I found this from an old blog I did in 2007 back when I met the Governor of Massachusetts Mitt Romney.  I sang at the National Convention for Republican Governors.

I thought ya'll might like to hear my thoughts back then.  All though i remember thinking he would not be elected in 2008, perhaps 2012 may be his time.  I hope he has not forgotten the message of a song called Not Me.

"Mitt Romney could be our next President. That’s what everyone was saying at the National Republican Governor’s Association function I got to play last night in Miami. Not only is he one of the Republican party’s leading candidates, you’ll be happy to know Governor Romney of Massachusetts is also now a fan of Keni Thomas and my song Not Me. I like to think it was due to the performance and delivery of one such singer songwriter. But truthfully it was the message of the song that touched him. As it did for Governor Perdue of Georgia, Gov. Otter and his wife of Idaho, Gov Sanford of South Carolina, former Gov. Don Sundquist of TN, Gov. Rounds of South Dakota, Gov. Daniels of Indiana (who by the way is a cool Harley riding guy).  Each one graciously took a moment to come over and comment how they appreciated the message in the song. It was flattering yes. But most of all, it was heart warming, reassuring, and comforting. These leaders all got it!  Lead by example in everything you do, and the team around you becomes stronger. You can make a difference.

The beauty of my job is the opportunity I get to meet so many different people from all over the country. I’ve played hick-towns, county fairs and I’ve played the Pentagon. I’ve spoken to dock workers and politicians. Teachers, students, veterans and activists. Here’s what I’ve learned.  We are all different, yes. But we all want the same things: Better jobs. Better education. A better plan for Iraq. Better health care. And better moral values. Everyone wants a better America. For themselves and for their kids. We can certainly all agree there. It’s the details of the routing that have us vastly divided. How are we gonna get there? Your plan doesn’t work for me.   And my way doesn’t work for you. Thus, the rhetoric of politics fogs our collective compass.

 Don’t you wish it were as easy as “follow the yellow brick road”? Those directions are simple. Stay on the clearly marked sidewalk. Be wary of the wicked.  Stay together. Stay the course. Pretty soon you’re gonna see a big green city. You can’t miss it. Go to the front door and ask for the wise and powerful OZ. He’ll have all the answers you’re looking for. 

No political party. No constitution. No religion. No way of life has a 100% guaranteed road map to get us where we think we need to be. You want to hear God laugh. Tell him you have a plan. So the best we can do is set our compass to truth, faith, hope and love.  They will never steer us wrong.  The routing might be questionable when our yellow brick road has long since faded away. But there are still a few lessons of OZ we can always count on. Stay together. Be wary of the wicked. Stay the course. And the answers shall reveal themselves-the power was in you all along. “Oz never did give nothing to the tin man, he didn’t already have”. 

So in this important time of change I feel good about our country.  Coast to coast we are  full of great Americans who understand the importance of leading by example in order to make a difference.  I wish Governor Romney much success in his bid to become our next President. But I already know the obvious candidate for the job of bettering America. That candidate is you. That candidate is me. Set an example for others to follow and this nation “of the people, governed by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth”

Go boldly into your lives my friends and mighty forces will come to your aid.  If you ever need a song to get you through your day, we are here for you. You are appreciated."

Enjoy Your Life...You've Earned It

Sergeant First Class Gordon is in the 10^th Mountain Division.   He’s heading home in a few days as is the rest of his unit that he came to Afghanistan with way back in 2010.  I met him last night seemingly by chance as I was hanging out in Pete’s Place at Manas air force base in Kyrgyzstan. 

Manas is the staging point for most of our units traveling in and out of the Afghanistan theater.  You can usually tell who’s coming in country to begin their deployment by the seriousness of their faces and the cleanliness of their uniforms.  Its easy to spot who’s going home.  Look for the smiles and the well-worn boots.  Bordered by Russia to the north and china to the east, this seems an unlikely place for a bunch of Americans to be hanging out having a beer a listening to a Lady Gaga song in a makeshift bar named after a NYC fire chief of 9/11.

I was heading to Afghanistan this time with an organization called American 300 as part of their “Warriors Tours”. This particular group featured different generations of Rangers going back to Vietnam.  It’s a hand shake tour where we get to spend our days visiting with soldiers, marines and airmen as they go about their daily routines.  Here on Manas that can be just about anything from pulling a 12 hour guard shift at a checkpoint or staying up all night to repair a C135 Stratolifter.  It may be a 58 year old aircraft qualifying for an “antique” license plate but that tanker is desperately needed in the fight to refuel fighter jets supporting the troops on the ground in Afgahnistan engaged in direct contact with the enemy. Every person in uniform is a key piece of the puzzle crucial to mission success. It’s astounding how many resources and personnel it takes, and to what lengths America will go, to support the solider on the ground like SFC Gordon and his platoon of men.  

We had just finished up a scheduled meet and greet there at Pete’s Place.  America 300 and I teamed up to give away a couple hundred copies of my new book GET IT ON so I had been signing some for all who were interested.  We had just packed away the Sharpes when I met SFC Gordon.

“Are you the guy signing books?” he asked me.

“I am.  But I gave away everything we had with us. I was fixing to go try one of those 

Krgy beers.  You want one?”  I offered.  

But Ben didn’t really seem in the mood for a beer.  I could tell he had other things on his mind, thoughts that seemed out of place for the festive atmosphere of Pete’s Place.

“Hey you know what, I’ve got a couple more in my room. I’ll run back and get one for you.  What’s your name?”

“Sergeant Gordon” he responded as we shook hands.

“Yeah I see that” pointing out the obvious name-plate on his uniform.

“Sorry..he said “It’s Ben.  Been here so long I forgot my first name!” 

“Well good to meet you Ben. You guys are heading home right?”

“Yeah….  Most of us.”  he replied.   

It takes one to know one and as a combat veteran I knew instantly what SFC Gordon was telling me. I knew his heartache, the anger, the frustration, the confusion, 

and the guilt that are all rolled into those three short words. Most of us means someone is not going home. Not because they are staying, but because they are gone.  

“Who did you loose?” I asked

“He was my PL. I lost him a week ago.”

Notice SFC Gordon said I lost him.  I can tell you why he said that. Because Ben feels responsible.  As a platoon sergeant you have years of experience over a young lieutenant who gets assigned to you as your platoon leader.  Its your job to get that young lieutenant squared away and up to speed because many times it’s that kids first assignment out of college. Leading a platoon of 40 or so men in combat is a huge leadership challenge. But as any good PL will tell you, the man who really runs the platoon is the platoon sergeant. “Listen to your Platoon Sergeants!” is what they teach the young infantry officer. SFC Gordon felt responsible for that kid and he had lost his PL just a week before they were going home.  

Why SFC Gordon had come to me for a book was a bit of a miracle really.  I do not believe in coincidences when it comes to the folks we meet in our lives. There is always a reason for it, especially when you are “sent” to a combat zone with the purpose of spreading good will as we were on this tour.  I thought giving away books was a good idea. It would give them something to read and help spread the word. But in this case God had a bigger reason for Ben and me to meet.

I ran back to my room hoping I could get back before Ben changed his mind about opening up his feelings a little.  In fact, he was doing just that walking out the door as I got back to Pete’s place. The voice of reason inside was already telling him to shut it down. “you are not allowed to feel”

When you make it out of something where others did not, you will spend the rest of your life thanking the people who were on your left and right that day. Because you know by the Grace of God, they are the only reason you survived. However and wherever that fight went down you are immensely proud of your unit and what you accomplished together. And that accomplishment, you reason, has got to mean something. It has to account for some sort of difference. The death of a good man has to matter, because if it doesn’t matter, then why did your comrades have to die? And that’s where it all begins, the confusion, the frustration, and the anger.

Why? That is the question that will haunt any veteran struggling with the loss of a comrade and a friend. Why did it happen to him and not me? Why God did you let me walk out of there when he was twice the soldier that I was? He had a wife. He had kids.  He deserved to live.  Why was I one of the chosen ones? Why me? What am I supposed to do with this?” And that is when the guilt begins to take hold like an ugly cancer slowly deteriorating your ability to be happy.

You can do one of two things with the guilt. You can get angry and let the unfairness of it all bury you. Or you can choose to let it motivate you. See it for what it is. It’s more than an opportunity or some divine “second chance”. See it as a responsibility, a duty, and a commitment to those who got you out of there, to carry on and live a happy life filled with purpose, direction, and motivation.

How do I know this? Because I’ve lived it. Years after the battle, even after the noise of slamming doors no longer made me duck for cover, and the mere site of Old Glory no longer made me cry, I was still feeling the effects of combat. I was still fighting the Battle of Mogadishu, only now I was years away, safe at home in the middle of a good life.  

Guilt continued to haunt me. Sure, I followed my dreams of music. The intestinal fortitude instilled in me as a Ranger would not allow otherwise. Outwardly, Keni was a positive, motivated, dreamer skipping through life doing what he loved to do. Good for him. Way to go Keni.  

But down inside I could never fully commit to enjoying the life I had. In fact, I could never fully commit to anything. Why? Because it just didn’t seem “hard” enough. Somewhere in my heart, I felt I wasn’t supposed to be happy. It should be enough that I was here when others were not. 

Guilt affected everything—my sense of self worth, my relationships, and my ability to enjoy the life God had given me. The moment I felt the good life closing in, the voice of guilt began to whisper. “You know, you’re not allowed to be happy. Think about Casey’s wife. Think about Pilla’s parents. How do you think they feel?”

And so the enemy within me would covertly sabotage whatever good God had sent my way. I became a master of disguise, camouflaging my emotions. On the outside I appeared passionate and full of fire, declaring “I love my life. I love you!” Because as a “good Christian,” that’s what I knew I was supposed to be. In reality, however, I was shutting down my feelings because somewhere between the streets of Mogadishu, the hospitals of recovering friends, and the tombstones at Arlington, I convinced myself I didn’t deserve to be here.

Like I said, it takes one to know one, and it was a Vietnam veteran, a friend of my father, who wrote to me after yet another painful breakup I had somehow managed to manufacture. And without talking to me or knowing me all that well, he pinpointed the problem with the accuracy of a laser guided missile. 

“You know, Keni, you are allowed to be happy,” he said. “In fact, you owe it to those guys who got you out of there.”

Yeah, yeah tell me something I hadn’t already heard.

But it was this next line I remember most that planted the seed of change in my restless and guilt-ridden heart.

“If any one of your friends could come back from the dead and talk to you today, do you really think they would tell you that you were supposed to feel guilty?” 

I’m not saying the change was an immediate metamorphosis, as if God himself had spoken the words and then “shazam!” I was struck by a bolt of lightning. But the spark was ignited and I knew that combat veteran of Vietnam was right. I’d grown accustomed to the numbness and was comfortable within the walls I had erected around my heart. It is exactly those walls we build to protect us that ultimately will imprison us. This guilt I dragged around with me like a ball and chain was self-imposed. I had the key all along. God had indeed spoken to me. The choice was mine to make.

I told the same story to Ben, as we stayed a little while and talked.

“It’s gonna be a long road Ben” I assured him.  “This one isn’t gonna be easy. You’re gonna think people wont understand or don’t want to hear about it. But the more you keep it in, the worse that guilt of surviving gets to you.  So tell your story.  Tell his story. Because if you don’t, then who will?  And please remember and NEVER forget, if your PL could come back today, he would never, not once tell you that you should feel guilty for being here. You are allowed to be happy.”

As I handed the book over to SFC Ben Gordon, I realized I had become that Vietnam vet passing along the same wisdom learned from those before us. God had used me to speak to Ben. Perhaps it helped.  I hope it did.  

I signed his book with these words, 

“Thank you for your service. Welcome home. Enjoy your life. You’ve earned it. Godspeed”

For all the hands we got to shake on the Warriors Tour I pray that they all make it home.  The reality is that some will not.  But for those of you who do, please remember and never forget. Tell their story. For if you don’t who will.  Please remember and never forget, You are allowed to be happy. Welcome Home. Enjoy Your Life. You’ve earned it. Godspeed

The war is over for me now. But it will always be here for the rest of my days. For those of us who did make it, we have an obligation to teach others what we know and to try with what’s left of our lives to find a goodness and meaning to this life. (Oliver Stone from the movie Platoon)

...Whom shall I send? And who will go for us? And I said, Here am I.

Ms. Cook-

I wanted to thank Mr. Thomas for spending his time in Afghanistan with myself and my troops. He was the first guest that actually took time to go out to where my Soldiers were working at the Entry Control Point,  and I cannot begin to tell you how thankful I am for that. They work very hard every day and don't get to participate in morale boosting events very often, but Mr. Thomas and the gang went out to see them, and I am exceptionally thankful for that dedication. Their presence was very inspirational to all who were lucky enough to meet with them as we finish up the rest of our time in Afghanistan.

Thank you again!

God Bless,

Kristina M. Schmitt
2LT, QM
Fuel and Water Platoon Leader
A Co. 24th BSB 170th IBCT

The LOONNGGG Walk

It had been a looooonnng flight.  I was happy to finally make it to the hotel where I could get something to eat and go to bed.  So i sat down in the lounge of my hotel and ordered the Crab Cake sandwich. Just as Miguel the waiter brings my food,  this old lady in a United Retired Americans Foundation shirt comes up to my table. I thought she was going to ask if she could have the extra chair.

“Mind if I join you?” she asks.

Happy for the company, I responded with a smile, 

"As long as you don't mind me eating my crab cake in front of you.  Please, have a seat Miss Retired American."

She smiled politely, sat down and pulled out her I Pad. The last words I heard her say were "How’s the internet connection?" Must have been just fine because She didn't wait for an answer. Once she got connected, she disappeared behind her I Pad. Literally. She actually held it up to cover her face as she typed on it.

I thought at first she couldn't see very well. But then I tried to ask a couple questions. 

“So where are ya'll from?”    Nothing. 

“Pretty busy in here tonight huh?”  nothing.

Perhaps she was hard of seeing and hearing. It was a bizarre city-people thing I guessed.  Protection of Personal space. This is my Personal space.  You can’t see me... Im not here.... I don't hear you.

So I ate my Crab cake sandwich in silence and pretended to be interested in the 

NFL game on the TV. I paid Miguel, who must have assumed I was from Espana because he spoke to me in spanish every time he came to the table ,

and said goodnight to the Retired American hiding behind the I-pad. Nothing.

As i got on the elevator i held the door for a man who flat out refused to follow me in, as if his mother had once warned him about guitar toting, not yet retired american men who look like they could be from Espana.

Personal space...personal space.... If i get in that elevator with you, I will have no personal space and worse yet I have to ignore you.  In an elevator with two people its obvious to the two parties involved that both said parties are ignoring each other. We know its rude yet we still do it and because its so impersonal it feels uncomfortable. I don’t see you.  You’re invisible. Apparently this man would rather forgo that discomfort and elected not to get on the elevator.  

“You go ahead I uh have to uh wait.. here…for DING  the door closed and I rode

up to the 4^th floor by myself. I walked the long 75-room walk from the elevator at room 4001 to the very last room 4076 only to find the key card didn't work.

I almost laughed.  Almost. So I walked the long 75 rooms back to the elevator,  still carrying my guitar, was ignored by the couple waiting there, was ignored in the elevator ride down, walked past Miguel and the retired american who had united with a seemingly another retired american. Only this time the I pad was in her lap. Apparently, you can show your face to other retirees, but not to guitar toting, crab cake eating southern men talking to the waiter in spanish.

Once again, I got back into the line at the front desk and waited for my turn while a college kid in grey skinny jeans, Chuck Taylors and an American University hoodie tried to explain to the lady behind the counter, why he was justified in asking for a key to someone else's room.  Apparently, he had helped pay for these rooms and was therefore entitled to access them all whether it was his name on the room or not. I wanted to ask him if I could have a key to his room.  My logic was quite sound. Since I pay taxes, technically that means I pay his per diem that he gets for being a congressional intern for this, his senior semester at American University. So wouldn't I therefor, by his own logic, be entitled to accessing his room should I feel the need? But I refrained from my wise cracks.  I saw where that got me with old retired Americans and their I-Pads. I didn’t want to know what it would get me with a soon-to-be American U Graduate on his long journey to becoming yet another United Retired American who went to American.

Finally it was my turn to be “helped” as I took my place at the front desk and leaned in against the marble counter as if I was fixin to order from burger king.

Ananitta the African Still Working American with a thick island accent was polite.

How can I help you Mr Toma's?

"My room key doesn't work"

I do apologize Mr Toma's. I understand your room key does not work..

Oh no....if you’ve ever tried calling AOL tech support and talking to someone in India you know why I just said Oh No.  I’m fixing to get a typically caring-less scripted reply.

"I do apologize for that inconvenience. Thank you for your patience tonight"

I smiled at the thought of my patience.  I had shown very little of it today, starting with the car ride through 5 o’clock traffic to the airport back in Nashville. Then there was the internal self-victimization pity party I threw for myself because my confirmed-upgraded flight was cancelled and I was shuffled over to another airline as a sub-class displaced passenger because American Airlines farmed out its stranded passengers to US Air.

I'm thinking of starting a club called  The US/American Displaced Passengers. I’m going to make t-shirts and I will hold meetings in hotel lobby lounges.

I will collect dues but i do not really want anyone to come to my meetings. Because if they did, they would probably hide behind their I pads anyway.

 I was assigned a seat on the new flight in the rear of the plane next to the only bathroom of which the door works like a folding closet door.   You know the seat. The one at the very back that wont recline a nat’s hair even when the guy in front of you lounges into your lap like he’s at home in his Lazy Boy recliner oblivious to the person behind him and their personal space which he has obliterated with his tiranistic invasion of the reclining chair.  They gave me the last seat! You know the one. The seat where you actually rub shoulders with everyone entering and exiting the lavatory as they pretend they don’t see you there. Personal space.... Personal space... I do not you see you.  You are invisible…. Apparently the guy next to me didn't get the miss manners memo that eating in front of people is rude. He pulled out his Popeye’s chicken and biscuits and began scarfing them down like a character on Lost who just found a box of Popeyes chicken and biscuits on the beach but doesn’t want to share it so he runs and hides in the bushes to woof it down. Only there were no bushes to hide in at the back seat of a plane next to the lavatory. So instead he pretended to not see me….

 I kept telling myself,  “This isn’t that bad.  You've been through much worse when it comes to travel. At least you got a flight and weren't stranded. And after all you are flying though the air while sitting in a chair!  As my friend Louie CK says, " A few centuries ago you would have been a greek god!"  

91 mins later we defied the laws of gravity, astonished the nay-sayers and landed safely on the ground in the nations capitol. Only you couldn't see the nations capitol because DC was covered in the remnants of tropical depression Lee. Which in and of itself seems rather ironic since General Lee never did actually make it to DC. Perhaps he should have disguised his rebel army as United Retired Americans. I waited for the entire plane to exit only to find them outside again gaggled in the drizzle waiting for their luggage. I thought, depression was a good word for this weather. But there isn’t much tropical about it.  Dark Dreary and Cold.

One of my favorite parts of traveling is arriving at the airport and having someone there waiting for you. Its a nice feeling. It means someone cared

enough about you to make an effort to be there for you.  It reminds me of being a kid when I would visit my Dad for the summer. He would meet my sister 

and me at the airport with some silly sign. Then on the return home my mom would be there waiting with hugs and a  “Welcome Home!” Or as my waiter friend Miguel would say, “Bien Venidos!” So even now when I travel I still love it when someone comes to meet me at the airport. Even if its a stranger.  Because for me, no one stays a stranger for too long. Unless of course they are United as a Retired American who owns an I pad. I looked at my itinerary to see who was coming to meet me.  And under the Sub title TRANSPORTATION- Airport pick up it said.  TAXI

I’ve been traveling long enough to tell you that when someone delegates a taxi driver to be your welcoming committee it means a couple things.  One is that no one volunteered to come pick you up. Two, you weren’t important enough to the event planner to warrant a personal pick up.   I could be wrong but that’s what it feels like.  You should have seen the line of people waiting for cabs into DC. The last time I saw a line that long it was in that Allen Jackson video “Good Time”. Only this was not my idea of a good time. I have a video of it if you want to see it. The cab line. Not Allen Jackson.

“Thank you for your Patience Mr Tomas.” Repeats Anannata the lady behind the lobby desk.  

“Oh,  sorry I was jus thinking about the long day I’ve had and what it took to get me to this moment right here with you.  So this is easy.  All I had to do was walk about 75 rooms.  No patience required.”

Up till now she had been the typical polite hotel employee -formal yet disconnected enough not to really care. We all know that’s just the way it is and, we’ve all grown numb to it in the world of business travel. So we go through the motions and pretend we don’t notice that the curt professionalism is still just a way of keeping people at a distance.  She may as well of held an I pad up in front of her face.  

But just then something in the tone of her voice changed that brought me out of my personal space and into her world.  She was talking to me like a real person as if she actually cared that I had chosen her hotel. As if she really cared about  me as a person. 

"Well, I thank you.” She repeated.

“Your patience is a virtue and you must be very blessed."

I smiled and thought for a second who was really talking to me right then.

I heard my own voice saying the prayer I say daily, 

“Lord guide me in my responses to others so they will see you through me. Give me the wisdom to make the right choices. The strength to act on those choices and the Patience to see it through.”

“You know, Ananitta you are right.  I am quite blessed.” I thought for a moment and added, “But if I were you, I would think twice about asking God for patience.  He'll make you wait a loooong time"

She laughed whole heartedly with a smile brighter than an entire table of United Retired American T-shirts.  

“Yes! she agreed, He will make you wait wont he? Dats for sure.”

Ananitta comped my meal and handed me two bottles of water as a gift.

"For your looong walk Keni. For your long walk"

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