Well hello, Blogosphere. It’s been a while.
It’s been so long that
it’s now 2014…how did that happen? It’s been so long that I’m now 30. Eeek…how
did that happen? But, perhaps
contrary to the opinions of popular culture, I’m actually excited to be moving
into this new decade.
My 20s were fine, but they were messy. There were the typical
growing up things: going to college, getting my first full-time job (for which
I felt sorely unprepared), living on my own, suffering through more than one broken
heart. There were things that on the eve of my 20s I couldn’t anticipate: moving
across the country not once but three times, running a marathon, buying a condo,
going to war, needing therapy.
There were things that made me feel powerful. Things that made me
feel mature. Things that made me feel hopeless and helpless and weak. Mostly, I
fumbled. What I lacked in job experience I made up for in time and energy. I
threw myself into work and “love” and play with the fervor that only a
20-something can, alternately having fun and trying to outrun the cynical
voices of my young psyche: What am I
doing? What am I supposed to be doing? How do I do this? What does this mean?
What’s the point? WHO AM I?
I know these struggles are not unique to me. Our 20s are
inevitably a time of transformation—from our social circles, to our
professional lives, to our priorities, right down to our brain structure. But I
think these issues are intensified in a military environment—and/or when you
leave that environment.
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| A very military family, at my commissioning |
I signed my military contract at 18. For the next four years, I
was a college student, but mostly I was an ROTC cadet. I was held to the standards
of conduct and grooming commensurate with my position as a soon-to-be Air Force
officer. Because we spent so much time together and because, for the most part,
we shared similar values, my ROTC classmates became my best friends. ROTC
activities (both official and unofficial) dictated my social life.
After I commissioned, the Air Force moved me across the country—about
as far as one can move from home without crossing an ocean, from Seattle to the
Florida panhandle. Again, this is not an entirely unique situation, but the
military transition is unique in that it serves as a half-step of sorts toward
independence. I was living on my own for the first time, but I had assistance
finding a place and a housing allowance once I did. I was in an unfamiliar
area, but I had a whole city of a base to fulfill my basic needs. I knew no
one, and though as a young, single female officer in a small unit it was harder
to meet people in my demographic, it was easy enough. (I may or may not have
stalked every female 2nd Lieutenant in the base’s network and sent a
mass email about getting together for dinner…). I didn’t need to stress over what
to wear in the morning.
A military base is a strange microcosm of real life. At once
intimate and segregated. The learning curve is steep because the stakes are
high, yet always governed by rules, regulations and routine.
Most strikingly when it comes to the tumultuous 20s, as a
servicemember, you must internalize the values of the military. You must talk
the talk and walk the walk, because everything you say and do reflects on the
military. As a public affairs officer, where my job was to promote support for
the Air Force, I—rightly or not—took this to the highest level. I drank the Kool-Aid.
The Air Force ideology became my ideology.
The badge on my uniform all but declared me [Property of] U.S. Air Force.
Then I deployed and gained exposure to other ways of thinking and
to the shortcomings of the ways I’d adopted. Isn’t that what your 20s are
about? Gaining perspective? Learning and growing? Sometimes it comes gradually,
through a natural progression of experiences. Sometimes, it metaphorically whaps
you in the head with a 2x4.
My one-size-fits-most military persona was shattered. Shortly
thereafter, my contract was up and I re-entered the civilian world. And all
those things the military had cushioned for me during my last “coming of age”
were no longer there. I didn’t have a career trajectory set out in front of me.
I half-heartedly applied to a few jobs in the PR field, which seemed safe and
logical but unsatisfying. I took a leap and followed a dream and applied to
grad school to study writing (because an English major wasn’t financially
unviable enough).
I moved across the country. Again. But this time I didn’t have
military movers to help, just my parents and seven suitcases and a series of
hiccups in the condo sale and a very patient lawyer and a hotel an hour away
and a hostel downtown and the couch of a generous grad school classmate who
thankfully didn’t think I was a homicidal maniac.
I spent hours trying on different outfits, trying to figure out what style suited me (anything
but camo and combat boots was fair game!). I was
self-conscious as a non-native New Englander and a non-traditional student, and
had to constantly remind myself that I didn’t need to censor what I did or said—that
autonomy was both liberating and terrifying.
Despite the marvel of Google maps, I got frustratingly lost in my
new city. Boston felt enormous and crammed with people, yet I struggled to
connect with anyone outside my grad school classes. I tried on-line dating and seriously
considered joining a convent.
But in the big enormous city I also discovered the wonder of freedom.
I could be anonymous. I could be a student, I could be a veteran, I could be a hermit-writer-cat
lady, or all of the above. With my new wardrobe, I could chose to stand out or
blend in. In class, I could listen to lectures and feedback, take time in
forming my own opinions, and present them how and when I chose. I could speak
my mind. Or not.
It’s finding our individual windows of freedom and getting
comfortable there, I think, that our 20s are all about. With is prescribed
structure, the military complicates that process. But I also credit the Air
Force for shaping my window with a breadth of experience and contact with
people that helped move me a few steps closer to answering that elusive “Who am
I” question.
