JOSE MARTINEZ: DANCING’S HERO OF THE WAR

by Monica Rizzo

No one understands the importance of making a good first impression more than Jose Rene Martinez. The Army corporal turned actor, whose extensive facial scars are a reminder of the 2003 Iraq bombing he survived, long ago learned how to handle those who are taken aback by his appearance.

"People don't know what to say because they are worried it will be offensive," says Martinez, who is competing this season on Dancing with the Stars. "So I just break the ice," which is sometimes a self-deprecating joke about his missing left ear or, more simply, a heavy dose of his infectious smile and optimistic personality.

"Within 30 seconds of meeting him," says his girlfriend Diana Gonzalez-Jones, "people fall in love."

That has certainly been the case for the former All My Children actor, who was the furthest thing from a household name before signing on to Dancing. But soon after his debut, Martinez, 28, quickly won over fans thanks to solid performances and his personal story of overcoming obstacles. Now he's a frontrunner to take home the show's mirror-ball trophy.

"I'm not just dancing with a star; I'm dancing with a hero," says his pro partner Karina Smirnoff. Adds fellow contestant David Arquette: "He's such an inspi­ration. I want J.R. to win."

To hear the Shreveport, La., native tell it, if not for the near-death explo­sion he and three fellow soldiers expe­rienced in 2003, when the vehicle he was driving hit a land mine, his life would not be what it is today: full of joy, happiness and positivity. On his left wrist, Martinez reveals a tattoo of a watch set to the date and time, April 5, 2003 at 2:30 p.m., that his life forever changed.

Moments after the explosion, his fellow soldiers escaped, but Martinez remained pinned inside the vehicle, which was rapidly consumed by flames.

"I could see my hands, my skin drasti­cally changing before me in a way you would only see in a horror movie," he recalls. "I could see guys running around, a lot of chaos. I was screaming for someone to pull me out. At 19 years old, every dream, every goal, was gone. I felt my life was going to end right there."

With nearly half of his body severely burned, Martinez, in a medically induced coma, was flown to San Anto­nio's Brooke Army Medical Center to begin an arduous 34-month treat­ment and recovery process that included 32 surgeries, ranging from skin grafts to cosmetic procedures.

"It was a big moment when they took me off the ventilator," Martinez says, "but that was just the beginning of the battle." The daily ritual of having his body's open wounds scrubbed clean "was a long process, and it was grue­some," he says. "Every morning I was in the shower screaming and yelling. They would have to hold me down. There is no amount of medicine they can give you to take that pain away."

Trying to process what had hap­pened and what lay ahead was diffi­cult for the athletic, curly-haired teen, who dreamed of playing profes­sional football and "did pushups all day long in the Army," says Martinez. After five weeks in the hospital, he insisted on seeing himself in a mirror. The nurse hesitated, but Martinez reasoned, "I'm going to have to live with this for the rest of my life. I might as well start learning how to live with it now."

He was not prepared for his reflection. "All my life I was told, 'You are handsome.' I slowly looked up, and I saw Freddy Krueger."

His stunned reaction?

"That's a freak. That's not me," he says. "I went into this anger and depression. I never did anything in my life that deserved this kind of punishment."

In the days that followed, Martinez lay in bed crying. "I didn't want to live," he confesses. "I knew we lived in a world where we are judged by what people see first." But a turning point came a week later when his mother, Maria Zavala, told her only son, "Whoever is going to be in your life is going to be there because of who you are as a person and not what you look like."

After hearing those words, "I had to grieve Jose Rene Martinez dying in Iraq, and, as I looked at it, JR. Martinez was reborn," he says. Shortly before being sent home in late 2003, Martinez had a heart-to-heart with a young soldier whose wounds were much worse than his.

"I at least had an ear. I at least had a nose," says Martinez, who sat with the soldier in his darkened hospital room for 45 minutes. After that, Martinez routinely returned to the hospital to talk with injured vets and soon booked appearances on 60 Minutes, Oprah and CNN to share his emo­tional story of recovery. He visited military bases around the country, encouraging soldiers to live a full life.

"J.R. goes back to a place a lot of peo­ple wouldn't want to go back to," says Smirnoff. "He shares it with people, and he has turned it into a positive message."

In 2008 All My Children held an open casting call for a real soldier to portray a veteran on the show. Marti­nez went — and soon landed the role of Brot Monroe on the ABC soap, which went off the air in September.

That same instant connection he's had with Dancing fans. Whether or not he wins, Martinez is confident great things are to come, including writing a book, more acting roles and returning to Iraq "to encourage the men and women who are still there that great things are near."

8. Work in pairs. Share ideas on Martinez’s character. What kind of person do you think he is?

When I joined the Army in the summer of 2001, my plan was to get an educa­tion. And what an education I got: right at the start of the conflict in Iraq, I became a prisoner of war. I remember my convoy being attacked, grenades fly­ing, my rifle jamming and then darkness. I remember waking up behind enemy lines in an Iraqi hospital, unable to move my arms or legs. I was 19.

When I came home to America after nine days in captivity and a dramatic res­cue by U.S. forces, I faced a new battle: an array of surgeries to fix my spine, arms, legs, and feet.

Though I didn't know it at the time, the military and the media labeled me a hero. They said I'd gone down guns blazing, like Rambo, when really my rifle had jammed and I hadn't shot a soul. I clarified this as soon as I could and then people were angry that I'd been called a hero in the first place.

Thousands of letters poured in, some supportive, many furious. "You didn't do anything over there," people wrote. "You are no hero." I had never claimed to be one. All this was quite an education. And here's what I learned: I'm lucky. I came home alive. I reunited with my family. I got to go on to college and study to become a teacher. And recently I received my diploma from West Virginia University.

I don't really like to talk about what it took to get here. I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me, or to think I don't know how fortunate I am. Everyone else in my vehicle in Iraq was killed. My best friend died as a prisoner of war. I'm still here.

I'm also incredibly proud of this moment. I always dreamed of becoming a teacher, ever since my own kindergarten teacher took me under her wing when I was frightened on the first day of school. We are still in touch today. That's the kind of teacher I want to be.

In the eight years since my captivity, I've had 21 surgeries. I have metal parts in my spine, a rod in my right arm, and metal in my left femur and fibula. My right foot is held together by screws, plates, rods, and pins. I have no feeling in my left leg from the knee down, and I wear a brace every day. Sometimes I'll get a flash of pain, or feel upset because I can't run, and then I'll remind myself: I'm alive. I'm here. Take some painkillers.

I have no memory of what happened to me after my convoy was attacked, be­fore I woke up in that Iraqi hospital. Doctors later told me I had been beaten and sexually assaulted. Perhaps I'll never be able to recall what happened. I think this is a good thing. Iraq is in the past.

I do still have nightmares. They're always the same: someone is chasing me and I can't get away. I have to wake myself up, get out of bed, walk around. If I don't, I'll fall right back into that dream. I don't talk to a therapist about this. I have my family and friends. They are more supportive than I think a doctor could ever be. I also have fellow survivors from my unit, and I talk to them every few months as well. We live all over the country, but we are bonded for life.

And I have my 4-year-old daughter, Dakota, and her wonderful father, Wes. As we prepare to celebrate the holidays together, I think of all the soldiers who are coming home from Iraq as the troops pull out for good. I think of how happy the families will be, together again. The soldiers are finally coming home.

10. Work together. Can we call Jessica a hero after all? Should we? Discuss the questions and then put your idea on paper (100+ words).