Two hundred miles southeast of Denver, in a meander of the Arkansas River, is an old military base called Fort Lyon. It was once a prison, once a hospital, once an asylum, but for the past 10 months it has been a refuge for people — especially veterans — struggling with homelessness, and in many cases addiction and mental illness.
They are distorted shadows of the soldiers, Marines, sailors and airmen they once were. They were found living under bridges, sleeping in doorways or close to death in hospitals. They are here because they chose a long and complicated journey back to life.
For up to two years they can get counseling and job training and take community-college classes as part of a residential pilot program run through the Colorado Coalition for the Homeless and funded by the state. If anyone wants to quit, a bus will take them back to Denver. A handful have left, but so far 160 have stuck it out.
Because I've illustrated and written about troops in the war zones of Iraq and Afghanistan, and the wounded and bereaved in the aftermath of those conflicts, I was invited to embed at Fort Lyon last month. I spent three days and two nights sketching veterans while they told me about their lives. Their stories — about war, abuse, death — were sometimes unbelievable, sometimes clearly embellished, and at other times all too believable and gutting. Many of the veterans pointed to a moment when they made a small error in judgment — tried a recreational drug, sampled an injured spouse's pills, forged a prescription — and that wrong turn proved difficult to reverse. These are hard men and women. Some of them cried as they talked.
Here are a few of the dozen live sketches I did at Fort Lyon, along with the veterans' stories in their own words.
Spc. Joshua Aaron Smart, Army medic, age 32
I sketched Josh in one of the communal areas, but as he was leaving for a class he showed me his room and welcomed me to stay behind and draw it. I was struck by the mattress on the floor and the clothes laid out for a quick change. He told me that his night terrors started after he came off the drugs and alcohol. He was a mix of hopeful and downcast, saying at one point: "I think I am getting better. I hope I am getting better. I am not."
Pvt. Michael Zarnes, Army, age 26
I drew Mike in his dormitory room, which was spotless and orderly — his possessions sorted and stacked, his bed made with tight corners. I sat on the bed and directed him to a chair facing the window, so there would be light on his face. He remained utterly still while I sketched, and he spoke easily about his return from Iraq and fall into alcoholism. His fluid narrative sounded rehearsed — as if he'd told his story many times before or gone over it dozens of times in his head.
Sgt. 1st Class Marc Smith, Army, age 39
I drew Marc in the Fort Lyon chapel. I don't recall how we ended up there, but it was a quiet place where he felt at ease. I was impressed with his self-awareness. He is not proud of himself or the grip that alcohol and drugs have had on him. And he is anxious to reunite with his kids. Yet he seemed to have made peace with it all. He spoke confidently, never searching for words. It was almost impossible to visualize him as the addicted, homeless man he described himself as having been.
No comments:
Post a Comment