Sundays are for “life”-related things like having breakfast with friends, doing laundry, washing the dishes, and cleaning out the rat cage (and giving Missy and Trillian baths).

“Life Block.” I blocked out my entire week.

The six other days of the week are split between my design company, this website and my photography career, and an unannounced project I am working on. My Monday to Fridays, from 9 am until 7 pm, are devoted to school, work at Polimedia, and the commute between the two. That is not including my violin lessons and the yet-to-be-determined gym time.

The goal is to keep up with all of these extra things I am doing and still maintain a decent grade at my college. Which I actually managed to do this previous semester. It was hard-work, but with a bit of luck and very understanding professors, I received straight-As. It will be interesting to see if I keep it up this summer and next fall. It is most likely, just as long as I keep my health up. One thing that set me back several times this previous semester were the nearly once-a-month illnesses that left me unable to function for days at a time. Which is why I have started to take vitamin supplements again and actually eating vegetables.

I am getting there, though. Especially since there will be someone helping me with my schedule.

I have not been producing much photography in the past two months. This morning at breakfast, I felt a pang of guilt when I laid eyes at the camera sitting on my table.

So, I wrote it a letter.

Dear Camera,

I know you have been feeling very lonely as of late without my hands wrapped around your shiny, black plastic case. I know that you miss our frequent outings to new and exciting places. I know you reminisce the times I introduced you to all my friends and how great it must feel when they ask to hold you. Or the pride you feel when you show them how beautiful they really are, both inside and outside.

I miss those days, too. Alas, I have gone through a major transition in my life and I seem to have lost my voice. I look at you and look at the world around me and I ask myself, “What now?”

Though, do not despair, for I will soon find what it is I am trying to say and I will soon introduce you to many friends and many scenes and share many experiences with you.

For I must.

After typing the enormously pithy byline above and before typing the first word of this first sentence, I managed to complete three different tasks with varying levels of priority.

I lie.

All three were barely above trivial.

Kelsey is complaining that her life has been reduced to a series of errands and tasks. At least, she is completing them! My life has been reduced to avoiding anything that is remotely productive. Unanswered emails and an overflowing inbox? Stacks of paper and notes to be organized? A very important phone call yet to be made? Minimized, ignored, and conveniently forgotten.

I am not really sure what is causing this recent spate of procrastination. Most likely that uncertainty regarding my future has been a major factor. I was all gung-ho and “full steam ahead” a few weeks ago, but my forward momentum has been considerably slowed or even halted in some cases. I do not like this feeling at all.

“I cannot stress how important an independent mind in a person is to me. I like the dreamers, the idealists, and the impractical. I take great joy in exploring the depths of someone’s intelligence and imagination. I enjoy watching someone think, for it is only then that I do not feel so utterly alone.”

Jayel Aheram

I have a profile on every major online social network (and on little-known ones as well) that exist. My space is on MySpace, my face is on Facebook, and my work history is linked in LinkedIn. I am live on Livejournal, a furry in Fur Affinity, and a tweeter on Twitter. I am a Flickr addict, a Stickam user, and a Digger of articles. In the online medium, I am a social media maven. I am a public figure by choice. I am always connected; always online. At last count, I am a member of at least eighteen different social networks. And those are just the ones I actively track.

Offline, of course, my network of friends and acquaintances is far smaller and far more personal. I am able to count in both hands, the number of people I choose to associate with in my spare time (not counting family, naturally). Either I gravitate towards those types of people or them to me, but more often than not, it is those who are unashamedly different or fiercely independent or ambitious that I find myself being around. I like people who are themselves, people who are not preoccupied with other people’s perception of them, people who not only think, but think for themselves. I cannot stress how important an independent mind in a person is to me. I like the dreamers, the idealists, and the impractical. I take great joy in exploring the depths of someone’s intelligence and imagination. I enjoy watching someone think, for it is only then that I do not feel so utterly alone. Descartes once claimed that “I think, therefore I am.” I claim that “They think, therefore they are.”

When I was just a young kid in school, I was blessed (or cursed, depending on your viewpoint) with a vibrant and outgoing personality as well as the fearlessness of being the weird kid in school. I was the kid the Catholic schoolteachers had to ban from the library because I was reading too much and asking too many uncomfortable questions about religion. I was the kid that needed to be punished for singing songs outside in the rain during class. I was the kid in my public high school that gave to and received hugs from girl friend to the ire of their boyfriends. I was the kid that ran around with a pair of Pikachu ears on his head and screamed, “Pika!” Though, I was not quite popular (infamous would be a more fitting term), I was well-liked by my fellow students.

I was neither so wise nor so fickle in my choice of company in my younger years. In fact, when I was in high school, I hang out with a quite a large group: my English honors class. From the time I was freshman until I left before my senior year, the people that made up my English honors class remain relatively unchanged. And oh, what a group it was! Mostly females (I was one of six boys in a class of thirty), we represented most of the school’s civic life. We made up the leadership of all the major clubs on campus, from student government, to homecoming council, to the volunteer organization, and even the Japanese club. I like most of them for their ambitions, sometimes for their smarts, but mostly because they were for the most part independent thinkers. I remember a teacher saying one time to us, “You are the loudest class I have and I sometimes wonder why. But then I figured it out: you all have something to say.” But, being high school, there are occasions when some exhibited herd mentality. And I resented it deeply.

The rules of etiquette that were followed were as contrived as it was silly.

Herd mentality was even worse in the online networks I logged on to after school day after day. Excite’s Virtual Places was the online version of my high school with none of the learning and all of the drama and more. It even had a social hierarchy that mirrors that of high school (though, being a network on the relatively new World Wide Web, it was in favor of the computer geeks, where the hackers are the rock stars). There were the speed-fighters who often wore Dragon Ball Z avatars. Like their high school jock counterparts, they moved in groups, hyper-masculine, and just as dumb. There were the role-players whose only roleplaying setting seemed to be the tavern. I, myself, hang out with the anime aficionados. The rules of etiquette that were followed were as contrived as it was silly. For one thing, the quality of your avatar and what anime you wore determined your status within this group. (a side note: I learned much about graphics design and composition from cropping anime pictures for avatars). It was considered faux-pas to wear the same avatar as another person. It was considered a crime to steal a personally tagged one.

Despite the inanity of Virtual Places, I was able to create strong relationships with people that last to this day long after Virtual Places shut down. I met my best friend Devin there as well as others I am still in contact with. Nothing has replaced Virtual Places in my life (though, Flickr + Photophlow make very good candidates) with its soap-opera drama and cry-fests. We were young then, just coming of age, and barely reaching adulthood. We were coming to terms on who we are, striving to forge an identity that is genuine to whom really we were. We are now older, hopefully wiser, and still message each other on Facebook.

Photography by Jayel Aheram.

“Post 1″ in this base is an access control point between the Iraqi Army compound and the rest of the American-military controlled compound. SOP (standard operating procedures) of this post is to make sure that no Iraqi Army personnel leaves their compound unless accompanied by an American military personnel. This, of course, excludes the IA officers who are authorized to come and go at whim without an American escort. Opposite of Post 1, about 50 feet away, is the Iraqi Army’s control point, which is manned by usually sleeping Iraqi soldiers (if manned at all). They probably realize the redundancy of their post and realize that Post 1 is the one that really matters.

Now, about these Iraqi soldiers. They are generally cordial and when they are passing through my control point, they make a point to wave and smile at me. But when they are not passing through my control point, they are all business. Because, apparently, Guard Post 1 is known to the Iraqi soldiers in this base as Trading Post 1. When they are not sleeping in their post, Iraqi soldiers in their spare time operate a booming black market business with the Marines that often guard or pass through Post 1. DVD players for 150 dollars? No problem. Bring dollars tomorrow. Want some cigarettes? What brand? No problem. 12 dollars for a carton. You need not to trade for money either. They are willing to part with their cartons of cigarette for good ol’ American pornography. A magazine filled with dirty photos of American blond infidels with artificial breasts is worth about five packs of cigarettes. If you have the movie in DVD, even better! I have heard that one Marine managed to part with his “MOTO” for a couple of cartons.

But once in a while, they will surprise you with their generosity. One night while I was manning Post 1, an Iraqi soldier came to my post bearing three platters filled with local food. It looked pretty good, too.

More about Butts the Mangy Mutt. I learned that she is a veteran in patrolling the dangerous streets of the city near this base. She often accompanies Marines when they are on foot patrol and was credited in saving many a Marine’s life when she alerted them to mines, IEDs, and a few snakes. And she had been a casualty of war as well! One time, she was hit by a shrapnel from an exploded IED. This bitch has seen more action than most of the Marines in this base it seems.

Last night, I had the pleasure of watching the most amazing sunset I have ever witnessed in my whole life. The combination of clouds, desert dust, and smoke billowing from the city conspired that day to create a sunset that is meant to awe and inspire. Hues of purple, blood red sun, streaks of orange in the sky. I joked to my post buddy that we might have very well caught a glimpse of the face of God in that sunset. He joked back that while we were watching the sunset, five insurgents might have crept in.

When you have eight hours to kill and nothing to do but talk to each other, Marines end up talking about the weirdest of things.

Photography by Jayel Aheram.

Before actually experiencing it first-hand, I too had this same question in my mind: how do you go about sending a company of armed Marines (sometimes dual-armed with both the M16A4 service rifle and the M9 pistol) into a combat zone? Well, it starts with a long bus ride…

Then a very long 28-hour plane ride (chartered from the nice folks of RyanAir) with fuel-stops in Indiana, Iceland, Germany (I asked a German lady if she calls “German Pretzels” just “pretzels”), before ending up in Kuwait. In Kuwait, a very tense bus ride from the airport to an Army base with a chow hall better than any the Marine Corps has to offer. We stayed there for a few days before making yet another tense bus ride back to the airport. From there, a C-130 rolled down the strip with Marines on board. It ended up in Al-Asad, yet another awesome Army base with a chow hall three times better than the one in Kuwait. It also has a Burger King and a Pizza Hut and a place that sells stereos for your car. Yes, car stereos in Iraq. You might be dodging IEDs, but at least you will be pimping with the latest in audio technology. All of these places staffed by smiling Iraqi nationals (but then you wonder if they are really fantasizing about slitting your throat as they serve you yet another serving of filthy, unclean pork). But we were only there for a few days before we finally shuffled, Marine Corps shuffled into a large helicopter and landed in our area of operations. The helicopter ride was surprisingly… smooth. I thought I was going to feel every bob and dip, but I did not even feel the take-off! Next thing I knew, we were in the air. I fell asleep instantly… That is how smooth it was.

I have heard of Butts even before I met her. She had the reputation of being equally the most ugliest and the most sweetest dog you will ever meet. She came to the Marines and sailors on this base at her most pitiful. There are wild dogs that roam the desert around this base and apparently, she had an unfortunate encounter with a few of them. The Marines and sailors on this base pampered her and nursed her back to health. They gave her the name “Butts” for her tendency to snack on cigarette butts left around by the nicotine-addicted Marines on their very frequent and unhealthy cigarette breaks. I finally met Butts the first time I was posted guard in Post 1, which was located between the Iraqi Army compound and the main American military compound. She had the mangiest fur I have ever seen on a dog. Post 1 was a bit different from the other posts in such that it was only manned by a single Marine. That night, I volunteered for that post, thinking I will have the chance to practice my Arabic. It was silly, of course. There would not be many chances for me to “practice my Arabic” as I had hoped in the 2100 to 0500 shift that I had. Being alone, it was a struggle to keep awake, but fortunately I had Butts to help me along. She sat next to me or near me the entire time I was on post. I would scratch her behind the ears or rub her tummy. As post companion, she was perfect. She remained vigilant, if not a bit too enthusiastic in her role as guard. She would occassionally cross the wire and harass the Iraqi soldiers by barking at them if they get too close to my post.

We moved in to a new tent since the unit we were relieving just left. I was fortunate enough to have snagged extremely prime cot space. I have two sides of a wall, a mattress on my cot, and it is right next to an air-conditioner in an extremely hot tent. My cot space is equivalent to a penthouse, basically. The better tents were taken by the NCOs and staff NCOs (they have working air-conditioners, TVs, refrigerator). I suppose since they spend most of their times in these tents anyway, better to let them have it.

Photography by Jayel Aheram.

A correspondence between Jayel Aheram and his dad, “Uncle John.”

October 4, 2006

JL,

Good to hear from you. Sounds very “interesting”. I like your narrative style. Mommy, says we will send you the book. Do you already have it (i.e. is it in one of your boxes) or do you need us to go out and buy it? Will send you some gedunk to make you feel at home (sorry no sushi!). Keep sending the pictures.

It is raining continuously here, and has started to cool down. Mommy is busy with work and bingo. Joey is doing very well in school and has joined the science club. Cub Scouts are just getting started so he is excited about that. Don’t worry, I’ll edit your emails if they get a bit to “salty” so he can read them.

Take care of yourself and be safe. We are very proud of you.

Love,

Uncle John

October 5, 2006

Hey Uncle John,

I do not own the book. It just came out in paperback, I believe. It will be awesome if you were to send it! What is gedunk? Is that a Navy term for “POG bait?” (Snacks, People-Other-Than-Grunts Bait).

And about my “narrative style”… I could not help it! It is not a one-on-one e-mail thing. I am writing to more than one person, so… If you guys are going to be sending stuff, PLEASE send The Killers’ new album! It is called “Sam’s Town!” If I have to pay for it, I will, but please send! *begs!*

Anyway, thank you for replying to the e-mails! I look forward to them. I am going to be sending a new e-mail out tomorrow. It will be about Butts, the base’s dog. Joey will love it.

Toodle!

October 5, 2006

JL,

Gedunk is in fact Navy for POG Bait. I was actually being serious about the narrative style…it is very good…entertaining and very readable. We will look for the book and album. Raining cats and dogs here as a tropical storm passes by…pretty nasty weather. I am the Cubmaster for Joey’s Cub Scout Pack (all the dens put together), and it is my first experience leading civilians (moms, and even the military members cuz I can’t really use my rank over them) ….it’s like herding cats! The Kids are much easier to organize than their parents.

Joey will love to hear about “Butts” I am sure! Take care and if I don’t respond for a few days I am likely traveling.

Love,

Uncle John

October 6, 2006

JL,

Thanks for the emails. I’m sure Joey will enjoy the story about Butts (after I black out a line a paragraph or two further up…I don’t want him thinking about the whole throat slitting thing). How often do you guys get mortar (or other) attacks? Are they Iranian or Soviet made? Just curious.

How’s the food now that you are at base camp? Thanks for the pictures too. Mommy wants to know how many people are in your squad/platoon/tent, whichever group you spend the most time with. She wants to send Halloween bags of candy for each of them. Joey and I baked some cookies for Mommy to send you this week. We got the CD and a Sudoku book for you. Janan is going to get the book you wanted because we don’t have it here.

Take care and be safe.

Uncle John

Photography by Jayel Aheram.

I am not really sure what the date is today. I think it is the 4th of October and Wednesday, but I could be wrong.

You might have questions what is it I am currently doing in Iraq. Well, my unit is in charge of this base’s security. We man the defensive positions around the base’s perimeter as well as go on frequent patrols to make sure that the enemy is not setting up positions amid the many sand dunes and hills that surround this miniscule base. Dangers to this base is limited, but of course not exclusive, to infrequent mortar and RPG attacks. Infrequent, because patrols done by previous units in charge of security have done a successful job of neutralizing enemy positions that do crop up around the base. It is now up to my unit to keep that up.

Now, for the area itself. The base is located a few miles south of a city of 30,000 people near the Euphrates river. This is a true desert if I ever seen one. I thought the Mojave Desert is a desert, but they are nothing compared to this. The Mojave Desert at least is teeming with life. Joshua trees, bushes, cactuses, and wildlife of all kinds. This desert seems to be a barren wasteland, devoid of life. Just sand and bare rock as far as the eyes can see…

But I was wrong. While it is not as blatantly obvious as it is in the Mojave Desert, life does survive in spite of the harshness of this clime. When we went on patrol yesterday, we were to familiarize ourselves to the terrain. That means I have to observe everything, to take in the details, to learn what is “normal” in this terrain. That is when I discovered that this desert was not in fact a barren wasteland that I thought and heard it was, but rather the opposite of that. Everywhere I looked where signs of life succeeding amid the shifting sands. The most inspiring of which was a bird with a plume of shocking red feathers. I will admit, it was a bit unnerving to see such a defiant display of color in the middle of this apparent wasteland. It was the opposite of what I was doing. Me, in my desert digital, my tactical tan gear. I was trying to be part of the desert, to blend, to disappear into the endless desert background. But here is a native to this land, who instead of going with its life quietly, invisibly, chose to shatter the eerie silence of the desert with its song and with its bright red plume, defy the overwhelming conformity the desert seems to demand (and got from me).

I do not yet hate this place. The conditions we are living under, while not desperate (we do have three meals a day, a place to sleep under, a cot to sleep on, things to entertain us, showers, Internet, free laundry service, 80-dollar Army whore…), have made a great many to despise the desert and everything and everyone in it. I do not know if it is possible for me to hate a place where the stars are allowed to shine.

Photography by Jayel Aheram.

Greetings from the Cradle of Civilization!

At the moment, the place I will be in the next seven months does not even come close to the word “civilization.” More like “a-giant-ate-a-tent-factory-and-had-diarrhea-right-here.” Ooh! Ooh! There are some places in here where the “sand” is not even sand. It is just giant mounds of dust. You step into it and you sink and it goes POOF all over the place. Just DUST. It is crazy. It is just powder all over the place.

They have showers in here and I am using it at least two times a day. It is one luxury I intend to abuse. They have no chow hall here, but have some sort of building with tables in it. The food is prepared by a staff sergeant and two corporals. Sometimes we get this AWESOME steak. We are not eating “t-rations” but something a bit better.

Speaking of chow halls, SWEET MOTHER OF GOD. The chow halls in Kuwait and Al-Asad are just FANTASTIC. And get this, the ARMY base in Kuwait is WAY better than the one back home! SO much food and so much choices! SO MUCH. It was nothing I have ever seen.

The chow hall in Al-Asad is guarded by Somalian mercenaries. A private contractor went to Somalia and hired these guys as guards. Their weapons are in condition 1 (round in chamber, magazine inserted, ready to shoot) and they will shoot anyone who tries to enter the chow hall or the PX or the MWR areas without an ID. I almost witnessed an incident. Freaking trigger-happy Somalians!

Anyway, I am fine and everything. More later!

PS: Someone spread this rumor I had a “thick Coca-Cola can sized penis, 6 inches but very thick!” And now everyone believes it. WHAT THE FU—?!

PPS: The PX only comes here once every 3 months.

A young Jayel Aheram. He worries about many things, but race is not among them.

I am a half-breed. In fact, I am more than a half-breed, I am a mongrel. I was born to a Filipino mother and an American father. She was half-Spanish, part-Chinese, part-Tagalog, and part-Ilokano and he was Caucasian of indeterminate origins. Maybe he had Cherokee blood in him, too, or maybe not. I used to joke that I have the best of all worlds in me and that becomes apparent when people attempt to guess my ethnicity. Their guesses run the gamut from Arabian to French to Venezuelan.

Race has been such an issue for all of my life that it was such a non-issue for half of it. That is, for half of it I accepted it as a part of my life. I did not know any better. It never occured to me that the teasing I had to endure as a child in the Philippines was meant to scar me forever or that it was not right to be teased. I just accepted the fact that I was different. I knew I was different and it was the only thing I knew. It must be a testament to how I was raised by my aunt and godmother. They taught me early on that it was all right to be not like anyone else. Their love and lessons withstood the teasing, the taunts, the barrage of prejudice so much that I did not realize that the words were meant to be cruel until I was much, much older and was introduced to the wonderful world of racial relations.

My godmother used to call me “tisoy” from mestiso (meaning half-breed) or “kano” from amerikano (meaning American). These were terms of endearments from her, but from classmates, names. Unfortunately for them, I was already being called that by the women I love (and just a bit of naivety on my part) and so it just produced giggles from me. My half-black cousins have their nicknames, too. Their mother and my aunts call them “negra” from negro (meaning black). They must be geniuses in psychology or something, because their loving name calling innoculated us from the teasing. But while my being mestiso did not affect me emotionally or scar me psychologically, it nonetheless had a significant influence in my life as a child. From school to friends, it played a large part on how I was treated by others and my experiences with people.

The lady on the left is my cousin. Her father is black and her mother is my mother’s sister. She and her sister are lovingly called “negra” by their mother.

I went to a Catholic elementary school from first grade to the first half of sixth grade and from the very start, I was the odd one out. Not that I noticed it! I was too busy being a kid. I had friends, of course, but no best friends. I am mostly friends with the weird kids. In first grade, I was friends with another mestiso, a twitchy fellow who I got into trouble quite often. In second grade, it was this really ugly Chinese kid who looked like a bulldog and Joan, my class’s only half-black. She sat next to me and comforted me when I found out and got upset that Charmaine Navarro, a girl I had a crush on since 1st grade, had other admirers. She is also a neat freak. Third grade (and in another school), I was friends with a crazy Japanese kid who buys me Street Fighter stickers and I was also friends with another mestiso whose mother once complained that I should have gotten the top academic spot in my grade. Fourth grade (back in my old Catholic school), I was friends with Darren, an extremely effeminate half-black. Both of us sat together in the back of the class, giggling like little girls.

Fifth grade, I started to have plenty of friends. There was my core group of friends; Michael, Donna, Jean, and Lisa. We hang around each other and once, we made a highschooler cry. Donna considers me her academic rival. She constantly compared her grades with mine, even if other kids got higher grades (we both knew that some of the teachers were being bribed by the parents of our top classmates). Michael was a tall, stocky fellow who was extremely insecure about his size. Children were intimidated by him and he hated it. Jean was a boy-crazy girl. She also had a lot of money and loved to flaunt it. Lisa was a large portly girl with very large breasts. She was self-conscious about her breasts (I would be, too! They were humongous!). Together, we made life hell for substitute teachers and anyone who got in our way (we once made a substitute teacher run away from class using a Sweet Valley Kids book as a guide). I was also friends with a girl I knew from third grade (she followed me into my old school). Her name was Angel and she was another mestiso who thought she was Sailor Moon. She sits alone in the front of the class and had all sorts of fun items. She was more friends with my sister actually, because my sister drew Sailor Moon very well.

My sister and I started to live with our mother and her new husband in the middle of sixth grade. I was transferred from my Catholic school in the Philippines to a public school in California. It was there that I was given a crash course on race relations and became aware of racism. Apparently, saying that one race is superior over another is considered racism, which was new to me. In Catholic school, I remember being read a religious fable about how God baked humans into being and that he preferred the perfect golden brown Filipinos over the undercooked whites and overcooked blacks.

But of course, race relations is more nuanced than that! Only white people can be racist, I learned, but at the same time, only whites can ever be called simply “American.” In the Philippines, I was an American. In the US, I was a hyphenated American. When I was in the Philippines, I learned that I was not good enough to be one of God’s perfect brown children. In the US, I learned that I was not worthy enough to be called simply an American. I have been called a racist by a black girl who made fun of my race and origins, snubbed by Asians because I was not Asian enough, and treated like novelty acquaintance by whites. The Hispanics that could barely speak English poke fun at my accent. The counselor in my “enlightened” school once asked me if I “think in English.” I thought then that it was a ridiculous question and it has not changed. But even if I had those experiences, I still had some fun in middle school.

Me, my long hair, and my multi-ethnic friends in Hawaii.

High school was different, though. I went to a high school in Hawaii where almost all the students were half-breeds like me. They had a name for it, too: hapa. It was like a breath of fresh air. While race was still an issue, it was a very minor one. They do not consider themselves to be hyphenated American, but they are proud of their various lineage all the same. The more blood in you, the better! My accent (which by then have a Hispanic tinge to it) was still a curiosity, though, but most people seem to think it was either sexy or cute. Of course, Hawaii was not free of racism. It had its own brand of it. Whites and especially blacks have a tough time there. They are called haoles which means “foreigner.” Hawaii had its own supremacists. There are Hawaiian-only schools (if you have above a certain percentage of Hawaiian blood, you can attend it), state agencies for Hawaiians-only, and government sanctioned and subsidized racism. But we lived away from the Honolulu where all the politicians lived, so it was something I read in the news and not really experienced.

I look back in awe at my younger self. I am amazed that I went through that without a scratch. Sure, it affected my life in significant ways like the friends I had and my experiences with them, but it was still overwhelmingly positive. There might have been missed opportunities, but I do not think I missed anything since my childhood was colorful enough. But that could be negative since in my adult life, I rarely think about race. I might say something factual and be burn because perceived racism on my part.

The only thing Jayel Aheram gets sad about is not having enough cake.

The only time I ever think about race is when I am thinking about politics, but that is only because it is being used as if it matters that much. The Black Caucus, the Hispanic community, blah blah blah blah blah! People could learn from me. Prejudice exists, but it should not be the reason to hold someone back or be used to justify victimhood. Take it, put it in a ball, and toss it behind you. Simple as that.