement.

 

At first, I enjoyed the lack of structure that the quarantine provided. Never in all my life had I felt so unrestricted. I felt like I had really tapped into my ancestral hippy roots. Rock climbing, mountain biking, smoking weed, day drinking, recording podcasts, and not working were all I had to do. Life was really hard. I felt like the nihilist from The Big Lebowski, just drifting along the top of the pool in a floatie. And the Dude may have been facetious when he said that “(nihilism) seems exhausting”, but I can attest that purposelessly drifting about took its toll on me.

 

*A Morning in the life of…*

 

Wake up. Feed the dog. Make coffee. Stare out the window at a world that is just as still and lifeless as the day before. Your introspective moment of poetic clarity is swiftly interrupted by an aggressive need to take a coffee shit. Run to the bathroom. Remember that you ran out of toilet paper. Notice that the paper towels have also been depleted. Give your butt a pep-talk about what’s about to happen. Grab your car keys and head to the store right across the street. Run inside with such ferocity that it looks like you have something of the upmost importance to announce and you’ve been doing cocaine all night. Frantically search for toilet paper. Be made a fool by an aisle of empty shelves that once held that which you need the very most. Make the decision to buy a pack of Vanity Fair napkins to wipe your ass with because you deserve the very best. And the excitement of your day has elapsed.

 

Right before this lock down I finally decided to meet with a therapist to see if she could help me unscramble my eggs. The first 8 sessions went off without a hitch. I was able to finally confront all the wild shit my mom put me through in the name of her own resolved mental issues. I was able to confront the fact that my biological dad is always going to be a letdown. I was able to begin to grip the fact that I am the product of his weak pull out game (my words, not my therapists) and that is where our connection ends if I want it to. We talked through abortions, arrests, and countless other mistakes. I didn’t necessarily feel on top of the world, but I felt like I as making my way there. That all came to an abrupt stop with quarantine.

 

There I was with all the freshly awoken demons from my past and limited resources to keep them quiet. I’d be remiss if I didn’t admit that I was dancing with thoughts of suicide. The world was dark and I felt hopeless.

 

As for Brett and Carlin, they left for their deployment during a time where if you squinted hard enough, America still looked like Budweiser and hotdogs. They came home and it was far-left vs. far-right politics and chaos. The United States has long been on the precipice of encountering the type of chaos that engulfed 2020. But the dynamic shift that occurred in the time these two left in July of 2019 and returned home in June 2020 is enough to knock any person off of their feet.

 

They spent months overseas with not so far off dreams of a DD-214. Every day there is the thought of that sweet document that frees you from the pervasive and precarious bullshit of the Army. Discussion of the dreams of what one will do with their post military existence comprise most of the conversations between soldiers. Some people want to live in the woods, grow weed, and wear overalls. Some want to go to college and remember what it feels like to be the only person in a room with tattoos. Some want to go to trade schools and make a shit load of money. Some want to go back home and never leave again. Some want to get home to that sweet, sweet girl that would never, not in a million years, ever cheat on them. But none, not a single one wanted to come home to a place that was almost unrecognizable.  

 

The evidence wasn’t necessarily persistent, but I could see my friends struggling to cope with this new way of life. Hope for the memories of home that every soldier carries with them in the vein that world will not move on without them had been crushed in.

 

These two were hurting and it was beginning to scare me. I couldn’t help but be plagued with the thought that one day soon I might get one of those devastating phone calls that live with you forever. I didn’t want to notice it, but the look inside the eyes of someone that is grasping for straws in an effort to stay alive are unmistakable.

 

I’m thrilled to announce that three of us are still here with no plans to leave this wonderful life anytime soon. The Biscuit Party is a permanent fixture in our existences. We are the result of keeping yourself surrounded by a healthy support system. Something that is unfortunately rare among many veterans who end up feeling ultimately lost.  

 

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Soldiers and suicide coincide comfortably with one another. The loss of a service member at a measure of their own hands has become an unfortunate backdrop to the perpetual state of war we find ourselves inside of.

 

The pandemic changed and altered the state of many elements once believed to be constant. But certain pillars of American life such as soldiers and suicide became stronger than ever. “The active-duty Army has seen a 30% increase in 2020 in deaths by suicide, from 88 deaths by suicide in 2019 to 114 this year.” (Brook, 2020) Statistics like that take me back to a particular instance to which I can nearly pin down the reason for this increase in soldier suicides.

 

******************

 

It was a strange time to be a soldier in Bravo Company. Every moving body in the company was jammed shoulder to shoulder in the Battalion’s conference room. We were summoned there in order to discuss the unsavory results of our command climate survey. See, once a year the Army asks all of the members of every unit to anonymously rate their leadership. And from 2017-2018 Bravo Company was led by a Captain who shall remain nameless. He had made the existence of all the soldiers underneath him painfully exhausting. Presenting ridiculous demands from his subordinates in the absence of his own abilities as a leader. He created an ultimately toxic environment that ate away at the morale of his company. When it came time to review his leadership, it would be an understatement to say that he was crucified. He was less than pleased when presented with our review of his command. As a result, were being scolded by our leadership while they went through a PowerPoint slideshow comprised of the “offensive” answers we provided during the survey. Some of the answers were humorous. Some of the answers were nonsensical. But one answer carried a level of honesty that still resonates with me to this day. This young man described, in graphic detail, how he dreamt of shooting himself in the head in our Sergeant Major’s parking spot early in the morning, in order to ensure that his dead body was the first thing he saw when pulling into work. When our commander put this answer up on the screen the mood of the room was split. Some of us laughed simply because of the level of spiteful absurdity it must have taken to write that statement down. Some of us hung our heads in disbelief that even after being presented with such a detrimental review of our commands performance, we were still being screamed at for the “immature” and “negative” nature of our responses. We were ironically being scolded by the very leadership that was too prideful to see that they were the ones largely responsible for provoking these types of suicidal thoughts. And I was busy thinking about my friend who told me he wrote that answer. A layer of depth was added to the realization that this whole situation was simply picturesque of a much larger issue. Despite it being a consistent talking point, mental health issues are still being handled so poorly in the military. “The evolution of modern industrialized warfare’s capacity to kill, maim, and terrorize has exceeded the limits of human endurance whereby psychiatric casualties have outnumbered the total of combatants, both wounded- and killed-in-action, since the Second World War.” (Russel et al. 2018). There seems to be two approaches to dealing with mental health issues: either these issues are being ignored completely or acknowledged in the worst possible manner.    

 

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There is nothing like it. It is a miserably unique experience. The feeling on the inside of a chapel that is holding the funeral service for a soldier that took their own life is unforgettable. The ceremony itself is rigid and structured just as everything else is in the military. But the humanity of the situation always finds its way inside. And for some there comes a moment where it sinks in and they realize they have been here before. Standing at attention in the middle of the afternoon as we honored the life of another soldier that succumbed to the temptations of suicide. Once again we gather around the muffled tears of the spouse and children they left behind. As we do this time and time again, there must finally be an understanding that there is a problem at hand. 

 

With all sincerity, I hope that this piece, through its anecdotes, perspectives, and curated evidence serves as a timely reminder to never forget the hardships that this country faced before the COVID-19 pandemic. In particular, the crisis surrounding the rising loss of those that keep us. Casting political beliefs and notions aside, there are only two real keepers of the American way of life, the soldier and the statesman. The presence of power yields the presence of safety. And the safety of the nation relies heavily on those that uphold a sovereign oath to the constitution that they carry with them. The presence of the people is all that is worth keeping safe. Monuments, artifacts, and statues have all crumbled with the passing of time, but the citizens of these United States continue to evade demise. It is my greatest request to plead for reciprocity for those that serve because without it, the very foundation upon which we stand will crumble entirely. May we adapt our methods of mental health treatment for veterans so that they can grow old and tell tales of the unmatched resiliency that carried them through wars, a pandemic, and all of the other tribulations of a life that is simply yearning for their continued presence.

 

 

 

 

A few resources for anyone (veteran or otherwise) that are in need of assistance:

 

 https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/ 

 

https://www.taps.org/suicide/?gclid=CjwKCAjwybyJBhBwEiwAvz4G79jNhM2qU3ncUww9haU8TA7690CIMSeL1y5vHfRzruCkSVo4TioqPRoCEd0QAvD_BwE

 

https://www.veteranscrisisline.net/get-help/hotline

 

Veterans Crisis Line Phone Number: 1-800-273-8255 (Press 1)

 

Or you can email me: javbair@gmail.com

I am certainly not a therapist, but I would love to help in any way that I can. 

 

 

The Big SAD 

By: Javan Bair

That bastard Benjamin Franklin robs us of our precious sunlight once a year, every year. I actually have no idea if Benjamin Franklin invented daylight savings, I learned that from the movie National Treasure like fifteen years ago. But Nicholas Cage is a reliable source. Right? Whether or not Benjamin Franklin did take a break from being one of the Founding Fathers of the United States, being a president, posing for his portrait on the one-hundred dollar bill, and flying kites in lightning storms to develop daylight savings is beside the point. Because that time has come once again. And I speak for exclusively for myself, but I absolutely dread this time of year. I always encounter this overwhelming feeling of persistent sadness.

For most of my life, I thought this was an uncommon feeling. But then I learned about the big SAD. Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), also known as Seasonal Depression. And there is a slew of reasons that the real spooky season begins right after Halloween for most people.  

According to the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH), “Millions of American adults may suffer from SAD, although many may not know they have the condition.” According to the research completed by NIMH, reasons for experiencing these seasonal symptoms may include: a lack of sunlight, a correlated lack of vitamin-D, isolation due to weather, and the exacerbation of pre-existing mental health conditions. And that last one is a straight up fucking B-I-N-G-O for me.  

My anxieties run rampant during this time of year. 

In an effort to be as honest and transparent as possible, I'll admit that during this time of year my anxiety manifests in persistent feelings of loss (past and potential) and worthlessness. I always tend to over analyze my current position in life. Which is also not uncommon. We all feel like burnouts sometimes. We all feel lost. We all feel displaced. We all feel as though our progress is simply not enough. And I find this to be so bizarre. After all, this a common on trope in everyone’s human experience. But the other commonality we all share is a trouble in expressing these thoughts of inadequacy, hopelessness, and uncertainty. It’s really fucking hard to open up.

That’s why I do this. My brain is much better connected to my hands than it is to my mouth. I can express my thoughts and emotions on paper so much better than I can when I try to use the old face hole. But there is profound impact in sharing your thoughts out loud. I implore anyone experiencing depression, seasonal or otherwise, to talk to someone. Preferably a professional. But there’s also no harm in commiserating with the homies. Start local. Be open with your friends. You may find that your struggle is not so singular. 

But here I am, face to face with all my seasonal demons once again. And they are really trying to fuck with me this year. So, I am going to lean into the emotions they invoke. Before I go further, I am not proposing this as a method of coping or healing for anyone else. But, I have spent at least the last decades worth of winters doing all I can to escape the way I feel. But now I want to feel every last fucking bit of what I am afraid of. I am embracing the kind of pain that sits in the gut pocket of our soul and strips us of the very air we need to breath. I want to learn from this pain rather than continually trying to silence it. I find myself beginning to surrender to the consequences of the decisions I have made and others have made around me. I am also diving deeper into the feelings of happiness that make that same part of my soul swell with excitement. I am finding that it is this duality that makes our consciousness worth possessing.  

As far as the feelings of being lost or not being where I should be in life, I’ll be taking a mantra from my friend Carlin. The other day we were talking and I shared with him the way I have been feeling. He not only shared the same experience, but he also told me something that will resonate with me for a long time. “This is it… For right now.” Understand where you are. Appreciate where you are. And continue to grow from this position.   

We all have a tendency to become downtrodden during this time of year. But I hope that this short piece can serve as a reminder that none of us our alone. If you read this and it resonated with you, let’s talk about in the comments.

The big SAD is here. We can all band together and blame Benjamin Franklin based off of one obscure scene from a dated Disney movie or we can act as a support system for another through the cold and dreary foreseeable future. I prefer the latter.

P.S.

Here's an article about Benjamin Franklin’s involvement in day light savings:

https://spectrumlocalnews.com/nc/charlotte/weather/2021/02/24/why-daylight-saving-time-

Here's the article I sourced from the National Institute of Mental Health. It has a lot of great information beyond what I used it for:

https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/publications/seasonal-affective-disorder

 

 

 

The Panoptic Reach of The Probationary System

Most interactions with the police are inherently nerve wracking because of the power dynamic that exists between law enforcement and civilians. Whether it be due to a simple traffic stop or the result of evading a warrant, the presence of that type of authority is incredibly impactful. And if someone is unfortunate enough to have an encounter with the police that results in an arrest, the nervousness and anxiety they have just experienced are going to become a semi-constant fixture in their lives long after the uniformed officers leave. After going to court, receiving a sentence, paying all of the required fees, and in some cases even after serving time in incarceration, the system becomes a pervasive entity in the form of probation.

The probation system is another avenue one must pursue in the name of state mandated rehabilitation following being found guilty of a crime. However, rehabilitation seems to be found by very few in the system. It is far more likely that someone will remain caught up in the throes of perpetual probation, than it is to move on and return to society in a state of normalcy. The inescapability of this system is by no means an accident. The probation system serves as an effective method of continually feeding the needs of the prison industrial complex. But probation is far more lucrative than just keeping prisons up and running. The very existence of probation and its associated rules, creates the possibility of failing to follow those rules. And as soon as someone violates their probation, they find themselves in deeper trouble than when they began their arduous legal journey. The system is a viscous cycle, but it was not designed that way because of some malicious intent of those in power, but because it is a consistent and unwavering cycle of revenue. In this essay, I will be focusing on the perpetuators of this system. Not those that have been sentenced to follow the program in hopes of being a productive member of society, but those that seek to maintain control from people that fail to adhere to all the parameters of their sentencing.  

Depending on the charges and the sentence handed down by the judge, probation can vary in a multitude of ways. A person could be commanded to do anything ranging from community service at the local Goodwill or going to substance abuse therapy. Some others are even sentenced to live in half-way homes or community corrections after they are released from incarceration. And in certain instances, a person might receive all of the above. In addition, after being placed on probation a person is assigned a probation officer (PO) who is in charge of monitoring their clients completion of the program. The officers are in place to serve as a method of monitoring the behavior of criminals as they reintegrate with society after receiving preliminary punishment from the legal system. This is an extension of the control of the legal system that exists outside of jails, prisons, or courthouses. This omniscient presence gives way to the feeling of always being watched which Michael Foucault described as panoptic.

The Panopticon is a prison structure in which the guards reside in the center of all the cells containing prisoners. This structure provides them with the availability to maintain a constant state of monitorization. It also provides a sense of uncertainty for the prisoner because they are never entirely sure whether or not they are always being watched. As terrifying as the panopticon sounds, according to Foucault, the panopticon exceeds its physical walls. “So to arrange things that the surveillance is permanent in its effects, even if it is discontinuous in its action; that the perfection of power should tend to render its actual exercise unnecessary; that this architectural apparatus should be a machine for creating and sustaining a power relation independent of the person who exercises; in short, that the inmates should be caught up in a power situation of which they are themselves the bearer.” (Foucault, 1975) From a panoptic point of view, placing criminals into a probationary system comprised of nearly round the clock monitoring is the next logical step in maintaining control over those that have found themselves in the system.  

Robert Montano, my friend and co-worker is all too familiar with the probation system because he has been battling it for years. Robert and I discussed his current bout with this panoptic system and his views on whether or not it serves any real purpose other than making money off the misfortunes and human errors of people with a criminal background and further embedding them into the system. Robert was arrested on felony driving charges that evolved from him evading a reckless driving offense. In simpler terms, he was caught street racing, was sentenced to probation, fled the state, and was eventually apprehended by the police. This was his first and only criminal offense. When asked why he fled, Robert explained that it was the disingenuous nature of probation. “It’s a joke. The system doesn’t care about me. They just wanted my money.” I asked Robert why he felt that he was not cared for by the system and he told me that he was reassigned to seven different probation officers in the matter of a year and a half, leaving him feeling like a metric rather than a person. In addition, he told me of his first meeting with his initial probation officer. The officer did not even care to read Robert’s case in its entirety and had already made his own determination that Robert was either arrested for a DUI or domestic violence. Robert believes this was because he is Latino. Robert tried to tell his PO that his charge had nothing to do with drugs, alcohol, or violence in any form but was still recommended for drug and alcohol therapy classes. Robert would pay for these classes out of pocket and was additionally subjected to random drug tests, which he also paid for on his own. “The rules of probation encourage me to disengage internal emotions rampage frustrated because my PO sets the stage… You fool me no I don’t use dope I don’t smoke yet everyday I’m forced to call the UA hotline on my own dime you waste my time” (Lewis, 2010) It is no wonder why Robert and so many others violate their probation when they feel as though the legal system is actively working against them. 

I can empathize with Robert’s probation experience in many ways. I was sentenced to a year of probation when I was nineteen and I also felt the system was praying for me to violate my probation so I would be forced to sacrifice more of my time and money. But unlike Robert, my crime was actually a DUI and I was ordered to go through similar alcohol therapy classes and monitored sobriety via random drug tests. In many ways the punishment fit the crime, so I took my punishment on the chin and did all I could to remain abstinent from drugs and alcohol while on probation. But as I kept going to my state mandated therapy and submitting to the drug tests, I became increasingly disheartened. I would go to group therapy twice a week as I was instructed. I would do all I could to keep my head above water while our “therapist” would openly rub her current drug use in the faces of her clients. I vividly remember her telling us that she was too high off Xanax to adequately lead us in a group discussion. I was beside myself in the midst of this hypocrisy. Not just the hypocrisy I found in that particular circumstance but the hypocrisy of the whole situation. I was supposedly on probation so that I could gain the proper tools needed to not become a repeat offender. But in all reality, I was just experiencing another branch of the panopticon. For instance, the people that were in charge of my therapy and monitoring my sobriety were not doing so to ensure my safety or well-being. They were just an extension of the police, because if I failed a drug test or did not show up for class that is exactly who they were sending to come find me. “Rather than the massive, binary division between one set of people and another, it called for multiple separations, individualizing distributions, an organization in depth of surveillance and control, an intensification and ramification of power.” (Foucault, 1975) I felt as though I was in the midst of a system that was operating by giving me just enough rope to hang myself from.   

The panopticon thrives off of the external power it has through exterior systems like probation. It is easily marketed to the public as another way of keeping repeat offenders off the streets. It is seen as a valuable tool to keep addicts away from drugs. But at its core, probation is nothing more than an unprecedented method of control on those that have deviated from regularity and broken the law. It is contradictory to its own ethos of being a form of recovery because the punishment for not reforming properly is to end up back in the control of law enforcement. “Where we attempt to draw a line between civil authority and ecclesiastical customs, what endless disputes would ensue? In short, to what side soever we turn our eyes, we are presented with a confused scene of contradictions, uncertainty, hardships, and arbitrary power. In the present age, we seem universally aiming at perfection; let us not therefore neglect to perfect the laws, on which our lives and fortunes depend.” (Voltaire, 1872) The current state of probation is an abomination. The system erodes the progress of those trapped inside of it and is more of a trap than anything else. But that trap will forever have its teeth dug into people like Robert and I, just waiting for the perfect moment to pull us back in.

 

 

Works Cited

Beccaria, C., Voltaire, Voltaire, & Young, W. (1793). An essay on crimes and punishments. by    the Marquis             Beccaria, of Milan. with a commentary, by M. de Voltaire. Printed by         William Young, no. 52, Second-Street, the corner of Chestnut-Street. 

Foucault, M. (1995). Discipline and punish: The birth of the prison. Vintage Books.

Lewis, Shantel. (2010) “Probation” Captured Words Free Thoughts Vol. 8. 2010

 In Pursuit of Greatness: Dante Tabuyo  

Article by Javan Bair

Photography Executed and Directed by Jace Stephens

 

“I know him! I know him” two local skaters yell out as Dante Tabuyo launched himself out of the most western facing bowl of the Denver Skate Park. His first series of tricks were captured by Jace and his photography equipment. The strobes and the cameras always attract a crowd at the skate park. Their presence alone makes a local celebrity of the subject. However, I am certain Dante would have maintained his status as the center of attention with or without Jace taking his photos and me interviewing him. 

 

Dante is nothing short off a BMX superstar in the making. At nineteen years old, with seven years of BMX experience under his belt, Dante is an undisputed monster on two wheels. 

 

Dante is the son of immigrant parents from Zacatecas, Mexico. His parents settled down in the Denver area and started a family. He was born and raised in the Denver area and picked up riding by association. His older brother and his friends introduced Dante to the sport at age twelve, and unbeknownst to them they had opened the proverbial Pandora’s box for the Colorado BMX community.

 

Dante has long since departed from his humble beginnings of “flowing dirt jumps” just for fun. He explained to me that he has “been stuck to it ever since, wanting progress every day.” And progress he has undoubtedly found.

 

Jace, our chief photographer, began explaining his ideas for the photo shoot to Dante to see if it aligned with how he wanted to ride. Within minutes the two had formulated a plan and Dante dropped into the bowl. He took a smooth, flowy lap around the bowl before approaching the apex of the bowl that Jace knelt underneath, waiting for his shot. Dante hit his first backflip-bar-spin of the day and set an impressive precedent right off the bat.

 

I had no intention of writing an article about Dante when I arrived at Denver Skate Park that day. I knew that Jace was in need of a lighting assistant, and I was able to oblige. But shortly after watching Dante take a few laps around the bowl it became apparent that this was no ordinary photo shoot. We were able to capture a moment with a rider that is truly on the precipice of greatness.   

 

Dante has certainly put in the time and effort to be in the position he finds himself in now. He is gracefully bowing out from his time as an amateur rider and is breaking into the ranks of true professionalism. “An upcoming contest for me, is I’m pretty sure my last amateur contest, on October 8-10 … after that it should all be professional contests throughout the world, competing for Olympic spots.” Dante explained to me after I asked him about the future steps of his career. The BMX world is at the will of this fired up nineteen year old. Dante is filled to the brim with equal parts skill and determination.

 

“I’m not much of a bragger so this might be a bit hard for me.” Dante told me after I asked him to let me know what he was most proud of in terms of his impressive BMX career. But his talent speaks volumes over his admirable humility. Over the last year, he has brought home two first place trophies, a second place title at the national level, and in his own words “I’m easily the best rider in Colorado.” And after witnessing this young man in the flesh, that statement is not arrogant, it is entirely factual.

 

Apart from tearing it up in the pursuit of a spot in the Olympics and solidifying his name among the greatest riders of all time, Dante is currently flowing through the remainder of his amateur lines while representing his sponsors. Freeagent Bikes and Yellow Designs have been supporting Dante with equipment and gear which his skill as a rider has given a new life to.

 

Dante continued to draw attention from everyone at the Skate Park on his black and silver Freeagent bike and his Yellow Designs T-shirt that read, “BIKES NOT BOMBS” as he continued to throw around the biggest tricks of the evening.  

 

As the photoshoot went on, Dante continued proving to everyone in attendance why he is beyond ready to enter the ranks of the professionalism. Anyone fortunate enough to bear witness to the spectacle he created knows that he is about to make a reality out of his aspirations of being one of the greatest in the world.

 

The session finally came to an end after Dante showed us the more technical side of his riding capabilities and unfortunately popped a tire. But looking back on the evening, Dante’s bag of tricks appeared to be seemingly bottomless. Thankfully, we have the photographic evidence to back that claim up.  

 

Before we left that evening, Dante did mention that the Denver BMX community is not as big as he would like to see it. Even though BMX has transcended the space of a niche sport in many respects over the last twenty years, the scene (especially in Denver) could still use some stimulation in terms of reaching more participants.

 

Well, I believe a reckoning of a new riders is well under way. The stimulation needed to inspire new riders in Colorado is here. The messiah of the Colorado BMX scene has arrived. And he can be regularly seen at Denver Skate Park tearing the whole scene to shreds.  

 

To those residing comfortably on the pinnacle of BMX, there is a disturbance in the Force. Dante Tabuyo should be a reason to keep a close eye on the throne.