The Big Think

I’ve been spending a few hours each day editing down interview footage I shot while in Colorado early this month. It’s a matter of cutting out my voice and questions and just leaving the comments of the person on camera. This way I can go back and revisit the interviews without the grating obstruction of my own voice interrupting the answers.

In the process of doing this rough editing, I’m re-listening to all of our conversations and remembering what a moving experience the week was. Talking to soldiers and (more moving still), the wives and families of men still in Iraq (no women in the case of our week), was a perspective changing experience for me. I was going to come back and do a big blog entry about the week we spent there, but I realized that I couldn’t possibly communicate what went on. I still need some time to absorb everything. Still, going back over the rough footage and seeing the faces of these people brings it back to me again.

I love interviewing people. It’s wonderful to hear their stories and be a conversational sponge. In listening to my rambling questions (much like my writing here), I realize that interviewing is a delicate art and I have a very long way to go, but I was surprised at how much I enjoyed it. I also appreciate the gracious acceptance and trust these military families showed to a stranger with a camera. Uncommon trust, especially among military people.

In our culture, unless you’re very famous or very infamous, there is no socially-acceptible place where you can talk about yourself and tell your story in detail. I’m including blogs here, because my “conversation” with you is largely unidirectional. I write, and if the internet is kind, someone reads. There isn’t the same kind of give-and-take that goes on in a normal conversation. But even in a normal conversation, we’re often too caught up in what we’re going to say, or the point we want to make, or the error we want to correct in the other guy’s thinking, to just listen to what the other party has to say. Honestly, when was the last time we got into a deep conversation and asked the other person questions, not so that we could make our own position stronger, not so that we could “win” some meaningless point, and not so that we could turn the conversation to a subject that we’re more knowledgeable about, but so that we could more clearly understand the point of view- the story- behind what the other person is saying? We all have stories to tell, but if two people in a conversation insist on telling their own, often neither one gets heard.

That’s why I liked being in the interviewer’s chair. My job was to get these soldiers to talk about themselves and their families, to earn the right to listen (not “to be heard”). Unfortunately, this did mean a bit of conversational direction on my part: I only had so much tape after all. But during the interviews, I discovered that sometimes the interviewee would taper off, thinking that he or she had said everything. At these moments I’d stay still for a few seconds and pretend to write on my notepad. Often after a few moments of silent thought, the interviewee would say something, some honest, or quiet, or revealing, or risky, or sad, or tragic thought that took my breath away- and sometimes theirs as well.

These underpaid, under-appreciated people have to be some of the finest I’ve ever met. They’d put the character of the most lauded silver screen starlet to shame.

There’s the man- a father of three- who returned a few months ago with a fused spine and enough stories for three lifetimes. He showed us slides of his deployment in Iraq, on patrols, living on cots for months in the desert (”a cool day is any day under 100 degrees and a shower is two canteens of water once a week”). His good friend was killed in Iraq the Monday camp started, and he wanted the whole camp staff to see his pictures and hear what a great guy he was, to appreciate the sacrifice that he’d made. To bring back the message that his friend had been like any other soldier over there: giving his life, not gladly, but at least willingly. Seeing his pictures was amazing, and hearing his stories, well…

I have a heart-rending and tearful 30 minute interview with the wife of a green beret husband who is currently in Iraq. She’s the young mother of three and just went through a year of breast cancer treatment. She talks about her love for her kids, her husband (”an English major, a poet, and a great love-letter writer”), and the fact that their family has chosen to live like this because they believe in what he’s doing. That they are willing to risk separation, danger, loss of limb or even widowhood left me moved and grateful beyond my experience.

I spent time walking the jeep roads of Colorado talking with an MP who served for a year teaching Iraqi men to be policemen. Remember hearing about the police stations that were being blown up by the terrorists a year or so ago? The 37-year-old MP I got to know was over there training those guys. We went on a long walk so his young son could play with his new slingshot in the forest. During that time I don’t think I said more than 20 words. Instead (and out of earshot of his 7-year-old), he told me his stories. Stories of what it was like to be in a firefight, stories of how it felt to train Iraqi’s who want their country to be free. To go to work one day to fifty hopeful young Iraqi trainees and show up the next day to a bombed out building, fifty bodybags and one hundred new volunteers. Stories of wondering if this morning, or this sunrise, or this patrol is going to be the last one. Stories of being at a Pizza Hut, hearing a car backfire, and being “back over there” for several seconds. And stories of his nightmares, which I won’t share here.
This wonderful Christian man also told me how much the simple things matter to him now. How he learned in Iraq to trust God in a way that he never could have here. How he eventually felt peace that if he was killed in a terrorist bombing, God would take care of his wife and son. The quiet faith and deep honor this man lived was humbling to be around.

These people would do it again if asked. Every one of the soldiers and families I talked to- every one- would go again if asked. Before our trip, I thought I appreciated what military soldiers and families go through. I thought I respected the military. I felt good saying “I support the troops”. But after our trip, I am left with the kind of deep appreciation that’s hard to express. At the end of the week these families departed talking about how beautiful the country was, or talking about how much they appreciated the high-school workers at the camp, or talking about how much they needed time with their families. Most of us who worked that week were just left speechless.

I’m grateful that I got to know these wonderful people. To walk the roads of their memories with them. To see pictures of fallen friends and be able to say, yes, I will remember him, what he did will be appreciated by a stranger. To earn the right to listen and then sit back and hear their stories.

This entry was posted on Monday, June 27th, 2005 at 11:27 am and is filed under Disclosure. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.