‘People You Should Know' Is a Love Letter to Bottom-Up Solutions
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FREDERICKSBURG, Virginia—Steve Hotz started Black Horse Forge, a nonprofit organization that provides support for veterans, active-duty military personnel and first responders through the ancient art of blacksmithing.
The retired sergeant, who served 17 years in the 82nd Airborne Division of the U.S. Army, said he started the endeavor to teach the arts of blacksmithing, toolmaking and bladesmithing first to heal himself and then others who had brought ghosts home from war.
Hotz's decision to join the military happened in the heat of an I'll-show-my-boss moment: He was an interior designer, and she was giving him the business for reasons he cannot recall now. He walked across the street to get lunch, saw the Army recruiting office next door, went in and enlisted. Two weeks later, he was in Fort Benning.
The military suited him well, Hotz said. It was when he was doing special work with the North Carolina Counterdrug Program on a counterterrorist team that he got hurt. He was left blind in one eye and required surgery on his back to fuse his spine.
It also left him trying to cope with the effects of post-traumatic stress disorder.
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Back in civilian life, he found that he was not unlike fellow retired military and first responders who struggled to regain the ideal of purpose. He went to a Wounded Warrior event where there was a blacksmith demonstration.
'When I came back, I made a hook,' he said. 'That is all I made that night. I was so excited about making this hook. My wife's like, 'Whatever you're doing, keep doing it,'' after seeing that thousand-yard stare ease from his face.
It was an interaction with a Marine at another Wounded Warrior blacksmithing event not long after that that made him realize he had found not only his purpose but a way to help others struggling with depression and PTSD.
'We were just cutting up really hardcore together, and there was a girl crying in the corner. I was like, 'Oh, maybe that's his girlfriend or something.' I might've said something offensive,' he explained.
So Hotz walked over to her and apologized if he had offended her. 'She tells me she was his therapist and that he was in such bad shape, he couldn't go anywhere without her. She said she was crying because the interaction between him and me was the first time he had talked in two years, and there he was talking to me like nothing was wrong,' he said.
Within short order, Hotz opened the Black Horse Forge, a nonprofit organization dedicated to teaching the craft to those who serve and come back looking for purpose. He says he has seen firsthand the transformation the craft has given veterans and active-duty service members.
All classes are free for veterans, active military personnel and first responders. All funds raised from civilian classes go back into funding free courses.
Since opening their doors, tens of thousands of veterans have participated in the free classes, with countless people saying it saved their lives.
It is that kind of giving back and making the community better that caught the eye of television host, podcaster and bestselling author Mike Rowe. After the demise of his wildly popular Facebook show, 'Returning the Favor,' Rowe was in search of ordinary people doing extraordinary things for a new series.
Rowe explained he had received a call from Facebook telling him there would be no fifth season. It was an announcement that had surprised both him and his many viewers. Feedback for the show had been overwhelmingly positive, and viewership was through the roof.
Over 10,000 nominations were sent to Rowe for exceptional Americans in four years.
The Baltimore native says he is thankful Facebook gave him the opportunity to do the 22-minute online show, equally grateful for the 100 'bloody do-gooders,' as he jokingly calls them, who were nominated by the people. However, the loss of the show and the community that formed around it wasn't just felt by Rowe. It left a void in viewers who begged—a lot—for it to return.
So, after four years, he finally did something about it.
Rowe said that because 'Returning the Favor' is owned by Facebook, he's not at liberty to simply reup the series under the same name. 'However, celebrating people who have impact, gratitude, and find solutions to society's biggest problems is not owned by anyone in particular,' he said, adding, 'So we are back.'
The new moniker is 'People You Should Know,' and it premiered last Friday on Rowe's YouTube channel.
Rowe is candid about not having the financial resources he had under the Facebook umbrella. So in terms of bells and whistles, the new show will be less grandiose. He is doing it on his own dime. But in truth, as an avid viewer of the show, the bells and whistles were nice, but they were never the reason I sat down to watch it. For most viewers and me, it was always about the heart and aspirations of fellow Americans.
The first six honorees include Hotz, and all are extraordinary and command attention. The first episode showcases a single mother who not only overcame her addiction but also found a way to keep her family together and her kids out of the foster care system. The production scale is spectacular, the people real and driven to a life that exists outside of self.
For Rowe, 'Dirty Jobs' worked for so long because it was one of the few topics that hadn't been completely owned by one side or the other.
'It's the dignity of work. It's the fun of making a buck. We had 2 million people on the 'Returning the Favor' page who were literally watching the show on the edge of their seat every single week. They programmed everything. It was the most engaged group I ever saw,' he said.
When it was canceled, Rowe said it took him a while to accept that fact. But viewers let him know he needed to find a way to bring it back.
'I would receive calls constantly asking to please bring it back. Or ask what am I waiting for because the country needs it. So we changed the name, figured out a budget because there is no big sponsor or network or studio behind us, and I called my friend Sarah, who produced the show in the past, and now she's sort of my cohost on camera,' he said.
Rowe describes her as Pollyanna meets Mary Poppins: 'She's fun and she's much nicer than me, not nearly as bitter or broken, and she's terrific to work with.'
The show is a true love letter to the neighbors you wish you had: regular people with big ideas, whether they are taking on homelessness, the foster care system, PTSD or illiteracy.
Rowe said of Hotz that there was something appealing about bending metal and making something useful out of something busted.
'I mean, the metaphor itself is huge, and he's so unassuming. He's a guy who literally saved himself by going in, figuring it out. And when he saw what it did for other people, it became his life's work,' he said.
'That's the show. Great big ideas, really modest individuals trying essentially to prove that they can move the needle. And they do. We've done it with foster care, we've done it with illiteracy, and we've done it with homelessness. So it's a micro-macro kind of approach. It's really a love letter to bottom-up solutions.'
Views expressed in this article are opinions of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of The Epoch Times.
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18 hours ago
- Buzz Feed
Why I Don't Always Thank Veterans For Their Service
James shifts nervously from one foot to the other, sweat glistening on his forehead and his muscles tense. A smiling intern approaches with a flag pin intent on thanking him for his military service whether he likes it or not. That's when he bolts for the door. I take off after him; there's no way I'm letting him tear onto the highway with his nervous system flashing red. Visions of a high-speed collision flash in my mind as I jog through the parking lot trying to catch him. Earlier that morning, I noticed James standing apart from the milling crowd gathered for a workshop on terminally ill veterans who have 'combat-related psychological challenges' like post-traumatic stress disorder, moral injury and complicated bereavement. With his straight back and hair cut in the style of a Marine, James was a stark contrast to the business card-exchanging group of social workers and psychologists with whom I'd been chatting. I had gone over and struck up a conversation. He'd told me he worked for a 'street program' focused on helping veterans struggling with drugs, homelessness and issues like depression, suicidal thoughts and PTSD. He'd recently applied to graduate schools with a vision of becoming a psychologist. 'I want to be there for my Iraq War brothers and sisters,' he'd said. 'We were all betrayed, every one of us. Moral injury and PTSD, that's just the tip of the iceberg.' 'Betrayed by who?' I'd asked. 'Politicians, military brass, the majority of people in this country who don't give a shit what really happened to me and my buddies and who don't want to hear about it.' He'd stared into my eyes as though expecting me to be uncomfortable with his candor. 'I've heard that from lots of vets,' I'd said, nodding. 'Not just the ones who fought in Iraq; going way back.' 'That's the dirty little secret about war,' he'd said, extending his hand. 'It's always an act of betrayal.' Later, we'd grabbed seats together at a table with three others. The trainer started with moral injury ― what it is, what it looks like, why it matters. He played poignant excerpts from recorded interviews of veterans talking about the psychologically and spiritually painful impact of witnessing or committing actions that violated their sense of morality or that had shattered their trust in those they'd relied on to act in their best interest. The trouble had started after lunch when the trainer asked attendees who were veterans to raise their hands. A half-dozen or so complied, but James hesitated. I'd given him a nod and whispered, 'You don't have to do this if you don't want to.' He gave a forced smile and raised his hand. Then the trainer asked the veterans to stand and announced that an intern would be making rounds with a box of flag pins. James had quickly sized up the well-intentioned ritual coming his way. The trainer would speak directly to each veteran, asking them what branch they'd been in and where they had been stationed. Then he would thank each of them for their 'service' while the intern pinned a flag to their shirt and the audience clapped. Sweating profusely, James had scanned the room looking for the nearest exit and anything or anyone that might get in his way. That's when he'd bolted. 'James,' I call out as he unlocks a beat-up Ford Mustang. He doesn't respond as he flings the door open and fumbles with the seatbelt, his hands shaking. I step between the open door and the car's frame. I know it's tricky, maybe even dangerous, getting in his space when he's feeling threatened, but I'm determined to help him settle before he revs the engine. 'Five minutes,' I say holding up five fingers. 'Just give me five, James. After that you can forget you ever met me.' His respirations are rapid. I take a deep breath, trying to cue him to do the same. He taps the steering wheel rapidly with one of his fists as though thinking, then motions to the passenger seat. 'Clock's ticking,' he says. I sit in the passenger seat, leaving the door open. We stare ahead avoiding eye contact. I wait for him to speak. 'Service,' he finally says. 'They have no idea.' He lowers his head. 'They call what happened over there service? Do they think we were serving fucking French fries? What I saw, what I did. What my buddies did. What we had done to us. It wasn't any kind of service. It was pure hell and I'm still living it. Now they want to pat me on the head and jab me with a cheap flag pin?' 'You're right,' I respond. 'They have no idea.' 'They don't want to know,' he shoots back. 'They want us all to shut the hell up and go along so they don't have to take any responsibility themselves. Didn't I tell you we were all betrayed? It never stops.' He gives me a sad look. 'I watched friends get their guts blown out. You ever seen bodies of women and kids splattered across the ground knowing you and your buddies are the ones who did it?' I shake my head silently. He grips his steering wheel so tightly the sinews in his forearms look like tightened cables. 'Service,' he says with acid sarcasm. His face softens and tears well in his eyes. 'How can they start in with the flag pins without even asking me what my experience was? It's like they're trying to push a lie down my throat.' 'What lie?' I ask. He looks up as though searching for words. 'That whatever we do is some kind of service to humanity. That we never commit atrocities and cover them up; that we're always helping the weak and protecting democracy. I found out fast we were killing and getting killed for money and power.' 'What's it like having people thanking you for your service everywhere you go, James?' He shakes his head as though I wouldn't understand. I remain silent, giving him time to either respond or switch the subject. 'You know what it's like?' he finally says. 'You might think this is an exaggeration but you asked. It's an act of violence.' 'Help me understand that one,' I say. 'Imagine you're hurting like hell and all you want to do is tell your friends and family what happened, hoping they'll understand, hoping maybe they'll tell you they're sorry about what you had to go through and reassure you that you're not some kind of monster. But all they do is pretend what you did was great and parrot a bunch of lame horse shit about being a hero. It's like you're being choked to death from the inside and you look to others for help and they just smile and look away.' 'Psychological and emotional violence,' I say. He nods. I look at the clock and mention that it's been five minutes. 'You kept your part of the deal, James. I've got time if you want to talk more but I want to keep my end. It's your call.' His hands are steady now and his breathing is normal. 'Thanks for coming after me. I'm good now.' He reaches out his hand. He squeezes mine tight and says, 'Thanks for not thanking me for my service when we met.' I nod. As he drives off I think about the hundreds of terminally ill combat veterans I've worked with as their hospice social worker. Most were, as combat veteran Tim O'Brien puts it, 'carrying stuff.' Stuff many ― maybe most ― civilians wouldn't understand. That's probably why so many of these veterans had locked it up inside and hidden it from view. Long days in a hospital bed, though, have ways of dredging stuff up. It's normal for patients approaching death to look back on their lives and take stock. When you're looking back on a life that includes the cataclysmic violence and horrific loss and grief of war, this life review process can be psychologically and spiritually complex ― even painful. Many of the combat veterans I've known had spent decades trying not to think or talk (at least not with civilians) about what they'd seen and done. Many suppressed undigested grief for friends who'd been killed or struggled silently with survival guilt, anger or feeling unsafe in the world. Some struggled with explosive tempers, anxiety or depression related to the scars of war; others with emotional numbness, alcohol and/or drug addictions, or feeling disconnected from others. Some had polished up a handful of well-rehearsed war stories sanitized of blood, gore or moral ambiguity, which they'd offered family and friends so as not to upset them. Others simply kept quiet. But as death approaches, it can claw up stories and memories that have been suppressed. These memories can be fragmented and poignant with details of war's horror ― the smell of burning bodies, the eyes of a dead buddy gazing up at the sky, the numb immersion day after day after day in violence, killing and death. Sometimes they are laced with moral pain and shame ― the killing of civilians, lifeless bodies of 'the enemy' being desecrated in the rage of a battle's aftermath. As I walk back to the training, I think about a B-17 pilot who participated in bombing raids during World War II intended to incinerate German cities. The point had been to kill every man, woman and child ― every dog and flea unlucky enough to be on the ground. He'd done his duty and returned from war assured that he'd helped save the world from fascism. But humans, despite misguided notions about war being part of the 'human condition,' are not wired to kill each other however just the cause may seem. As an old man, he was haunted by the belief that he was a mass murderer. He was convinced he was going to go to hell after he died and there he'd feel the kind of fiery torture he believed he'd inflicted on others. Like James, he had winced at reflexive expressions of thanks for his 'service.' The message he heard was: W e believe that you were performing a service, standing up for freedom, protecting the weak, saving democracy. You're a hero. That's our story and we don't want to hear your story if it makes us uncomfortable or challenges us in any way. He didn't want someone else's story shoved down his throat; he wanted someone with whom it was safe to tell his own without being judged or rejected. He wanted to unpack some of what he'd been carrying and find compassion for the 20-year-old young man he'd been when thrust into the bloody savagery of war. He wanted to begin to heal before he died. As someone who works with dying veterans, I've learned to never automatically thank them for their service. I realize many are justifiably proud of their time in the military, of friendships forged, courage shown and service given. I know that most appreciate expressions of thanks and that these expressions are often genuine and heartfelt on the part of those offering them. But I would rather disappoint those who expect me to join the chorus of thanks than close the door on a single veteran like James who needs someone who won't flinch or look away if they choose to share what they have been carrying. Refusing to lead with the culturally sanctioned chant 'Thank you for your service' sends the message to veterans like James that I'm not pushing a story that denies their experience. It's safe to talk. I can be trusted to listen without judging. Those veterans who have noticed and asked about my lack of obedience to the social custom of using the euphemism 'service' have generally understood and appreciated my reasons once we discussed them. Several shared things with me during those conversations they would not otherwise have shared. Things they, too, had been carrying. But there's another reason I never give automatic thanks or use the word service. It's an easy out for the rest of us. It lets civilians like me off the hook when it comes to taking any responsibility for what we have allowed political and military leaders to do in our name. It allows us to wash our hands of any culpability for how they, and we, have used our troops. That's part of what I think James meant when he said all wars are acts of betrayal. Calling the sum of actions taken in war 'service' is a convenient way for the rest of us to deny what our warriors have been asked to do. It makes it easy for us to turn away from or to deny the burning anguish, grief and regret many carry. Insidiously, it also allows us to avoid asking awkward questions: Were we really justified in using violence to kill so many other human beings? Why are we so desperate to idealize those who have done the bloody, heartbreaking work of war? Who profits ― politically or financially ― from all this division and violence? What are we so damned afraid of? The 'service' euphemism has become so prevalent that it is now part of a cultural trance state that shuts down honest conversations about these and other questions. Automatically thanking a veteran for his or her service can inadvertently telegraph to those whose experiences fly in the face of our well-rehearsed storyline that we don't want to hear what really happened ― that we don't care about what they might be carrying. This not only reinforces our collective conceit that our own hands are clean, it ensures that we will not have to carry anything ourselves. Euphemism piles upon euphemism. Hiding the slaughter of war behind the innocuous word 'service' allows us to call the children James saw killed 'collateral damage.' Calling bombs 'smart bombs' and calling it 'precision bombing' when we unleash them on others allows us to conceal those children from our awareness as well as the pangs of grief in those left behind. It even allows some of us to vilify those Americans who dare dissent or protest the dropping of bombs as 'unpatriotic' or 'un-American.' When American troops are killed, we are protected, as though we are children, from any images of their charred and mangled corpses. Once more we are slathered in reassuring euphemisms. Our 'fallen heroes' and their 'brave sacrifice' are lauded by a ratings-obsessed media and politicians vowing revenge on an enemy also in thrall to the delusion that they are providing a service by killing young American men and women. If we really want to 'honor the ultimate sacrifice' our soldiers have made, if we really want to ensure that they have 'not died in vain,' we need to stop lying about war by hiding behind socially enforced rituals, platitudes and euphemisms. If we really want to help those who have survived and carry the wounds of war, we need to stop hiding from and denying war's cruel brutality. We must make sure it is safe for veterans who have been in the military during a time of war ― regardless of whether they were directly exposed to combat ― to speak for themselves and to speak the truth. And we need to listen to all of them, not just the ones whose stories make us feel good about ourselves. Note: Names and some details have been slightly altered to protect the privacy of the individuals discussed in this essay. This essay originally ran in January 2022 and is being rerun now as part of HuffPost Personal's 'Best Of' Series. Scott Janssen is a hospice social worker and writer. He has written extensively about providing trauma-informed care for patients who are terminally ill and has spoken nationally about ways to better support veterans who are nearing the end of their lives. His work has appeared in dozens of publications, including Social Work Today, Psychotherapy Networker, American Journal of Nursing, Reader's Digest, and The Washington Post. His novel Light Keepers is a visionary adventure about the transformational power of kindness and love when the world appears lost in anger, conflict, and fear.
Yahoo
20 hours ago
- Yahoo
Burial service to be held June 9 for Gravette WWII soldier killed in D-Day invasion
GRAVETTE, Ark. (KNWA/KFTA) — After more than 80 years, a Northwest Arkansan hero is returning home. Private Rodger Dean Andrews, a World War II soldier from Gravette, will be laid to rest with full military honors at 2:00 p.m. Monday, June 9, at Bethel Cemetery in Gravette, according to the Benton County Sheriff's Office (BSCO). His remains, recently identified after decades of uncertainty, will arrive in Northwest Arkansas the evening of Sunday, June 8 and be received by Epting Funeral Home in Bentonville. On Monday, the BCSO Motor Division will escort Private Andrews to his final resting place, joined by Military Honors and the Patriot Guard. The procession will depart Epting Funeral Home (709 N. Walton Blvd, Bentonville) at 1:15 p.m. and follow this route: South on N. Walton Blvd Right on SW 14th Street (Highway 102) Right on Highway 59 through Decatur Right on Bethel Road in Gravette Left into Bethel Cemetery 'Community members are encouraged to line the route and pay their respects to honor the life and service of Private Rodger Dean Andrews, a true American hero,' BSCO said in a Facebook post. HISTORY: Grant Hardin's 12-day escape joins the state's most infamous escapes The Defense POW/MIA Accounting Agency (DPAA) announced in a news release on October 2 that U.S. Army Private Rodger D. Andrews, 19, was accounted for on June 5. Andrews was assigned in June 1944 to Company C of the 37th Engineer Combat Battalion in the European Theater. On June 6, 1944, American, Canadian and British forces came ashore on the beaches of Normandy in France during Operation Overlord. The release said that at some point during the battle, Andrews was killed, but due to the chaos, it is not known what happened to him. Private Rodger Dean Andrews' remains were recovered after D-Day but went unidentified for decades. In 2014, his family requested renewed efforts. A belt with his initials helped prompt a review, and in 2019, the remains were exhumed. Scientists confirmed his identity through dental and anthropological analysis. A rosette will now mark his name at the Normandy American Cemetery. Governor Sarah Huckabee Sanders said during her remarks at the 2025 Memorial Day Observance at Camp Robinson in North Little Rock that U.S. Army Private Rodger D. Andrews, 18, will be laid to rest at a family plot on June 9, more than 81 years after his death. Copyright 2025 Nexstar Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
Chicago Tribune
a day ago
- Chicago Tribune
Column: A grieving dad opens up about his veteran son's death by suicide
'My son,' he told me, 'should be on that wall also.' At the same time, as I found out later when Waddell and I connected via phone, the longtime North Aurora resident, who retired to Wisconsin in 2006, also understands why former U.S. Army Master Sgt. Michael Waddell's name is not included on the Illinois Fallen Wall among those who gave their lives in service to this country since 9/11. Death by suicide is far more complex. Far too hard to categorize in terms of cause and effect. And there are far too many. Twenty-two a day has been a call-to-action statistic, although the most recent data from the 2024 National Veteran Suicide Prevention Annual Report (using 2022 numbers) puts it at 17.6 veterans committing suicide per day, which is significantly higher than among non-veteran adults. 'Can you imagine,' asked Waddell, 'how long a wall it would have to be to contain all of them?' And yes, when the Chris Patterson Memorial Foundation took over the Illinois Fallen Wall display a year ago, founder Bob Patterson – whose son, a West Aurora High School grad, was killed in 2012 in Afghanistan – noted some 'upset' feelings by loved ones grieving a suicide. But like Waddell, he noted, after some discussion they understood the reasoning behind the decision not to include those who took their own lives while in service or later. Still, the pain Waddell feels more than two years after his only child shot himself is palpable. It's a pain that needs acknowledging, as does his son's service to this country. After graduating in 1988 from West Aurora High School, Mike Waddell worked for a year in a warehouse, 'with no direction,' until his dad, a Marmion Academy graduate who worked for UPS, saw the names and addresses of those serving in the military printed in The Beacon-News, and encouraged his son to reach out to some and find out how they liked the experience. Because the feedback was positive, Mike enlisted in November of 1989, and spent the next 22 years in the U.S. Army, including two deployments in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom where, according to his father, he suffered traumatic brain injury when his vehicle hit an IED. The younger Waddell retired as a master sergeant in 2011 and worked for the Army Corps of Engineers until shortly before his death in Jacksonville, North Carolina, according to his father, but struggled with PTSD, which eventually impacted his personality and relationships. Suffering from those invisible wounds, Mike became more verbally abusive, self-medicating on weed and wine, said Ron Waddell, adding that while his son would call the V.A. when 'having a bad day,' he never sought counseling, even with loved ones begging him to get help. With his 30-year marriage crumbling around him, said the elder Waddell, Mike used a gun to take his own life on May 8, 2023. 'As a child, he literally passed out when getting a shot,' recalled the father. 'Imagine the mental anguish he was going through' to end his life in this way. 'Had his mother been alive,' he continued, referring to his wife Andi's death in 2014 after a long battle with cancer, 'it would have killed her.' Waddell described their son as a 'good kid … a funny guy when he was not the way he was in the end.' And he was an excellent soldier, his father noted, referring to the many military commendations he received, as well as a flood of personal accolades from peers following his death. 'Your son was a good man … one of the best non-commissioned officers I have ever worked with,' wrote a fellow soldier who served twice with Mike during his service. While Mike Waddell's career meant most of his adult years were long distance from his dad, he was buried with full military honors at Northwoods National Cemetery in Harshaw, Wisconsin, just 15 minutes from Ron's home. And that gives a still-grieving father tremendous comfort knowing his son is 'finally at peace.' 'I can't emphasize enough how impressed and proud I was of him,' he told me. 'I have so many memories, all good.'
