Not knowing how I would use this story, I interviewed Tiny the same way I would a governor, state representative, or a real mayor. Big Boy and Summer would have it no other way.
Since I recalled that Tiny had served two tours in Iraq, I began by thanking him for his service. He replied, “When I came back, some at the VA clinic called me a ‘hero.’ I ain’t no hero. I’m a survivor who somehow has to make my life worthwhile for those guys who died. They died, I didn’t.”
For the first time, I noticed small Arabic script tattooed on his right forearm. I asked, “What does that mean?”
He said, “The end of life is death.”
I wasn’t ready to follow up on this startling piece of information. Instead I asked Tiny when he had left his home in southern Mississippi. He explained he had joined the Army Reserve in 2004 to better himself when he was twenty-two.
“I couldn’t find work in Hattiesburg, Wiggins or McComb,” said Tiny. “Not many paying jobs for black men with no college education in Mississippi. My mom thought the military would give me skills that I could use to build a life—at least one better than hers.”
He spoke with little emotion in his voice, not looking me in the eyes. Tiny petted Big Boy while he spoke. He clearly had something important to share and was struggling not to break down.
“They taught me how to be a man. I got discipline and self-esteem. People saw more than the color of my skin when I was in my uniform.”
Tiny stared down at the dog, gathered his thoughts and continued. He said, “It was like, like I was a superhero or something. I was no longer a former high school jock and a screw-up. I was a soldier.”
After basic and advanced individual training, Tiny came home to his unit in the Mississippi National Guard at Camp Shelby, south of Hattiesburg, Mississippi.
“They said don’t even unpack your bags,” Tiny recounted, “because in three weeks I’d be in Iraq.” Though the air conditioning was blasting, Tiny was sweating. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt.
“Take your time,” I said.
Summer got up to bring him a glass of water.
He nodded thanks to Summer and continued to pet the dog. I motioned to Teddy to take a break from taking photos.
“Mostly rode escort in the hottest damn place on this earth. I thought Mississippi was hot. Iraq was much worse,” said Tiny. “When I wasn’t part of some convoy, I manned security checkpoints and gates at the bases, checking visitors and vehicles for weapons, bombs and other crap.”
He said, “Could never let down my guard. All I heard was stories of some soldier relaxing and being blown into pieces by a fucking IED or suicide bomber.”
Tiny caught himself. He looked at Summer and said, “Sorry, Ms. Summer, I promised myself I wouldn’t curse.”
She nodded for him to continue. “I’ve heard the word before.”
He continued, “My buddy Jake got killed when a suicide bomber attacked his checkpoint in Fallujah. From then on, I could never relax. Fear crept in . . . it wouldn’t let go of me.”
He got up and walked over to the window. He turned to face us and said, “Fear gnawed at my soul. The more I saw, the more I began to pull back from life–mine and my friends. If I cared about life, the more pain I suffered when somebody was killed.”
Summer glanced at me. Big Boy put his head in her lap. The dog was comforting everyone in the room.
Tiny said, “My mind found new ways to mark the passage of time. Every time my truck drove past a mile marker, I thought that’s another mile that I was still alive.”
He injured his foot on the battlefield when his vehicle hit an IED. Tiny didn’t say much about the incident other than mumble a few words about watching his fellow soldiers die and bleed, hearing moans and groans, and smelling death and infection all around him.
“I was lucky. The docs at Walter Reed saved my foot, and PTs taught me how to walk again. They put me with two soldiers from my unit. One lost both his legs, and the other had his back broken when his gun turret was hit by a rocket-propelled grenade. Guys missing body parts filled the beds around us. No one gave a damn what I had seen or felt. They just wanted my ass out of the hospital as quickly as possible.”
Tiny received no counseling for post-traumatic stress disorder, but he did get prescriptions for painkillers anytime he asked for them. He said, “Pills made the fear and all other emotions go away. I felt nothing.”
When I asked him how it went when he returned home, he said he had no one to tell about his war experience. He told us, “Probably wasn’t another Iraq War veteran for thirty miles. Everybody else wanted to talk about American Idol, Survivor or some crap like that, while what mattered most to me was having A/C, running water, and fresh groceries.”
Without his soldier identity, he felt disconnected from his family, friends and the civilian world. Once again, Tiny couldn’t find work. He wandered up and down the Gulf Coast for a couple of years, living on the streets and making do.
“Never stole anything. Never got arrested. Drank, popped pills, and waited to die. Hell, I was supposed to have died in Iraq like Jake and my buddies. Why should I live?”
Tiny took a sip of water and shut his eyes. “What right did I have to live while Jake and others didn’t? I thought about killing myself several times, I really did, but God always put someone in my life whenever I came close to doing it.”
While in Pensacola, Tiny ran into someone from his unit who hooked him up with drug abuse counseling and PTSD therapy.
“A doctor helped me reconnect with my feelings. Pushed
