The Art of War

There is a War that rages continuously inside me.

On one side, there is my “true self,” which strives to create: poems, stories, blog posts, Facebook notes, skits, innovative PowerPoints, engaging in-class exercises, new ways to do things, and even, on occasion, puppet shows.

On the other side, there is the “good” me, who strives to be: good daughter, good student, good cadet, good Army officer, good wife, good Army wife, good… whatever it is that I am supposed to be at that point in time of my life.

I do not include good mother in that grouping. As I do not view motherhood the same way. I love being a mother. And, sure, I might at times think I am not being a good one, but I try very hard. Being a mother is by far the hardest thing I have ever done in my life, but it is also the most rewarding. And I feel being a mother is true and right for me.

I am happiest when I am my true self.

I am saddest when my true self gets obscured by trying so hard to be so damned… good all the time.

I have spent an awful lot of my life trying to be good, trying to do what I think is the right thing to do – not right as in “right and wrong” (but I try to do that, too), rather right as in what is expected of me by others and by society and by the world I find myself living in. In almost every area of my life, I have tried so damned hard to make a square peg fit into a round hole. And it is exhausting. I can do it – I can do pretty much anything – for a while. And then, I just can’t do it anymore.

It has also taken me a very long time to realize that just because I am good at something, that does not mean I should do it. And just because I am not good at something, that does not mean I should not do it.

For example, I was a really good Army officer, and I loved my soldiers and I loved working with them and training them and leading them and mentoring them. But the Army was not right for me.

I cannot sing. But I love music. And I love to sing. I am not saying I think I should get up on a stage and sing like the poor, sad woman in Citizen Kane, but I should feel comfortable singing in the shower or belting out a tune in the course of my day.

I am not sure why I try so hard to be so “good.” It has never brought me happiness. And has only brought me sadness and pain and a profound sense of failure.
I said that I could do pretty much anything… for a while. And that has proven true. I give it the good go. I pack up my troubles in my old kit bag and smile, smile, smile. I carry on. I… “do.” And I often do it well. From an outside perspective. One way that I am able to do this for as long as I am able to do it is that I figure out ways to be creative or turn the system on its head and incorporate humor or creativity into how I do things.

At West Point, I wrote much of the Color Line Show and had a huge input in writing the 100th Night Show. I spoke fluent Martian whilst “hypnotized” by the Great Zordini.

As an Army officer on REFORGER, I formed the G2 Choir, where we wrote and sang songs (secretly and perhaps subversively) to boost the morale of the troops on an exercise that was long and cold with extended periods of enervating downtime interspersed with brief, intense periods of soldiering.

As an Army wife, I performed skits at Officer Wives’ coffees, wrote a fake column for the Wives’ newsletter, and created traditions in my wives’ group that truly honored these women for the support and hard work they provided not only to their spouses but the Army as a whole and which went largely unnoticed and taken for granted by the Army.

I will never forget the time one of my husband’s commanders in Germany found out that I had been a Marshall Scholar. He looked at me with utmost incredulity and asked, “Why the hell are you sitting home making bologna sandwiches?!?”

My first reaction was, honest to God, “But my husband doesn’t like bologna.”

In every career field, in every profession, in every job, I have no doubt there are things one must do that are boring, even tedious, or downright annoying. Still, if one has passion for what he or she is doing, and feels that he or she is making a positive difference, then those times can be endured. For the good of the cause.
But when those boring, tedious, annoying times take over, then perhaps one is being told something.

I often feel that my “true self” is not allowed to exist, to come out and play. To live in broad daylight, so to speak. On occasion it emerges. And I am secretly always writing and creating, if only in my head.

I know that when I am truly happiest it is when I am either creating something or enjoying others’ creations. Or actively engaged in talking about creating or created works or performances.

In high school, a dear friend of mine with whom I had done a lot of theatre and who was graduating and going off to college gave me a copy of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. Inside she had transcribed: “This above all: to thine own self be true.”

I have not been very good at being true to my own self.

I am not sure why that is. But it is so.

And I have paid a very great price along the way continually trying to be something I am not.

To make it worse, I am very, very hard on myself. Much, much harder on myself than I would ever, ever be with anyone else. I am not sure why I do that, either. But I do it. And I don’t much like it.

At yoga, our instructor always reads something at the end of class. It is usually a quote or a passage or something to get us to think and to appreciate life and being alive and our lives. Yesterday, she read: “Compassion for yourself is the greatest gift you can give to others.” I do not think she meant: if you are more compassionate to yourself, then you will be more compassionate to others. I try to be compassionate and understanding of others. Just not of myself. I think the quote was supposed to mean that you cannot genuinely be yourself if you do not have self-compassion.

I am not a huge fan of Joel Osteen, but a few weeks ago on a Sunday morning, I turned the TV on and caught Osteen, who has a very slick, sleek, calming way of speaking, question what it means if we do not have self-compassion. He said, if you do not have compassion for yourself and you always find fault with yourself, are you saying that God made a mistake in how He created you? Wow. I had never thought of it that way before.

Facebook is full of pithy sayings that people post and others “like” and then re-post, and these spread like wildfire, but to what end? A recent quote said: “Depression and anxiety and panic attacks are not signs of weakness. They are signs of having tried to remain strong for way too long.” I think the point was for people to share this and increase awareness of Mental Health Month or something.

When I read this quote, I thought it to be true for other people.

But not for myself.

It wasn’t that I try too hard, it must be that I don’t try hard enough.

If only I were stronger….

If only I tried harder….

I am not sure why I think this way about myself. But I do. And it leaves me feeling like a defective person. Which is not a very good feeling to have.

I do know that I have a lot of talents and gifts. And I have a lot of very amazing friends. And wonderful children. And an awesome partner.

But sometimes it is very hard for me to be nice to me. For me to accept my humanness. For me to allow myself to be vulnerable.

And to demand that my true self be allowed not only to exist, but to thrive.

As part of the end-of-class meditation the other day, our yoga instructor read: your true self is like the sun. It burns brightly no matter what. Even though sometimes the sky is overcast or full of dark clouds, the sun is still there, shining brightly. So, too, your true self is there, shining brightly.

That is encouraging. It makes it sound like my true self is always there, burning brightly. I just need to remove the clouds. Or, at least, when there are clouds there, realize that my true self is true. It is shining brightly no matter what.

And, now, what am I going to do about that?

Issuing the skirt... or skirting the issue

Who would have thought a simple skirt could make such a big difference?

One of my West Point classmates who is currently stationed at West Point has a new photo posted to his Facebook wall. There he is standing outside Washington Hall side by side with a proud, beaming plebe. Apparently, it was Sponsor Appreciation Night and unveiling of the class crest for the Class of 2014. The plebe was wearing a uniform combination that I do not remember: Dress Gray over White. It was a stunning uniform. My classmate informed me that this uniform is sometimes called upon for that time in between Dress Gray and White over Gray and is a bit more formal than Dress Gray in appearance. Thus, perfect for this occasion. What really impressed me, though, was that the female plebe in the photo was wearing a skirt with her Dress Gray over White.

When we were cadets, we had two skirt uniforms: Dress Mess, which included a long black skirt and looked a lot like what Julie on Love Boat might wear to dinner, and our Blazer uniform, which came with a gray skirt and was issued to us yearling year. As plebes, we were also issued gray skirts, which we could [hypothetically] wear to class or church or other events that did not involve formations or drill or parades. I say “hypothetically” because very few women I knew ever wore the skirt option. Why? Because wearing a skirt, especially as a plebe, would just make you stick out even more as a female cadet. And the last thing we wanted to do was stick out… even more.

It was hard to be a woman at West Point in the mid-80s. Don’t get me wrong, it is hard to be at West Point period, and each person’s journey is his or her own, and some are more difficult than others for a whole slew of possible reasons. But the fact of the matter is that in the mid-80s, women at West Point were still a novelty and their integration, although enforced by rules, regulations, and a law passed by Congress, was a far cry from acceptance.

Our time at West Point was nothing like that of the first class with women who braved a storm of abuse, misogyny, and harassment simply because they were women daring to cross the threshold into a previously all-male bastion of… maleness. The women in the Class of ‘80 are true heroes; their trial by fire helped pave the way for those of us who came after. Our class shared our reunion weekend this past October with the Class of ’80, and this was the first time many of us women from ‘85 could walk up to a woman from that first class and shake her hand and say thank you for all she had done.

We were the sixth class at West Point to have women. So, while we did not experience the hell of that first class, we were still somewhat “pioneers” in a wilderness where women were, if not unwelcome, definitely… suspect. We were decidedly unwelcome to some, and most of them let us know just how much so on a daily basis. We were suspect to many. Most male cadets, I think, in all fairness, really didn’t care if women were there, and some were very accepting, or at least tolerant.

“Cooperate and graduate!” was a credo our Beast Cadre yelled at us throughout the six weeks of Cadet Basic Training. Working together to get things done was encouraged, and with good reason. We were organized into squads during Beast. We drilled together, trained together, ate together, ran together, marched together, did Plebe duties together.

As female cadets, we just wanted to fit in like the rest of our classmates.

Still, it was hard to be a woman at West Point. It was one thing to be hazed as a plebe because you didn’t shine your shoes or polish your brass properly or square a corner well or cut a dessert nicely or remember your plebe knowledge verbatim, but it was quite another to be called names and harassed and messed with just because you were a woman. And when the name calling and harassment continued on into upperclass years, it could get discouraging. Many of my women classmates can recall, as firstie commanders leading their units in parades, being called names like “bitch,” “whore,” and “slut” by male alumni lined up to review the Corps as they marched by.

We found ourselves in a strange quandary. We were women. But we were not allowed to be women. We were certainly not men, but we weren’t really women, either. Our hair had to be cut short, no longer than above the bottom of our collars. We were not allowed to wear makeup or jewelry most of the time, although I think we were allowed to wear pierced earring studs with some uniforms. If we were told to wear Dress Mess or our Blazer uniforms (as upperclassmen), then we wore skirts because that was part of the uniform. Very rarely, though, did women choose to wear skirts as an option with their other uniforms, even when allowed.

It is a very strange thing indeed to be, for all intents and purposes, stripped of your gender and your femininity.

Just as male cadets were growing into men, female cadets were becoming women. Only in the past, “cadet” and “upperclassman” and “officer” were all synonyms for “men.” West Point was supposed to mold young men into soldiers, officers, gentlemen, and leaders of men. Now, there were women thrown into the hallowed mix. And often West Point just didn’t know how to handle them.

One day during Beast, I got stopped by a firstie in the sally port as I was heading back inside our barracks. He proceeded to haze me for wearing makeup. He was yelling at me, accusing me of wearing eye shadow! I was shocked. Not only was I not wearing makeup, I had not even brought any with me to West Point. And, frankly, the very last thing a new cadet would have time to do in the heat of Beast would be to apply makeup. And why on earth would we ever want to? We were running around in the sultry heat of summer drilling and training and sweating our asses off. At first the upperclassman did not believe me when I told him I was not wearing any makeup. Then, I was afraid he was going to question my honor and accuse me of lying. It just seemed so ludicrous to me. Luckily for me, I was so frazzled by his nonsensical hazing that I became flustered. Just then a female upperclassman passed by and I accidentally called the male cadet who was hazing me “Ma’am.” Well, that set him off on a whole other litany of abuse. How could I possibly call him “Ma’am”? Was I an idiot? Was I being belligerent? I had somehow assaulted his manhood and all thoughts of my makeup use were soon forgotten.


During 100th Night role reversal, plebes got to pretend to be firsties and firsties pretend to be plebes. Plebes thus got to “haze” firsties for a brief period of time and generally speaking, it was a highly amusing event, a chance to blow off steam and have some fun. There was one firstie in our company who was a real flame, and as plebes we were all looking forward to just retribution. However, he was also infamous for hating women being at West Point. Whenever a female plebe would try to haze him, he would flippantly respond, “When I was a plebe, it was 1979, and there were no women in the Class of ’79. So, you don’t exist!” I remember staring at him, feeling suddenly deflated. He was refusing to play the game with me simply because I was a female cadet. But then I thought to myself, “What an ass!” He wasn’t worth getting upset over. He wasn’t a haze because he had high standards and he was concerned about us learning how to become good cadets. He hazed us because he was an asshole. And he hazed female cadets more because he was a misogynistic asshole.

West Point was a mixed bag, though.

I can remember being stopped on the way back from class one day second semester plebe year by a firstie I did not know. “Miss, halt!”

“Yes, sir?” I turned to face him. What could I possibly have done wrong? All I was doing was pinging back from class, my books tucked neatly under one arm. I knew I had been moving out “fast enough.”

“Miss, what is that cologne you are wearing?”

Huh? I was confused. We were allowed to wear cologne. And mine was not really all that overpowering. I told him the name. And then braced for whatever verbal barrage was sure to follow.

Unbelievably, he grinned. “Ahhhh, thank you. It’s the same cologne my girlfriend wears, and I want to buy her some for her birthday. Carry on!”

Does issuing skirts make an institution more accepting of women?

No, clearly not.

Does the actual wearing of skirts indicate an institution that is more accepting of women?

That depends.

On whether the wearing of skirts is because it is a mandatory component of a uniform, like Dress Mess, or an option that some women choose to take advantage of because they feel comfortable doing so -- and want to.

If male cadets are accepting of women as fellow cadets and male NCOs and officers are accepting of women as soldiers and cadets and officers, then I think women feel more at ease expressing themselves in traditional “womanly” ways – be it wearing a skirt and hose and pumps or earrings – if that is something they want to do.

When women cadets feel comfortable wearing skirts and choose to wear them as an option, I see that as progress.

As a cow (or second classman), I spent a semester at the Air Force Academy and was stunned by how many of the female cadets there wore skirts to class. I told my Zoomie roommate, who often wore a skirt to class, that women rarely chose to wear skirts at West Point. She was surprised. Wearing a skirt if she wanted to, when allowed, seemed perfectly normal to her. She asked me why women cadets did not wear skirts at West Point. I shrugged. I’d never really thought about it before. We were afraid of sticking out as women, of being different, of being harassed. We just wanted to fit in, to belong. At Air Force, it seemed, women could be women and fit in and belong. Women seemed a lot more accepted in the Air Force than in the Army. I am not sure why that is: a different history, a different culture, a different mission, its newness as a branch of service?

I noticed in other photos from the USMA Sponsor Appreciation Night that that some female cadets had chosen to wear white skirts and some had chosen to wear white trousers with their Dress Gray over White. Just as women in business sometimes choose to wear suits with skirts and at other times suits with pants. These female plebes looked professional, military, and squared away, just as their male counterparts did. More importantly, they looked proud and happy.

And at ease with themselves.

Clearly, a woman is not going to wear a skirt into combat, so please don’t even broach such an absurd notion! A man would not wear Army Blues or Dress Gray over White into combat, either. But in a business-like or social setting, being able to wear a skirt is a nice option for a woman, just as it is in a similar civilian setting. And it is still professional and military.

One of my male classmates who is stationed at West Point recently told me that “women are becoming more and more feminine at West Point.” I think what he meant was that women feel increasingly comfortable expressing their femininity in appropriate ways at West Point. He certainly sees this shift as a good thing, healthy and positive. He then added that he had also just attended a Women’s Boxing Team exhibition, which was equally “awesome.” So the “warrior part” was great to see, too.

This idea of being both feminine and a warrior brings to mind Athena, the Greek scholar warrior, who could be beautiful, feminine, smart, and kick ass when need be.

The mission of West Point is "to educate, train, and inspire the Corps of Cadets so that each graduate is a commissioned leader of character committed to the values of Duty, Honor, Country and prepared for a career of professional excellence and service to the Nation as an officer in the United States Army." An officer corps that includes plenty of Athenas sounds like a win-win situation to me.

Three and a butt days....

I write fiction. And I write non-fiction.

Sometimes it is hard to separate the two.

Like when you are writing something that is based on memory.

Memories can seem so real, so strong, yet they can be… deceptive.

And often just plain wrong.

I have been hung up on the VMI cadet-hazing-me-in-the- sallyport story. And I feel the need to address this feeling.

I mean, the event really happened. I was a plebe. I was walking through a sally port. It was night, and it was dark. And I got stopped and asked what was for dinner by what I thought was an upperclassman, but who subsequently revealed himself as a VMI cadet.

What confuses me is the timing.

I have this nagging feeling that the event in question happened on Friday night, not Saturday. Which makes no sense. As I would have been supposed to know what was for dinner. And it would probably have been something like pizza and Go Army cake. Not hard to remember. And why was it so dark if it was before dinner?

Maybe it was Friday night, after dinner, and the guy was asking me what was for dinner the NEXT night.

And why was I out and about in the dark? Where was I coming from? Where was I going?

And I am actually not sure the cadet was wearing Dress Gray either. I mean, he was definitely wearing a gray cadet uniform, but it may have been his hat or the insignia on his hat that he pointed out to signify that he was not a West Point cadet.

I just don’t remember.

What I remember is being pissed that this guy was having fun hazing me, and he wasn’t even a West Point cadet. Now, personally, I have nothing against VMI or VMI cadets. I am sure I probably know a few VMI grads. And Lord knows there were plenty of West Point cadets who were assholes. Yes, it is true, a certain percentage of that “cream of the crop” they were always telling us about were just plain jerk wads. I don’t care how creamy they were!

Heading back to West Point in less than a week now, I find all sorts of memories rise to the top.

All sorts of feelings.

Mixed emotions.

I am excited to see old friends. At the same time, I am a bit leery of it all.
It is true: I didn’t want to go to my last reunion, five years ago (the first reunion I EVER attended and the first time I had been back to West Point since 1986), but my friends threatened to do a drive by kidnapping and take me to West Point in the trunk of their car. I figured a more comfortable, civilized arrival was in order.

And, even though it poured down buckets and buckets of rain the entire weekend of the reunion, I really enjoyed myself. I enjoyed seeing old friends, old classmates, and I enjoyed seeing West Point again. As hard as that is for me to say. Because, truly, I was one of those people who watched West Point in my rear view mirror as I drove off post after graduation and vowed never to return.

Most West Pointers I know have a real love/hate relationship with West Point. I myself find it very difficult to put the word “enjoy” and “West Point” in the same sentence together, especially if I am talking about my four years spent there between 1981 and 1985.

At the time, I thought I was going be at West Point… FOREVER.

I thought it was never going to end, never be over.

I made some really amazing friends, some of whom I am still very close friends with today, and I did have some fun times, but overall it was an oppressive, demanding, difficult experience. I am very proud that I graduated from West Point, and I have very strong feelings about West Point. But I also am very ambivalent. There were a lot of negatives.

I did well at West Point. In fact, I excelled at West Point, in almost every area except athletics, where I struggled to be average. There were a few athletic things I was good at: swimming, gymnastics, pitching in mass athletic softball, and the indoor obstacle course (because I could do the shelf and climb a rope with relative ease – two things most women found very difficult). I cannot explain to you why I was any good at any of these things; I just was. I was terrible at running. And I had a huge complex about running. Even though I would usually go out running almost every day on my own or with a friend. I was just not a very fast runner. But I also had a mental hang up about running. One that I would never lose until after I graduated.

When I took my first PT test at OBC, I had the best running time of my life. And that gave me confidence. As a first lieutenant I volunteered to run remedial PT for my unit at Fort Hood, Texas and was dedicated to helping soldiers improve their pushups, sit-ups, and two mile run times. My lackluster athletic prowess at West Point and shame at not being a good runner there made me want to excel and help others be physically fit out in the real Army. I guess that is a good thing.

It was hard to be a woman at West Point. We were in the sixth class at West Point to have women, so by no means did we experience what the women of the Class of 1980 -- or any of the other very early years –went through, but women were still somewhat of a novelty. And there was considerable misogyny, sexual harassment, sexual assault, and antagonism towards us simply because we were women.

It was hard to be at West Point period. The West Point experience is designed to be challenging and tough, transformative. The mission of West Point is to develop officers to lead soldiers in the Army, often in combat.

But at times, there are really juvenile, nonsensical things that go on. Meaningless hazing, silly pranks, even, at times, downright cruelty. I guess this is what happens when you let young people pretty much run their own military show. There are bound to be some immature assholes who don’t “get” what it means to be a leader of men and women. Who don’t get what it means to lead by example. Who find pleasure in being cruel and insensitive and who really believe that they are God’s gift to women and the world.

I have said this before, and I am sure I will say it many times again. One of the best pieces of advice that my father, a West Point Class of 1939 grad who did not believe women should go to West Point, ever gave me was right before I left for West Point. He took me out into our backyard and showed me how to stand at the position of attention, how to do a left face, a right face, and an about face. And then he told me, “Two things: Always keep your sense of humor and remember, there are SOBs wherever you go.”

No greater words of advice were ever spoken to me.

Countdown: Less than a week...

A week from tonight I will be at a Marriott in Park Ridge, New Jersey.

Park Ridge, New Jersey? You may be asking.

It is somewhere off the Garden State Parkway, supposedly “not that far really” from West Point.

The Park Ridge Marriott is the official reunion hotel for my West Point class, the Class of 1985, which will be celebrating our 25th reunion.

We actually changed our reunion date to later in the fall, so that we could get a hotel closer to West Point; at our twentieth reunion (which is the only one I have ever attended) we ended up down by the Tappanzee Bridge. But, apparently, other classes, with more seniority than ours, heard of our brilliant plan, so they changed THEIR reunion weekend, too. So, we still ended up relatively far from our rockbound highland home.

I know, you are thinking: Didn’t you graduate in the spring? Why is your reunion in the fall?

Well, this is West Point we are talking about, and reunions tend to revolve around football games and football weekends.

At my last reunion, five years ago, it poured down rain the entire reunion weekend. It rained so hard they canceled the parade, and the football game, although held, may as well have been a water polo match. I am pretty sure Army lost. I can’t remember who they were playing, but I think it was a team from Michigan.

This year Army is playing VMI. I remember playing VMI my plebe year, and I think we, embarrassingly, lost. That was during the “Walker up the middle, Walker up the middle, Walker up the middle, punt” period of Army football. Before we discovered the wishbone secret that Air Force had mastered and had a stunning football season my firstie year, beating the hell out of both Air Force and Navy and going to a real, live bowl game. In Michigan.

The VMI game, though, was back in plebe year, when the Army team was not doing so well. And there were all these girls running around Michie Stadium in pink and green, groupies from Sweet Briar College, an all-girls school near VMI, there to support their “men.”

I remember getting hazed in a dark sallyport on Saturday night, after the game, by a cadet who emerged from the shadows to ask me what was for dinner. I was startled because Saturday dinner was optional and upperclassmen didn’t usually attend it and hardly ever asked us what was on the menu for that meal. I struggled to remember the menu but somehow managed to get it – or a close proximity thereof – out. I was waiting to get hazed by this upperclassman, as I was not at all sure I had been entirely accurate. Plus, what kind of asshole must he be to haze a poor lowly plebe on a Saturday night, AFTER we had just lost to effing VMI?

To my surprise, the upperclassman did not haze me, nor even question me further. In fact, a smile of intense smugness crept across his face.

Okayyyy… now, this was getting weird!

“Do you know who I am?” he asked.

“No, sir,” I replied.

Uh-oh. This could not possibly be good.

He laughed. “I’m not a West Point cadet,” he said, emerging fully from the shadows to reveal his fake Dress Gray uniform.

OK, now this was getting really bizarre. Was this supposed to be funny?

“I am a VMI cadet,” he said proudly.

I was pissed. It was a Saturday night, I was pinging back to my room, just minding my own business, and I get accosted by a VMI cadet who wants to haze me?????

You are not even a real cadet, I thought to myself. You are from VMI. Where you pay to get hazed. And you have nothing better to do with your time than pretend to be a West Point cadet and accost lone female plebes in a dark sally port after your goddamned football team just beat our sorry ass football team?????

And I just called you “SIR”?????????????????

The cadet laughed again. “I tricked you,” he said. “You thought I was really a West Point upperclassman.”

I looked at him for a brief moment and blinked and said, “Good evening, SIR!” and pinged on my merry way.

Twenty-five years ago today....

My blog has no pictures.

No illustrations.

No graphics.

It is called… Gray.

Not because I think life is colorless, or images are bad.

True, I am not a photographer, and I truly appreciate others who can take great photos and videos.

But I wanted my blog to be… pure.

Words only.

That may be weird. But…

I called it “Gray” for a variety of reasons.

My female West Point classmates, at our 20th class reunion, thought I should write about our experiences as women at West Point.

Fine.

I wanted to write about West Point.

And my personal experiences at West Point.

‘Cuz those are the only ones I truly know.

West Point is … gray.

The buildings are gray. The uniforms are gray. In winter, when there is no snow, virtually everything is gray.

But I also wanted to write about middle age. When we are all turning… gray.

AND… I wanted to write about life.

Which is frequently gray.

Or which, more accurately, has many gray areas.

I wanted to look at that part of life which is not black or white.

So… that left a lot for me to talk about.

Today…….

Or twenty-five years ago today, my class graduated from West Point.

Twenty-five years.

Wow.

What has happened in those twenty-five years since graduation….???

We all have different stories.

We all have different experiences.

We all have different takes on the past 25 years.

Some people say: “Gosh! Where did the time go?”

Some people say: “Wow! 25 years!!!! Let’s be proud!”

Still others say: “Great! Look at what we have done, but look forward at what we still have to do!”

I say: “Look at it all. I mean, yes, good lord, where DID the time go? But, my Lord, look at what all we have done!!! Marriages, children, careers, accomplishments, it is mind boggling. And, most importantly, where are we going next?”

What will we be doing in the NEXT twenty-five years???

In many ways, it does seem like graduation was just yesterday.
But we have all been through a lot, done a lot, lived a lot. No matter what paths we have chosen.

And we, who are still here, can look out into the… gray!... unforeseen future and say:

“What is next? Bring it on! Here I am. Let me do my thing!”

Waste Land

“April is the cruellest month….”
-- T. S. Eliot, “The Waste Land”

My older son just wrote a term paper on T. S. Eliot for his AP English class. He asked me to proofread it before he submitted it.

Reading over my son’s words – and the embedded snippets of Eliot’s poetry – made me start to think.

Always a dangerous proposition….

I realized that I was not sure if I had ever read any poetry by T. S. Eliot before.

This was profoundly disturbing to me.

Yes, I knew that T. S. Eliot was a 20th Century poet, most famous for having written “The Waste Land.” And that “The Waste Land” was widely regarded as a work of art reflecting the views of the post-WWI “lost generation.”

There was a nagging part of my brain telling me that I was “supposed” to have read “The Waste Land” for some English class or another, but I have no recollection of ever having done so.

I am stunned that my cultural literacy is so devoid of knowledge and familiarity with such an important poet.

Embarrassed, actually.

Truthfully, I feel as though my mind is in some ways a cultural Waste Land.

I am missing a lot of important “stuff.”

One of the things I most regret about my West Point education was the dearth of literature, philosophy, and critical thinking – hell, thinking of any kind!

Yes, sure, we had a very diverse core curriculum, which included a course in English, a course in philosophy. Very few of my courses required me to do much thinking, though. There was a lot of what cadets called “spec and dump.” Memorization and regurgitation. Of facts, information, dates, formulas. If you were good at memorizing and regurgitating – and you were willing to put forth the effort to do so – then you probably did well academically at West Point.

Which is not to say that I think people who did well there were not intelligent. I think that one could be very intelligent and thoughtful and someone good at memorizing and regurgitating. I also think that one could be very intelligent, but not so good at memorizing and regurgitating. Or unwilling -- or too lazy -- to memorize and regurgitate ad nauseam.

I personally liked the fact that we had such a diverse curriculum. That no matter what we majored in, even if it was English or history, we still got a Bachelor of Science degree, because we had to take so many math, science, and engineering courses.

What I didn’t like was that the atmosphere there was so intense, so fast-paced, so geared on “accomplishing the mission,” which meant getting the work done. Not so much learning anything. Or thinking too much or too hard.

I am sure there are many who would argue that because West Point is a training ground for future Army officers, the educational mission there is much different than at other institutions of higher learning. The Army doesn’t “pay you to think.” The Army pays you to lead your soldiers, accomplish your mission.

All well and good.

I would just say that training unthoughtful leaders is unwise.

Or, rather, that not training leaders to be thoughtful is unwise.

When I think back on my West Point education, besides all of the memorizing and regurgitating, I remember the emphasis being on problem solving (which I think is good), but problem solving that always leads you to one right answer. And that would be the answer you would have to underline twice and annotate with “Ans.” for “answer.” And there was always a right answer. As in a correct answer.

An approved solution.

I understand in math and chemistry and physics and engineering the need to show your work, step by step, and to come to some definitive answer, which, hopefully, is “correct.”

In philosophy or English or literature, not so much.

I can remember my philosophy professor – and we did have one required course in philosophy – half jokingly telling us that our answers, our essays, did not have to be underlined twice and have “Ans.” at the end. He was an Army officer, a West Point grad, so he knew what the system was like. He was a combat arms officer, I am sure, as West Point liked to make sure the Ps in their “warm and fuzzy” departments were “real men.” Even warriors can do philosophy.

As I remember it, the focus of our core philosophy course was on just and unjust wars, which I think was a wise topic for cadets to study. However, we never had a basic philosophy course, one where we examined basic philosophical questions, read the great philosophers, discussed what they wrote and thought. Discussed what we thought.

I had two English courses at West Point. That’s it. They were core plebe English classes, first semester focusing on writing and second semester a brief survey of American literature. This was an advanced level plebe English track, as I had taken enough English in high school and tested out of the basic English track. The problem with this was that it also meant I had tested out of the mandatory cow year English course. Which meant that I never read classics like “The Canterbury Tales” by Geoffrey Chaucer.

And maybe “The Waste Land,” too.

I find it amazing, in retrospect, that I only had to take two very basic, simple English courses my entire college career.

Even more fascinating to me is that I never realized that I could have taken more English courses. That I could have taken electives in English. I could have even majored in English. I cannot tell you why I did not realize this. I just know that it is true. Clearly, no one ever pointed out to me or emphasized the possibility. I only realized it years later, when I ran into someone who had graduated from West Point just after me and had majored in… English.

Wow.

If I had been more cognizant and aware as a cadet, would I have majored in English? I don’t know. But I think I would have at least taken a few electives in English.

A few years ago, I read Elizabeth Samet’s book Soldier’s Heart on the importance of literature and reading for cadets, for helping make them become more thoughtful leaders. I loved the book, enjoyed reading it immensely and was glad to see this point of view. Of course, what struck me right off the bat was the fact that Samet was a civilian professor.

We did not have any civilian professors when I was at West Point. Well, OK, there might have been one or two, but I never had one. The only time I ever had a civilian professor in college was during an exchange semester at the Air Force Academy for an international relations course. That was probably the best course I ever took as an undergrad period. Which is not to say that I think civilian professors are necessarily better than military ones. I am sure that is not a truism. But there is a huge difference.

When I was at West Point, most of the Ps were senior captains or young majors, who had served in tactical units and had a company command and then been sent back to grad school by the Army to a get a master’s degree and return to teach at West Point for three years. They were, for the most part, upwardly mobile, gung ho young officers; they were not necessarily subject matter experts in their fields. There were also permanent professors, more senior military officers who had been selected to get their doctorates and return to West Point to teach for the rest of their military careers. These professors tended to be more academic in nature and knowledge and experience. They had chosen, or been chosen, to fulfill their military careers as professors and not as brigade or division or corps commanders or senior level staff officers. They were all lieutenant colonels or full colonels.

I had several permanent professors while at West Point, and most were outstanding and engaging. Most of my regular Ps were fine, too, for that matter. But I am not sure that any of them ever really made me think.

At least not too much or too hard.

One of the reasons I wanted to go to West Point was because I wanted to be in an environment where I would be really, really challenged. And, overall, West Point was that sort of environment, but the challenge came more from the combination of military, physical, leadership, and academic requirements and demands. I was always wistful that I was never truly challenged academically, or mentally. Sure, we had to take a lot of courses and they were most often very demanding, but the demand was more in time management, attention to detail, and completing the mission. We were good at solving problems, especially when there was an approved solution to find.

But were we encouraged to be thoughtful or questioning?

Were we asked to think outside the box?

Were we asked to tackle any serious questions with serious thought and debate?

I will not speak for others, as everyone’s experience at West Point is his or her own, but I can say that, unequivocally, I was never required to wrestle mentally with anything in any challenging way. I had to take self defense, yes, in PE, and the male cadets had to take boxing. We all learned how to fight with bayonets. How to low crawl, high crawl, maneuver over terrain, and drive tanks. All of these skills were obviously highly important to people training to become officers in the Army where they might be called on to do these skills and train others and lead soldiers into combat or at least support soldiers in combat. I am not denying that all of these skills are vital ones. I am just saying that I think real leaders need to be able to think in a deep and meaningful way.

Another thing that surprised me about Samet’s book was how much more aware and engaged the cadets she portrayed seemed than any of us had ever been. It seemed like they actually read the books assigned to them in English classes and were capable of thinking about them and discussing them in a meaningful way. Maybe my memory is just bad. Maybe we were more aware and engaged than I remember us being. I just remember everything being so intense and fast-paced that there never was any time for thinking. We were lucky if we got the reading accomplished. Plus, I think a lot of cadets took pride in “getting by.” Doing the minimum to succeed. Many took pride in the whole “spec and dump” approach, in how little they had to study or work. Many cadets would brag that they had pulled an “all nighter” to cram in a semester’s worth of work in one night; they would embrace the guiding mantra “RD = FC” (rough draft = final copy) as if that were a good thing.

Maybe these phenomena are seen everywhere, to one extent or another, at every single college campus in America.

I just think that critical thinking skills are important for all young people to have, and especially so for young military officers. I also think that genuine exposure to literature and art and philosophy are important in helping develop those critical thinking skills.

I hope that the West Point of today is actually like what Samet describes. And that the cadets are more engaged and challenged intellectually. I know that there are more civilian professors there, who can lend a different perspective and knowledge base, to the educational experience. I think a mix of military and civilian professors is probably a good thing. I hope that critical thinking is a more integrated part of the West Point experience. And I hope that cadets are encouraged to read books and literature. And to ask the difficult questions that have no approved solution.

That may have no solution.

I feel that in times of crisis and battle, the leader who has read and thought in addition to his other training and education, will lead his or her men and women more effectively.

That said, I think I have a lot of reading to catch up on.

It is true....

I have not posted to this blog in months.

Yet, I write constantly.

On paper. In little notebooks I keep in my purse. On Post-It Notes. On my computer. In my head.

It is true. Most of my writing does go on in my head. I don't think I ever stop writing.

I hear something on the radio.

See something out my window.

Bump into someone.

Overhear a conversation.

Walk down the street.

All spur stories to start writing in my head. Some I write down. Others, not. My head is overflowing with characters, plots, scenes, themes, dialogue. There is incessant chatter.

I like to be the Observer. And not the observed.

I like to watch. And listen. And eavesdrop. I like to imagine all the stories that are out there.

The other day I took a break at work and walked down to the edge of campus, near the Grotto. Behind me was a statue of the Virgin Mary, in a fake cave, protected by a black, wrought iron fence. In front of me was the river, the Liberty Bridge, cars and trucks careening across the bridge, the South Side, the incline, and Mount Washington. A Droid billboard.

I saw the letters: "P&LERR" atop the building over at Station Square. I know this stands for Pittsburgh and Lake Erie Railroad. I know that Station Square used to be a huge train station. I know that my grandmother used to work at the lunch counter inside the station and that my grandfather, a traveling salesman from Georgia passing through, met her there. I know that Station Square now houses an array of shops and restaurants. And that at the stroke of midnight as we moved from New Year's Eve into the New Year, my future husband asked me to marry him in hullabaloo of Houlihan's. And I said yes.

I have no idea where all of the people in their cars and trucks and SUVs are going as they criss cross the bridge.

I turn around and walk back to my office. On the way, I see the skyline of downtown Pittsburgh. I see the oddly incongruous "UPMC" letters atop what I know as the US Steel Building. I know that my father, who worked for US Steel, met my mother, who also worked for US Steel, in -- not this building, but rather -- the former US Steel Building. Which I do not really remember as an entity. I know that my father was recently widowed, and my mother was a secretary who had recently moved to the headquarters building from Clairton Works. And he saw her one day. And was like Wow! I know that he used to comb his (almost non-existent) hair before calling her on the telephone to ask her out. I know that on their first date, he told her that he had "come a'courting."

There are a lot of things I know. And a lot of things I don't know.

And a lot of things that I imagine.

Conversations.

Encounters, brief and otherwise.

Scenes and plots and stories and scenarios of all variation.

No one is safe really. Anyone, everyone can be a character in my stories. Anyone, everyone is a character in my stories.

Myself included.

Characters emerge in my dreams. I see movies unfold in my head as I sleep. I often don't remember them, but often they scare me or move me in some unsettling way.

I wonder who is driving that brown SUV that is crossing the bridge and where they are going. And why. And what will they do when they get there.

I write and re-write scenes in my head. Describe. Report. Analyze. Tell. Show.

Hills Like White Elephants.

People who were young once.

People who are now dead.

One true sentence.

Is there such a thing....?

I have no idea. But it doesn't stop me from writing.

Writing.

Writing.

Forever and ever. Amen.