Stop Using Our Vets As An Excuse To Stand

I am a kneeler. I intend to kneel until Trump is out of office when “The National Anthem” is played. I don’t care if this loses me jobs or opportunities. Those weren’t doors open anyway.

I kneel because I am a domestic violence survivor, and for years the fans saw no reason to protest the NFL as they protected abusers time and time again. I kneel to protect the right to marry the person of my choosing regardless of gender or sexual identity. I kneel to protect the immigrants in my neighborhood who work hard and want to become a part of the American fabric. I kneel to protect my right of choice. I kneel because our president is more dictator and less leader.

Stop telling me about the sacrifice of the vets. It’s just plain asinine, tired, and frankly pitiful. First off, our tweeter and chief called Neo-Nazi’s “good people.”

Both my grandfather’s fought in WWII as did my great uncle. As a matter of fact, my great uncle was a part of the troops that liberated the camps. He always cracked dirty jokes and seldom spoke about his experience. While as a child he frightened me, now I know he experienced things more horrific than we could ever imagine. To hear Trump call the Neo-Nazi’s “good people” would make him roll over in his grave. It would be disrespectful to the many brave young men who died in combat against the Nazis. Some no older than 18.

Trump does not honor the greatest generation rather he degrades not only their bravery and contributions, but every soldier who bravely served. Both my grandfather’s have their flags up in their hometown. They were called to service and went.

Trump dodged the draft the first chance he got like a prissy rich boy. John McCain served and was captured. I do not always agree with McCain politically but I respect his bravery and journey. I respect the face he struggled with PTSD and made a career for himself in politics after being a POW. If I met him I would shake his hand and thank him for his service.

Some are not so lucky. My ex boyfriend was not one. Actually I would call him my former partner because while we were not engaged we spoke about getting married and starting a home. He loved America and loved the fact he did two tours, one in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. During one of his tours he was even injured in combat.

During a duty where he was to catalogue the dead for the day, an Iraqi soldier who was playing dead sat up and stabbed him severing an artery in his arm. Although he recovered and still worked, he could never completely straighten it. Like many returning vets, he was unaware of his rights and the United States government found ways to make him unaware of the benefits he was eligible for. He also took advantage of the 6 months of free counseling through the VA, and was put on meds that only made his paranoia worse. Like many young men returning from combat, he fell into drugs but was clean for a substantial time when I met him.

In many ways he was the most wonderful man I could ever ask God for. He was there when I was down and out and didn’t judge me once. Armed with a good sense of humor, he cracked jokes and was lively. Not to mention he loved my puppets and demanded one be named after him.

Like many returning soldiers he was  a giver. It’s no accident a great many vets end up as cops or firefighters, as they are professions where not only do they serve but they save. Many of our biggest fights were about him extending kindness and generosity to people who were flat out users.

But he was sick.

This meant mood swings. Psychotic breaks.

Daily tasks were next to impossible. He would keep a job but not for very long. While he would want to work the PTSD made it nearly impossible to get from A to B. Crowded city streets freaked him out as did loud noise. A crowded theatre and long line at a Broadway show meant a cold sweat. Sleep was something that he just didn’t engage in. He couldn’t.

As the psychotic breaks grew closer and closer together and he refused help and medication, I had to end it. There were people who told me I was a bad person for doing so, but it was more humbling when other friends confessed they were worried he would completely go off the deep end and kill me one day. Would he have hurt me? I would like to think no but the episodes were getting more and more unpredictable.

It ended badly as all relationships with the mentally ill who refuse treatment do. There were a million times a day when I had to remind myself that he was sick. It kept me from breaking everything in the room because of his actions. I also told myself his experience was the result of the trauma he suffered in combat, and that hopefully one day he will get the help he desperately needs to be a functional human being.

Currently, my ex is homeless and back on drugs. It’s less about him being a junkie and more about the fact he self medicates for pain and experience we as average Americans could never fathom let alone understand. He is not the exception but unfortunately not uncommon. America sends her troops to die and when they return too damaged to function they are on their own. And then when they end up on the street or in the correctional system we respond by telling them to “get it together.”

Once, shortly after I ended things with my ex, a vet was begging for change. He had returned from Iraq and lost his leg. I gave him a dollar. A man with a thick Southern accent said they were mercenaries just sent to die and there was no reason we should give them money at any time. It took every nerve in my body not to punch him. My bet is he stands for The National Anthem.

We freely make fun of the mentally ill in this country but we would never do that to someone with cancer. Because we don’t believe people with cancer deserve their fate even if they smoked 20 packs of cigarettes a day. Yet I have heard people call combat vets murderers and say they deserve their PTSD.

I have also heard people joke about mental illness. They make fun of people who have hallucinations, psychotic breaks, and mood swings. Crazy is a word we throw around casually. Once you know someone who suffers from a mental health issue, crazy becomes a word that is outright cruel. Because that “crazy” person might be a vet who is trying their best to get through the day.

Standing for the Anthem is your choice. However, don’t use the vets as an excuse for your bigotry and hate. Don’t use their sacrifice and their continual suffering as an excuse to silence the free speech of others. Don’t use the dead soldiers to denigrate the players. Many are young, black men who didn’t come from much but had the brains and ambition to use their athletic talent to get an opportunity, education, and better life for themselves and their families.

And I repeat, none of you would probably talk to a vet let alone help a homeless one. Trump is exploiting the vets shamelessly and has since he decided to run for office. He will throw them under the bus first chance he gets. Trump is also starting wars and will send more young men and women to die, or to come back damaged into a system that doesn’t support them.

So if you care about America and the vets, don’t stand. I will be taking a knee for a while it looks like. 

April Unwrapped

Another Night (Aretha Franklin)

A little over a year ago I ended a relationship with someone I was working on building a life with. It ended suddenly, horrifically actually. It’s hard to talk about what happened, because the words even after all this time can barely form. However, it was due in a large part to my former partner being mentally ill.

After living with a mentally ill partner, you look at life very differently. For starters you get sick when people equate mental illness to cancer. People with cancer don’t lie. People with cancer seldom refuse to comply with treatment. You don’t see untreated cancer patients in prison or on the street. Cancer patients don’t self-medicate with drugs and alcohol. There is not a fucking stigma against cancer. 

People know cancer isn’t a choice, but they feel you are making a choice to be mentally ill. And when a celeb who’s spoken about cancer comes on the screen everyone is all misty eyed. When it’s someone who spoke about combating mental illness, ohh look at the crazy bitch or bastard.

If you have ever dealt with someone who’s mentally ill, you know they lie and act out in ways that are insulting, baffling, and outright immature. When things ended, my ex did a lot of that. I told myself he was sick a million times a day. I had to. It kept me from going crazy. It kept me from breaking something. It kept me from being sucked back into his shit which was what he wanted. Eventually I ran out of fucks to give and moved on with myself.

A year later, I was out of my unsafe living situation and away from my unstable former partner. Instead, I found myself marching with STAT, Donald J. Tramp as spokespuppet, heading the largest Anti-Trump protest at the RNC that year. We were number 8 on twitter, trending that day. People asked me if I was scared. I remember thinking, “I had bed bugs eating me alive, couldn’t breathe, and had an unstable Iraq War vet boyfriend looking for Isis in the windows. All and all, this is perhaps the safest situation I have been a part of in a while.”

In 2015, my birthday was spent scheduling free legal help at my local neighborhood legal. It was also picking up the pieces after my ex’s devastating departure. This past year it was spent at Hofstra, protesting/street performing outside the debates with Donald J. Tramp. I didn’t need a party. Being a part of American history was a better present than I could have ever dreamed of.

One year prior to the debates, my ex’s sister had called to threaten me. A year later, I was credentialed press in Las Vegas with puppet journalist Donald J. Tramp. I was in the spin room when Donald Trump uttered “bad hombres” and “nasty, nasty woman.” I watched it all unfold, and for as much as his idiot sister or any other woman he manipulated could and would say, they weren’t there with me. Nor would they ever be.

This time last year, I was rebuilding my life after a devastating defeat. Now I am getting ready to return to Restaurant Row with a one woman show. I just showcased at APAP. I am a correspondent for a blog. I am getting ready to teach a ventriloquism class.

The lessons were hard. One was that love isn’t enough. Love wasn’t enough to make my ex get help. Love wasn’t enough to make my ex stop lying. Love wasn’t enough to justify the fact his rages coupled with black outs were getting worse and worse, and that it was getting to the point where my safety was in jeopardy. In my heart, I know he was kind and giving. I know he would have never intentionally hurt me. But people who are mentally ill flip and kill people all the time, especially if they have mood swings and aren’t medicated. My ex claimed meds failed him and refused a medication regimen.

When my sister got married this summer, her priest alluded to the fact that a married couple lives for each other. The truth is, that’s codependency. You don’t live for anyone. The other person is a part of your life not your whole life. All relationships come to an end whether one partner leaves or dies or whatever. And guess what, you have to move on.

You also realize that a person is just a person. They have their faults. They will fuck up. They will disappoint you. And at the end of the day, good and bad, my ex was just a guy. Yeah, I cried when he left but then they handed me eviction papers. I had to pick my ass up off the ground and go to court to fight my landlord who was turning off my water because I called the city on him. My ex wasn’t there to support me. My family was far away. Really and truly, I was on my own.

No man was there to support me and none was going to materialize. At times like this, you see whether or not you are really and truly a feminist. Most women yell and scream about it, but when the time comes to step up to the plate they don’t. I had to step up to the plate. I had to deal with their demeaning bully boy male lawyers. I didn’t have time to cry.

As I was deciding to get the on with it all, it became easier to get rid of all the shit of his I accumulated. It became easier to block him on social media. It became easier to block his number. It became easier to block his sisters and female friends who are all horrific harpies who enable him. It became easier to date other guys. It became easier to grow into my new life It became easier to be define by my own self-worth, not that of a relationship.

The week my sister got married one of her friends was sad that she was the last one who was single in the group. Feeling the feelings weddings bring up, she asked me if I was upset my sister was getting married and I wasn’t. The answer was a huge NO. I love my brother in law like the baby brother I never had, and think he’s perfect for my sister. But I know how it feels to be with someone who’s toxic and bad for me. I know it’s better to be alone then to be with that, and it’s alright to be alone.

I know a relationship does not define me, and am reminded that good friends are better than a partner any day. I have two wonderful housemates, one obsessed with UFOs and the other a happier Van Gough who are characters that were there for me last year when I had a cancer scare. (Yes, what wasn’t happening). I have an awesome job where I get paid to make people happy, and an even more awesome boss who puts me front and center whenever I can. I have an awesome mentor in Las Vegas, and his people are awesome. I have an awesome friend who’s a mentalist that awesomely predicted the Super Bowl. I have an awesome friend who was my puppet wrangler and has been front and center through all my madness. I have an awesome family.

So this Valentine’s Day, I wont be getting flowers or candy and that’s alright. My life is full of people who love and support me, and someone people don’t even have one person who loves and supports them……and those people are in committed relationships!

Bottom line, if you are in a rough time, you can rock your way out. If the Pats can win the Super Bowl, you can climb out of your pit of despair. And being alone is better than being with someone who’s unhealthy for you. At the end of the day you can have all the love in the world but you really gotta love yourself. Just saying kids. This is as deep as this bitch gets for now. 

Come see The Lady and President Tramp

February 20, 2017 7PM

Dont Tell Mama

343 W. 46 Street

Grandpa The Street Fighter

Today would have been my Pop Pop's 96th birthday. A gentle soul, he coached all six of his kids in swimming and worked as a meet official as well. My Pop Pop always told outlandish stories, too. It was hard not to love the man, and even harder not to take his passing personally.

A World War II Navy man, he served as a 2nd Lieutenant in his platoon of squids. I never knew much about his war adventures, but he mentioned in passing he was there when the atomic bomb was dropped. My Pop Pop would mention he was in the war, but the other details of his mission remained a mystery. Once, my brother Wendell interviewed him for a school project where he spoke more in detail than he ever had. Pop Pop felt the war was over, life went on I suppose.

Before the war, my Pop Pop had attended the University of Pittsburgh. While a student there, he had been an engineering major and quite a boxer. Once, when I was in high school my parents were away on a college visitation trip with my brother, and Pop Pop babysat. While he was watching us, I left my math book on the kitchen table. When I woke up, my Pop Pop was doing math problems. I was stunned. "Pop Pop, we have a television." I said gently. Later, my mom explained that as someone who was originally an engineer, my Pop Pop was not only good at math, but loved it.

I hate math with every fibre of my being and still do. My brother Wendell tolerates it, like the drug addict relative out of rehab and needing money yet again. As for my sister Skipper, she is good at it but they only have a casual relationship. Pop Pop, while originally an engineer, ended up taking over the family insurance business. It was because the war was over, he was recently married, and had a child on the way. This was the ready job he needed.

My Pop Pop was the type who never spoke about himself, but rather spoke about the accomplishments of his grandchildren instead. Whether it was Mindy and Meara and their success as dancers,one with City Baller and the other at the university as a dance professor respectively. Or my cousin Martin and his art. Then there was my other cousin Timmy who almost went to the Olympics as a skiier. Lest we not forget Skipper and Wendell and their success in the science and medical fields. Cody and Blaze, my younger cousins, excelled in baseball and soccer. And then there's my newest cousin Valery.

My Pop Pop was the first person to buy my book, and read it in a single night. I offered to give it to him as a gift, but he insisted on paying for it. His last outing before he passed Thanksgiving Day was my book signing.

What I did not know was that my Pop Pop was so skilled as an athlete. I had seen him swim, and he played tennis well into his 80s. However, I never knew he was a boxer. This is the video my mom and I took of my 95 year old grandfather demonstrating his moves.

RIP Pop Pop, you were da man.


Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Available through Barnes and Noble/Amazon

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