Run Through the Jungle (Creedence Clearwater Revival)

Over the years on my job I have had a great many adventures. So much so I wrote a book about them. Since finding out my adopted MIA got buried in Arlington, a coup for him, I have figured perhaps the reason I wore the bracelet as long as I did was that we both had a spirit of adventure. I have been watching lots of Vietnam movies. For instance, I saw this thing on dog fights. My dad used to watch this crap when I was a kid and my mom hated it. Well needless to say I was into it. So much so there were some realizations.

One, I might secretly be a man in a woman's body.

Two, that John James Rambo is my dream man, ear necklace and all.

This morning I found myself in White Plains delivering a chicken. When I do these early morning missions I feel like I am an adventurer. I know how to get lost better than anyone there is. I have hiked across highways and through the forest. Although the government does not know about me, sometimes I feel I am more covert than the CIA when delivering a singing telegram. It was early when I reached my destination.

When I reach a place early I do one of two things.

One, get some Starbucks if there is a such a place.

Second, get my bearings.

This was a beautiful suburban hood and as I walked along, I saw the street sloped down. There was some basic plant life. Some folks had rose bushes. Just then I walked into a parking lot belonging to a set of condos. The rain had stopped and perhaps I could gather my thoughts through a silent meditation practice. Just then I heard this window open. I heard a voice, "HELLO!!!"

I turned around and a toothless woman was peering out. She was like the witch in Hansel and Gretel, but spoke in a very strange accent. I thought it was Spanish or Russian or something in between. Or like the bad guys from many of my recent war flicks, an accent from no where. I looked up in surprise. This was not a private lot.

This is how the exchange went:

Me: Hi

Woman: Can I help you?

Me: No.

Woman: Are you lost?

Me: No, just meeting a friend and I am early.

Woman: Where do you come from?

Ought oh. I can feel the spirit of John James Rambo. When questions like these are posed, it means you have wandered into enemy camp. That is when I did what any smart person would do. I bilked it. This woman had no teeth and an accent from no where. Maybe her house was not made out of candy, but I grew up on the Grimm Brothers. She had a cage and if I was not careful, I would be baked into a cake.

I did my delivery and it went smoothly. With the rain clearing up I decided to hike back to the train station. It was an excuse to get some exercise, fresh air, and not to mention save a few pesos. I ended up getting directions from a hippie type woman who was probably mean to Rambo back in the day. I hiked a bit until I came to a high way. Her directions were strange and there was no way to go without getting killed. So I figured I could risk an adventure or call a cab.

The Amazon Feminist, the part of me that knows men are basically useless, wanted the adventure. I could handle it. In my humble opinion with my wilderness survivor skills plus my sister Skipper's talent as a marksman, if we had to live in the wilderness and fend off fiends we could. But the cars were swerving by and I knew this could be dangerous. Plus I am unsure of whether or not I have health insurance at the moment. And if I do it probably won't cover the majority of my bones getting shattered, or my mother's heart break over her errant child's stupidity.

So I became a woman again and called a cab. Needless to say I felt like a yellow bellied coward. I felt like I could never be Rambo's lady. My POW/MIA would have never surrendered in this fashion. However, they had tactical training. I sing in a chicken suit. There is a big difference. Maybe one day I could make a pipe bomb out of a happy birthday message. Or maybe not.

Either way, I think I did the smarter thing. Maybe I am not equipped for the special forces after all. So much for all those TV specials on dog fights in Vietnam. They taught me nothing about wildness survival. I guess this little chick isnt running through the jungle anytime soon.

My dream man, Rambo. Don't talk about about him or he will shoot you up like Swiss Cheese and wear your ears around his neck

Love

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace

Name on a Bracelet

When I was in high school, 9/11 happened. I was in Mr. Teitz's Humanities class when it seemed the whole world stopped. Nothing was done. The televisions were on. People who had family members in New York City went through every mix of novinas possible. This was beyond awful. As the skyline of New York has never been the same, it is now a memorial similar to that of Pearl Harbor. As a New Yorker I have been down there a handful of times. I don't like the trip. I feel in a way I am playing on the graves, the remains if you will, of innocent people.

Two weeks after 9/11 was my seventeenth birthday. My brother Wendell got me this bracelet in a small plastic bag. He said that because everyone was feeling patriotic, this was the perfect gift. I asked him what it was. He said the ROTC man, a rare site at Brown, was giving them away. Wendell was nineteen to my seventeen. We were both brainless, and this was the most thoughtful we got. Remembering....I opened up the plastic baggy. It had a name on it. Inscribed on the copper bracelet was Antonio R. Sandoval, Marine, PFC, San Antonio, Texas. That is when my mother explained that this was a POW bracelet. I asked her what it was. She said a POW bracelet was something you wore when someone was POW/MIA and this was to let the soldier know someone cared about them back home. You were to wear this until they returned in person or otherwise. I say the word otherwise because my mother was quick to explain most of the time they were never found, or if they were they traveled home in a box. My mom told me she wore a POW/MIA bracelet and lost hers during swim practice. As far as she knew, her guy was never recovered.

I asked my mom if she thought Antonio R. Sandoval was still alive. For years there had been talk that there were still some POW/MIA vets left in the jungle by the selfish, rich, white US government to rot. After all, it had been the plot of Rambo II. We had arrogantly run into a mess we had no business in, and when agent orange failed we were running out. Plus there were supposedly documents that Nixon sold out those POWs in order to cover collateral damage. My mom, I remember, simply looked down. Like many in her generation she saw how Vietnam ripped families apart, either by having a teenage son killed or by having a son come back and be such a tortured mess that no psych med could cure him. Oh, and unlike World War I or II these men were not treated as heroes but killers. My mom just looked down, was silent for a minute and said, "Baby, he's probably dead. And his body is probably blown up. That's why they haven't found him."

I remember telling my mom that was horrible. My mom said, "Yeah, I can only imagine how heartbroken his poor mother is."

During that time in my hometown everyone was especially Patriotic. The attitude was very hawk-like. Several of my high school classmates wanted to enlist to "blow up some towel heads." While the educated people knew we had no business in Iraq, America was angry. Bush declared a war on terror. We wanted to see blood it seemed. Realistically, this ironically is turning into Vietnam minus the draft. But still, I was a tad angry myself. A tad angry people doing what they were supposed to do were wiped out by evil men with an agenda. So I wore the bracelet.

People thought it was pretty cool I was wearing a bracelet. They asked all sorts of questions about my adopted POW/MIA. I did the math because on the back of the bracelet it had his birthday. He was born March 4, 1956. He disappeared in May of 1975 in one of the final incidents of the war. This would have made him nineteen years old. He was my brother Wendell's age. Nineteen, a baby's brain and an adult body. A deadly combination of stupidity and ego. While you could make adult decisions, the state could stick a needle in your arm and you could die for your country. I thought about it. Wendell was nineteen. My brother had his moments. Not to mention I was seventeen. This kid probably went from talking about cars and girls to looking over his shoulder in the jungle, Dear God. Not that Private Sandoval was stupid, but looking back nineteen was a dangerous age. I am amazed I got out of that time in my life in one piece and I wasn't even in a war.

Ironically, when you see the picture of Iwo Jima, the men holding up the flag are probably eighteen or nineteen at most. Same with the guys in the trenches in Europe. Same with the guys who fought at Midway. Same with World War I. Same with the Civil War and the American Revolution. On one hand, while nineteen might be a nutty age, on the other hand, perhaps America doesnt give it's young people enough credit. Especially the men and women who serve. The poor thing was doing something big, something huge. He was just a kid. Sadly, so were many of his so called enemies. It is documented Ho Chi Minh had any able bodies man, old and young, in his army. The bulk of the NVA was probably nineteen years of age as well. It's never the old men in tents that get killed. It's the young men viewed as in their pink and physical prime, but also disposable.

From what I gather, Sandoval was on a rescue mission to aid the troops SS Mayaguez over the waters in Cambodia when his helicopter was shot down. The body was never recovered. For a while, from what I read, that Cambodia possessed the remains of many servicemen and offered to return them, but because the US refused to recognize their government. I read that finally, in the year 2000, bone fragments from Private Sandoval were sent to San Antonio, Texas where he was from and buried in Sam Houston National Cemetery. I could only imagine the relief his family must have felt. While he was returned home, I still wore his name on my wrist in a patriotic gesture. At the time I wrote for my local hometown paper in the youth section. I published an article where I spoke of my adopted POW/MIA. My mother mentioned someday I needed to find his mother and perhaps send that to her. My mom knew, from mother to mother, she could appreciate it. I also think my mom empathized. When my brother didnt call home for two days she lost her mind. Imagine spending years not knowing where your child was.

I wore the bracelet for two more years until moving to New York. During an acting class, I was made to take my jewelry off and never put it back on. It was just easier. I don't know where the bracelet went, but I know I probably have it somewhere. Over time, my POW/MIA became a mere memory. I was busy with college, comedy, ventriloquism, writing, and chasing crazy men.

Then of course my early twenties were spent chasing stage time, and then I had adventures that were televised and then I wrote a book. For much of Bush's tenure many of my sentiments were openly anti-war. However, when I was on television I got fan mail from many of the troops. So even though I was against the war, I always, always support our soldiers no matter what.

I thought of Private Sandoval last week for some odd reason. Maybe it was Memorial Day. I googled him, not that there was supposed to be anything new. But sometimes I am wrong, and this was one of the cases that I was. There had been more remains identified from the SS Mayaguez mission, and the government had given them a burial of full military honors in Arlington National Cemetery. Private Sandoval joined the rest of his men on the mission and was given a heroes sendoff. The crazy thing was, it had happened that week. My mouth dropped open. What are the odds I google my POW/MIA out of the blue, and there are more updates on the dude. Wowsa.

I also read an article on Private Sandoval. Known as Tony to his friends and family,he was the oldest son in a set of four children. Private Sandoval's father had abandoned the family when he was young, so from a young age he stepped up and took on the father role to his younger siblings. When he was in high school, he dropped out before completion to join the Marines. This was because his single mother was struggling and he wanted to help her out with the finances. When he wrote his family he seldom complained. However his regret was during evacuations he had to leave innocent Vietnamese children behind. In his last letter to his mother, he wrote, "Mom, I am okay." While declared MIA, his mother never gave up hope he was alive. Fragments from his femur were returned to the US in 2000 and buried in Sam Houston National Cemetery, giving his poor mother some closure before she died in 2009. http://www.mysanantonio.com/news/military/article/Burial-set-for-last-local-Viet-War-fatality-4515884.php

When I read that I was moved to tears. The name on my bracelet became a real person. This was someone who was the epitome of what it was to be a true hero. These days we throw the word around so blithely. A hero is someone who not only does the right thing, but serves something bigger than themselves with complete and utter humility. I cannot speak for the others on the mission lost because I am not as familiar with them, but this young man was completely selfless. While Private Sandoval's time on the planet was short, he made every year he was given count. Maybe he never lived to have a family of his own, but he died supporting his family and on a mission to save other brothers, fathers, and sons. Most of America may never be familiar with his name, in a society overshadowed by tabloid trash, Private Sandoval is someone we should all emulate. I am by no means saying go to war, but know that the world does not always revolve around you and your needs. That your purpose on this Earth is to be of service to others. While not old enough to drink in any bar and still a teenager, Private Sandoval knew this. Therefore not only was he beyond his years but light years beyond his lifetime. I am both honored and humbled to say he was my adopted POW/MIA.

Since 2000, more of Private Sandoval's remains have been found. Same with the last of the remains from those on his mission. They were laid to rest as a group in Arlington. In a way it is ironic that a Spanish kid raised by a single mother lays in the backyard of a former slave owner, Robert E. Lee. However, Lee knew what it was to lose someone who cared about in a war. He probably had friends who were killed in battle never to be found. Not to mention since then war hero's of all colors have been buried in Arlington, proving valor has no race, gender, or religious affiliation. Private Sandoval, a young man who's life was about service, now rests for eternity in good company. This made me happy for his surviving relatives, but most importantly for Private Sandoval himself. His hard work and sacrifice were finally rewarded, and he was getting the honor he deserved. http://wtkr.com/2013/05/16/marine-missing-from-vietnam-war-to-be-buried-at-arlington-with-crew/

It was crazy I googled him, but maybe not. This past week there had been discord in book land. In my journey to literary superstardom, I had become the center of my own universe. The world had become more about me and less about the needs of others. Because I believed the world was treating me unfairly, I was stomping my feet in my world of a self-centered pity party. Translated, I was taking myself way too seriously. Maybe, just maybe, the spirit of the nineteen year old Marine I wore on my wrist was sending me a message. That one, it's not all about me so stop being a brat. Secondly, however, that one can get the wonderful gifts the universe bestows on them, just not on their clock sometimes. When these gifts come in their own time, they are nothing short of wonderful. It is important though, that with hard work things will happen. So just to hang in there. Also, to just keep it green and live in gratitude every day. And lastly, I think his spirit wanted me to know he had come home and was finally resting in peace.

Or maybe it was just a strange coincidence. Being a skeptical scholar and a spiritual woman in the same body, I will leave room for either explanation. Either way, I think if I ever find myself in DC I will take a trip to Arlington. Not just to say hello, but to say thank you for your service.

However, I think Private Sandoval is in heaven. When I was a kid in Sunday school, we were learning about the commandments. Some people asked about where soldiers went when they died. My teacher explained there was a special part of heaven for them. We call it heaven, the Vikings call it Valhalla. Whatever it is called, Private Sandoval is probably there. He is eternally nineteen, forever young and never doomed to a gray hair or wrinkle. The powers that be probably gave him a fast car and a hot babe to go with it. (After all, when you are that age for the rest of time that's what you kind of dig.) He is probably driving around having a great time. That is, of course, right after he gets the big hug and home cooked meal his mother was never able to give him after the war was over.

Finally got a hero's burial. RIP  Dear Heart

Love

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace

What The American Solider Means to Me

Every year on Memorial Day I write a blog about my love for the American GI. When one thinks of the American GI they think of a thousand things. First and foremost, they think of liberators. There have been people cheering when the American GI’s have come into their villages to free them from some tyrannical dictator who has shot people in the streets for opposing views. People also think of GI Joe, an American hero and action figure for young boys. My brother had one, and during the times he was forced to play Barbies with my sister and I, usually as a punishment for breaking something with his slingshot or water gun, GI Joe was always the plastic gentlemen bringing flowers.

Unfortunately Barbie wasn’t a fan of his Rambo like killing tactics.

Yes killer is also a what goes along for some when it comes to the American soldier. Whether it is the unfortunate Mai Lai Massacre or the incidents of troops torturing prisoners in Iraq, the term has gotten a negative connotation. In addition, GI is actually obsolete. It means general issue. Yes, and many men and women in uniform do not feel they are general issue. These days, according to Colin Powell, sailors want to be knows as sailors and Marines want to be known as Marines. Fair enough I suppose.

Memorial Day is a wonderful holiday that unfortunately only comes once a year. It is the time we remember those who died in foreign wars. The rest of the year we seem to forget about those young men and women who lost their lives in combat. As a comedian I often find myself in debates over what free speech means. Meanwhile, there were men who lost their lives on the battlefields of Lexington and Concord rather than bow to a king so I could have the right let alone make the debate. These days we argue politics on facebook all becoming computer chair pundits. Yet as we pontificate we forget the minute men being slaughtered in the hot, New England sun in wool uniforms. That is bravery, spewing opinions on facebook is not. Because of their sacrifice we can civilly overthrow our rulers every four years. We can say something is wrong with the government without being jailed. However, we never give the first patriots a thought whenever we freely espouse our opinions on a social networking site.

Every election we think of what it means to be an American. We argue what it means to be a citizen of this great country. Often times we get selfish with our social causes. Politics becomes divided and people because of it. In our self-centered fear, we neglect the memory of the Civil War, a time when American soil was red with blood from a conflict that pitted brother against brother. We must remember that while we can have our differences as Americans, we must come together as one when it is all over. If the loss of the lives of these young men taught us nothing but that, so be it.

The American GI brings this hope and oneness every where they set foot from the beginning of the United States and her prominence. In the World War I, America and her soldiers helped end the power of monarchy and divine right in the Western World. We showed them that there could an easier, softer way where people had equality, rights, and a voice working in cooperation with the government. World War II saw America and her soldiers defeat Adolf Hitler and the evil Nazi cause as they liberated those deemed untouchable from concentration camps. In Japan, there is the memorable photo in Iwo Jima, young men who could be no more than eighteen or nineteen, raising the stars and stripes. These are America’s sons. Young men doing monumental tasks and representing something much bigger than they could ever dream of being. This is who the American GI should be as he journeys overseas.

Of course there is Korea, the war we skip over in school. While these veterans are forgotten most of the time, we should remember them today and the message of freedom that they carried. We should remember their lives lost. They too are heroes under the red, white, and blue.

When we talk about foreign wars we cannot help but bring up Vietnam. To say the very least it is the black mark on America’s record. Perhaps a failing and a mistake. Because many felt this way, the Vietnam Veterans were disregarded like common trash. As a result they fell prey to homelessness and drug addiction. I feel this same way about the current US Conflict. However, I also want to point out that while I don’t agree with the cause I support the troops. Over the years I have received many fan letters from American soldiers overseas and have been blessed to have many in my audiences. They want to laugh, party, and have fun. More than anything though, they risk their lives to raise the flag. This is why it is okay to not support the cause but you must always support the troops. America, despite it’s problems, is still the greatest country in the world. Again, it is the blood shed from young men probably no more than eighteen so we can have this right to say something is wrong. These men and women are risking their lives. Treat them with dignity and respect.

Colin Powell wrote a beautiful article several years ago in Time Magazine about the American GI. He wrote about how we no longer use the term, yet how it still applies. He tells a touching story about how a Japanese American businessman was in an internment camp as a young boy, another black mark on the American record, and he was crying. A GI who was guarding these American citizens took pity on the young lad and gave him a Hershey Bar. The young boy, who had been ripped from his home forcibly due to the post Pearl Harbor xenophobia, appreciate the gesture of kindness. Years later he told General Powell the story. Upon hearing this, Colin Powell purchased a Hershey Bar for the man who broke into tears upon receiving the gift. Maybe the GI isn’t always carrying out the best orders, but if he is truly a representative of the flag he treats all he meets with dignity and respect. He also believes in protecting the innocent, even if the innocent party is a child who happens to be enemy color.

The definition of what it is to be an American GI let alone an American soldier is always progressive and changing. In the Civil War, freed slaves fought alongside Union troops during several major battles. However, color barriers were not truly broken until the second World War. Blacks and whites fought together to win a war, and showed America that we could live as one in peace. Now women are joining the ranks not just as enlisted people but graduating as officers from military academies. Not only are they bringing themselves bravely like their male counterparts to the front lines, but also adding their perspective and unique brand of leadership to command positions making the US stronger overseas. Now that Don’t Ask Don’t Tell has been lifted, LGBTQ people can proudly serve their country being a proud American but also not hiding who they are, which is what it truly means to have freedom. Their understanding of this concept as well as equality will add another positive dimension to leadership in the armed forces as well. In the words of the Declaration of Independence, “All men are created equal.” American soldiers died for these words, and now we expand the definition so not only many have rights overseas but also in our own backyards.

When I think of American GI I think of those I know. There were both my grandfathers who served in World War II in Japan. While I have never met my dad’s father, who died before I was born, I have heard my mother’s father talk extensively about the war. My Pop Pop says that while the Japanese were “enemies” they were hardworking people who never showed animosity after the atomic bomb. Rather they were willing to work with the US to clean up the country. Pop Pop spoke about the kindness he experienced from the Japanese people themselves and spoke about how their value of hard work and family stayed with him, even upon coming back to the US.

I also think of my late Uncle Gregory Columbus Diffendale. Yes, he loved dirty jokes and swore like a sailor. However, my dearly departed uncle also drove through Germany “killing them fucking Nazi’s.” A real life version of the Ingolorious Bastards, he and his buddies would load their bodies in the back of a truck and just keep driving. My uncle was there when the Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals and others deemed unfit were liberated. While he always had a sense of humor that could be deemed offensive, when my uncle was boss of the dairy he gave jobs to deserving people regardless of their race, ethnic background, or faith. It was because he saw how destructive hate could be, and knew there was more to a person than exteriors.

I also think of Bernie, my Uncle John’s brother. A Vietnam Vet who came back from the war with PTSD, he got hooked on drugs. Over the years he provided my family members and I with a colorful story or two from his brushes with the law to dating hookers and everything in between. While the tales are colorful, this is a testament to the fact that Americans should treat their veterans better, especially the government. If there had been programs in place to help him maybe he would have taken a better path.

I cannot forget my friend Dave Rosner aka Full Metal Foreskin, a Jewish Lieutenant Colonel in the Marine Corps. When not on active duty, Dave performs standup comedy. He has served in the Gulf War as well as the current Middle Eastern Conflict. In addition, he has put on shows for US Troops as well as Veterans. Whether he is appearing at your local comedy club or on Fox News to give military insight, Dave brings his endless energy and positive attitude to any situation. Hey, not everyone can be a Lieutenant Colonel let alone a Jew in the Marine Corps.

On that list of heroes I cannot forget Russell Kurtz, my classmate who was killed in action in Iraq. Russ played football, was popular, and most of all was liked by everyone who crossed paths with him. I don’t think he had an enemy in the world. After high school he expressed interest in being in the army, and was immediately deployed to Iraq. According to his mother, despite the fact he was in the middle of the desert, he never complained about the heat. He only wished they served better food. Unfortunately, he was killed while his jeep was driving over a land mine. Russ was twenty years old. Same with those who lost their lives in other wars who’s names I do not know. However, Russ’s name and face give them all a human identity and voice. They were someone’s brother, son, cousin, father, etc.

Last but certainly not least I think of Antonio Sandoval, Jr. He was my POW/MIA. Purchased as a gift for me by my brother for my seventeenth birthday after 9/11, it was a token that showed my love for America. Antonio Sandoval was from Southern Texas and captured in Vietnam. I wore his name on my wrist because they never found him in hopes that someday they might. My mom told me he was probably dead like so many young men from that generation. This was typically the case of a POW that was never found. Years later, his remains were uncovered in what was once a Cambodian prison camp where he met his end at nineteen years old. I know his end was gruesome. Eventually what was left of him was returned to his family who gave him a proper burial. Sure he might gone, but what he did as well as what other young men like him matters to me. And it should matter to any and every living, breathing American.

The list of names goes on, not just for me but for all of us. We all know someone who has served and also, someone who has lost their lives. Most importantly, we know the extent they went not just to honor and serve but what they represented. Today we honor the GI, the soldier, the sailor, the fighter pilot, the Marine and whatever else he or she wants to be called. Whatever gender pronoun they might want to go by. Either way, they represent by great nation changing for the better.

Today I salute you!

Love

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace