Old Feelings Make It Hard To Decide Just What He Means To Me

Saturday, August 5 - about 6:00pm - Pickerington, Ohio

First off, I didn't take this photo, which should be obvious as I'm in it.  I'm on the right.  My father is in the middle, and my half-brother Tony is on the left.  He's home from Iraq for two weeks, and his parents threw a cookout Saturday to welcome him home and have friends stop by.

Now, most people I relayed this story to had typical reactions.  #1: You have a half-brother?  #2: He's in Iraq?

I don't talk much about my father's side of the family, and I talk even less about my two half-sisters (does that make a whole sister?) and my half-brother.  I've seen Elizabeth (24) and Sarah (19) several times over the last few years, when pangs of guilt would lead me to my father's house on some rouse of a trip to Central Ohio.  For some reason, I never saw Tony.  He was at band camp, a friend's house, trying not to get killed by insurgents in Baghdad, etc.  I actually had not seen him since June, 1996 until today.  He was 12 then.  I was 18.  People can change a lot in 10 years.  I had more hair.  He was four feet tall.  You know how it goes.

It took a lot for me to figure out I even wanted to go.  Like I said, I don't much associate with the Guzman side of my family.  I hadn't seen Tony in 10 years (back when he was Little Tony), and I wasn't sure what it would be like to see him.  But as morbid as it sounds, I figured I would rather see him in an awkward situation in the outskirts of Columbus than in a flag-draped coffin coming back from Iraq.  Morbid, yes.  But as someone said, it's not like he's off at college, he is in Baghdad.

I showed up, and after an initial brotherly hug, there was about 10 minutes of forced conversation.  It was awkward, because how to you catch up with someone who you feel you should know better, after 10 years?  What do you say?  "How's Iraq going?"  It was weird.  I was saved by some other guests leaving, and I escaped to the bathroom (six hours of driving puts some things atop the importance list).  I spent the next few hours making small talk with my relations, and making larger small talk with strangers who I felt I had more in common with and who I didn't feel like I had to have some kind of bigger conversation.

I know, I know: I'm rambling.  But it's been a weird day.  I woke up after the fifth night of crappy sleep.  Drove six hours.  Saw someone I haven't seen in ten years who I should have a bigger bond with, but right now, only share some genes, got good old feelings of family-guilt that few if any people can give me, hopped back in the car, drove another six hours, and now I'm typing away here.  A lot of time to think in the car.  And I really don't know what to say.  Except that I'm glad I went.  Because the bad feelings for going outweigh the bad feelings I would have had for not going.  If that makes any sense.

The next time you're having a discussion about the war in Iraq, and you say you don't know anyone over there, now you do.  His name is Tony Guzman.  He's 22.  He's in the Army.  He's from Pickerington, Ohio and a good middle-class family.  He enlisted in the Army because he wanted to, not because he had no other options in life, and he wanted to after the war started.  He spends his days repairing Army vehicles because he likes to, and because it keeps him off patrols in the streets.  He has a girlfriend who bakes good cookies.  He's religious, has a devious smile, and sent the cutout of himself (seen below) because he couldn't be at his older sister's wedding.  And now, basically, you know him as well as I do.

Next time, I promise to write more about stupid tourists and post photos of ducks.  But I just wanted to hammer out some thoughts while I was here.

Title from the song "Question Everything" by 8Stops7