We've Moved

We've moved to Wordpress. I love Blogger/Google, don't get me wrong. I just like the feature set on WordPress a little bit more. Plus it works within some firewall scenarios a little better than others.

This site will remain for archival purposes.

www.briankresge.com or amishshylock.wordpress.com.

DoD's Rape Reporting is Broken

There are few criticisms I would ever publicly level at the Pentagon proper, both out of fear for holding on to rank and because I think it generally does well. As an institution, it seems well-insulated from individual mistakes.

As I presented from a PowerPoint over our drill weekend on Sexual Assault and the reporting thereof, my mind did little cartwheels trying to wrap my mind around it.

Here it is, the two forms of reporting:

• Restricted - a rape victim receives medical care but the rape remains confidential with no hope for justice.
• Unrestricted - a rape victim receives medical care, investigation, and the senior commander is notified of the details.

Understand, if you are a rape victim (male or female), and you want justice done, you will be subjected to a vacation of privacy that would never fly in civilian court.

One might say, why does a guy from an Infantry unit--with no women--care about this issue? The fact is, we will come in contact with women. And on our own Fort Indiantown Gap, a woman was raped several barracks down from us. Needless to say alcohol was involved, but no means no.

I understand that ultimately, a unit commander is responsible for good order and discipline within his ranks. On the other hand, rape is the kind of offense that needs to be removed from the unit, at least in terms of details, and placed in the hands of investigative professionals removed from personal involvement with both victim and perpetrator, preferably CID. Unfortunately, there is a qualifying adverb in the DoD's Victim's Bill of Rights that raises my eyebrow: Be reasonably protected from the accused offender.

It also needs to be DoD policy that a rape victim be immediately reassigned to prevent intimidation or retribution. "Reasonable protection" reminds me of the "reasonable accomodation" of my religious needs: reasonable is often defined by the controlling entity, not the individual. The rape victim needs to be assured that he/she will not be placed in any hazardous circumstance.

This system is especially problematic while deployed to theater. Say a rape takes place on a Forward Operating Base (FOB), one particularly isolated. A woman is raped working, for instance, on a remote fuel point. She may not have access to medical care, particularly one conducive to forensic evidence collection (called a Sexual Assault Forensic Examination or SAFE), for some time, if ever. What is the speed with which a Victims Advocate/VA will be dispatched to a forward-deployed rape victim?

To me, DoD policy currently assumes a garrison environment. We need to see a DoD policy that accomplishes the following IN THEATER:

1) Removes the victim from the unit and protects him/her from more violence or retribution
2) Provides for proper forensic examinations even in field environments
3) Removes the command from the equation, other than for accountability of victim/perpetrator
4) Allows jurisdiction over DoD or contracted civilians.
5) 100% assure privacy and discretion in the case of Unrestricted Reporting, ensuring that word doesn't trickle back down through military gossip chains, preventing embarassment or intimidation of the victim, or improper support or collusion with a perpetrator.

I often wonder if the military bit off more than it can chew when it integrated genders in portions of the force. I don't hold that to be true. The only fear a female should have of serving are the same hazards ALL service members share. She shouldn't fear for being raped or having to report a rape.

Getting Ready for Baghdad

This past Guard weekend, I added a new name to my list of monikers: Pump 1.

As in, "go ahead, Pump 1."

Driving to and fro Bellefonte, Pennsylvania (near State College) from Manheim, Pennsylvania (near Lancaster), through some bizarre confluence of events, any filling station at which I stopped, for whatever reason, I ended up at Pump 1. As painful as filling my tank was, it's the closest I may ever get to a prison b***h name.

It was a good drill weekend. Camraderie saved the day.

Copious slideshows, i.e. "Death by PowerPoint," were broken up only by putting porn on the same projector in between presentations.

Conversation when they halted the porn for the next round of slides:

"But I want to know how it ends!"

"I think they get married and live happily ever after."

Such is the Way of the Warrior these days, I imagine. I'm none too keen on porn, but after unfortunate amounts of exposure to it, you get numb, even clinically interested in the production quality involved.

It could have been an overwhelmingly somber weekend. One of our brightest young noncoms took his own life in recent weeks. His dynamic personality and gregarious nature was surely absent this weekend.

1st and 2nd platoons, operating from the Bellefonte Armory, are generally more close-knit than our 3rd and MGS platoons. Not that they also did not mourn the loss, but it was distinct, especially when we filed into McKinley Hall, our living quarters/dayroom, for a memorial service Sunday morning.

Captain Paolo Sica, our commander, gave a succint speech about the fellows he knew from Lubbock, Texas, where our deceased friend hailed from, and spoke about brotherhood, touching on the nature of the Guard. A young chaplain read Judeo-Christian bereavement boilerplate Psalms and offered a few prayers.

For some veterans, there was discomfort with the idea of the boots, rifle, helmet, and dogtags being used for a suicide.

"While it's tragic, this [the boots and rifle] should be reserved for combat deaths," one veteran griped.

I don't know. For many of our lost Soldier's friends, it was particularly moving and meaningful. The Guard differs from regular military in so many ways. We've brothers and cousins serving together. Many friends have been so since practically birth. As a relative outsider to the area, I'm equally envious and relieved of the deep emotional connection many of these Soldiers have.

In any case, in the wake of death, it is the living with which we must concern ourselves. If a touch of military courtesy brings comfort to mourning friends, then I believe it is always appropriate.

To many hearts and minds within Charger Company, it seems as if Operation Iraqi Freedom claimed its first casualty.

Brian: Ruining Corporate PowerPoints Since 2000

So, you get drug along on a departmental pow-wow to Upstate New York.

You go on a boat ride, when you are not of a seafaring people, and drink to lessen the torment for the combination of being with coworkers after-hours and being on a waterborne vessel.

Things happen. They get photographed.

And they end up in corporate PowerPoint slides.

THIS IS NOT THE FACE OF ECONOMIC HARDSHIP

So, there I am, reading NPR's website, and I read this sob story about economic woes in Ohio.

Nunez's van broke down last fall. Now, her 19-year-old daughter has no reliable transportation out of their subsidized housing complex in Fostoria, 40 miles south of Toledo, to look for a job.

Nunez and most of her siblings and their spouses are unemployed and rely on government assistance and food stamps. Some have part-time jobs, but working is made more difficult with no car or public transportation.

Emphasis was mine. Then there's this:

Nunez, 40, has never worked and has no high school degree. She says a car accident 17 years ago left her depressed and disabled, incapable of getting a job. Instead, she and her daughter, Angelica Hernandez, survive on a $637 Social Security check and $102 in food stamps.

From the picture, I'd say they're surviving.

I'm sorry, folks. We've got to draw the line somewhere in crawling all over each other to be bleeding hearts. I don't want to see people suffer in hard economic times, but from the picture, cutting out meat and ice cream from their diet is a GOOD START.

Sympathy from me for this is in short supply. A depressed, non-working mother relies on the government and the slave labor of her daughter, meanwhile it looks like they're eating better than my family.

Lots of people work through depression. I suggest this forty-year old mother put down the knife and fork and get out there and work a job with her daughter.

War Sucks, Part 442323

I don't know what can be done for these guys. There will be casualties when we come home, just as every other war this nation has ever fought demonstrates.

I can't judge him as I don't know what was in Dwyer's head, but if you have children and you have a wife, it's a mandate that you try and hold it together for them.

May this war end soon.

Proposal Regarding Foreign Employers

You know, a small cost of doing business in this country, if you are a foreign company, should be having to pay in full employees who are members of the National Guard or Reserve.

Just a thought.

Tattoos on Jews

Tattoos and Jews. Generally speaking, I wouldn't do it out of respect for those forced to receive tattoos against their will. Leviticus 19:28 also prohibits it specifically. Yes, there are movements that will find ways around it, but I think it's fairly clear in halachah. And for those that care about such things, Maimonides opined against it.

Let's face it, American Jews are increasingly goyishe as opposed to haymishe. It is what it is. But must we dutifully adopt every vestige of the culture around us? Can we not maintain some partition between what society at large does and what we do? There are many times when I desired a "death from above" tattoo, or the infantry cross rifles, but eh...

What if, however, those tattoos are Jewish in design? What then? Someone gets a Star of David tattoo, aren't they saying they identify strongly with things Jewish.

I don't know. I personally don't understand tattoos, and as an Army guy, I am around them an awful lot. A fellow I know has one that says "Only G-d can judge me." However, that's only so true. Potential employers can judge him. His wife can and will certainly judge him. His Chain of Command also can judge him. But his tattoo certainly sounds better than "everyone can judge me, but only G-d's judgment matters." Amending a tattoo is extremely difficult.

I know one thing: Getting a tattoo would break my parents' hearts. My wife can say the same thing. In my idiot teen years, I embarked on too much of the upsetting. Part and parcel of honoring our parents, which all flavors of Judaism agree is pretty important, is not needlessly upsetting them. But then, if your parents aren't going to be upset by it, by all means.

It's an interesting subject. The NY Times article might have done a better job of interviewing some Orthodox authorities on the subject, aside from just the burial myth. There are clear cut statements on tattooing that go beyond the boring burial argument. If however, the practice is incorporated into one's individual Jewish identity, what then? It seems the Law assumes that someone does it to be a goy or to worship false gods.

There are more important Jewish issues than tattoos, really.

Two Years of Bliss

I promise that this is not a test to see if my wife reads my blog.

Two years ago, my wife and I were married according to the laws of Moses and Israel.

It was a pretty nice day.

I was at Camp Shelby, Mississippi when the actual date of the occasion passed. I was not even able to talk to her long enough to impart just how much she was missed, and how much she was appreciated.

Returning from that three week stint in the South, it wasn't long before my civilian employ took me to upstate New York. The beauty of the Finger Lakes, diminished entirely with a miasma of work-related horsecrap, was lost on me mostly because my weemens were not there.

Everyone should be so lucky to have that partner that they can't live without. Mine is my wife. She might get cranky at times, but there's no single individual more supportive and more loving.

My Dream

I spend a great deal of time doting on my daughter, Amelia, as does my wife, Leah.

We spend, collectively, a great deal of time worrying about the future, too.

Since moving in with us full-time, Amelia's vivacious nature is matched only by her now loquacious running narrative. She comes and goes throughout the house and the yard, describing in high detail exactly what her activity is. Throughout any given day, her frenetic energy is coupled with an odd degree of polish.

"May I be sca-used?" she asks politely at the dinner table (and at a picnic table at Hershey park, and the back of my car). From there, daughter becomes a blur as "parsec" is redefined.

Now more than ever I find myself speculating about what the future holds. What'll life be like for her during and after my Iraq deployment? In the capable hands of my wife, and with the support of friends and family, she may prosper.

But the fact remains: Amelia is a Daddy's girl.

There was a time when I was told by parties with selfish motivations that this was not the case, even as a little girl cried her eyes out in the back of my car, demanding to remain with me. Even as I was vilified and pilloried to her, my daughter's trust and love remained unshaken. I knew that bond existed from the moment her goo-covered self emerged into this world.

So, back to the uncertainty... one tends to dwell on it. It's the elephant watering in the living room.

Last night, I had the most terrific dream.

Amelia was in her 20s. She came to me wearing a Navy officer's mess uniform.

"Daddy," she said, her voice oddly like the three-year-old she is today. "I'm getting mawwied."

"Negative," I replied. "Not without me meeting the young man and determining whether he will soon require handicapped parking."

"Oh, Daddy. You am silly."

I smile, reflecting on how beautiful my daughter is and will be as an adult. She's also a full head taller than me.

The dream jumps around a bit, but ultimately, she stands under a chuppah with a nice Jewish boy she met on an aircraft carrier. My wife complains that her own dress reveals her varicose veins. I tell her jokingly to shush, that her legs were always horrible. She, as always, drives her incredibly sharp elbow like Bard's arrow into the Smaugish-sweet spot of my ribs.

At the shevah brachot, I weep so hard that my glass eye pops out onto the table in the reception hall. Onlookers gasp in horror as I pop it back in backwards, and then proceed to scare children. I woke up at this point.

The deployment sometimes feels like an additional member of our household. It is not. It is a reality that will come and go. Whether my daughter marries a Navy flyboy or not is moot (and if a son-in-law EVER wants my respect, he will have been Army); that we can always dream of our children's future is all that is important.