The Hero Debate

There’s always been semantic disagreement in the military. Many are uncomfortable with being thanked for their service or referred to as heroes. I traditionally haven’t minded—not that I consider myself a hero; working with special operations at Hurlburt Field, FL, I encountered many more deserving of that title. But I always appreciated the acknowledgement, despite its frequent lack of context, that I had volunteered as a part of something greater than myself. I gave speakers the benefit of the doubt and assumed their words were coming from a genuine place.

Recently, however, I’ve started questioning the terminology. As I witness the disconnect between those with military connections and those without. As the media glorifies combat “heroes” and condemns the “monsters” created by PTSD. As the government oozes pride in its service men and women but bumbles through attempts to follow praise with adequate support.

I’ve started to wonder, when people say “thank you for your service,” what do they mean? Do they know what they’re thanking me for? For accepting an ROTC scholarship (and the ensuing four-year contract) at 18? For working my butt off while my butt was safely in a desk chair at my FL base? For deploying? For some small contributions that maybe made a smidgeon of a positive impact on the war effort, on the lives of the Afghan people, on the lives of my fellow servicemembers? For following orders, even though I didn’t always agree? For suffering?

Is there a hierarchy of thankfulness: the KIA and WIA who made tangible sacrifices at the top, those who didn’t deploy near the bottom, and me in some murky middle ground? Are most who issue the sentiment even aware of the myriad experiences to which they’re potentially referring? The complexities of each individual experience cannot be dismissed with a trite phrase.

(For a much more in depth analysis than I could possibly provide, read David Finkel’s incredible, heart-wrenching book Thank You for Your Service.)

“Hero” is another term that’s thrown around so often it loses meaning. In summer 2012, I wrote a blog post about what I considered the mislabeling of Olympic athletes as heroes, comparing them with military members. I didn’t realize at the time, but I was essentially advocating my own form of heroic hierarchy. While I do agree that “hero” has a place in discourse, we must be aware of its implications.

A recent Salon.com op-ed by author and military sister Cara Hoffman presents a unique and compelling argument.

Hero, she writes: “sounds like praise, but it can be dangerously dismissive. The problem is that “hero” refers to a character, a protagonist, something in fiction, not to a person, and using this word can hurt the very people it’s meant to laud. While meant to create a sense of honor, it can also buy silence, prevent discourse and benefit those in power more than those navigating the new terrain of home after combat. If you are a hero, part of your character is stoic sacrifice, silence. This makes it difficult for others to see you as flawed, human, vulnerable or exploited. And it makes it even more difficult for you to reach out when you need help.”

The military is a machismo suck-it-up-and-deal-with-it culture—I’ve written about my guilt in seeking mental health care because I didn’t feel I’d earned it, merely coming from that murky middle f the thankfulness pyramid. The possibility that the hero label perpetuates those ideas within the military culture makes sense.

Hoffman discusses the effects on the general public, too:

 “Whole communities deal with the complicated effects of homecoming. With the end of military operations, we’re all feeling the weight of return, and that weight will not be lightened by “using words like “hero” as a consolation prize to gloss over the very human cost of war.”

High-five, bro! I now declare you at hero status! Good luck with VA healthcare...

“‘Heroes’ protect us from the knowledge they gained down-range,” Hoffman continues. “And the expectation is they will continue to sacrifice their humanity, even when they return home, so we don’t have to learn about their experiences.”

I thanked that soldier and called him a hero. My duty as an informed, engaged member of the public is complete. Self high-five!

I’m being snarky and simplistic, but the point is, it’s easy to issue thanks or label someone a hero. Easy, but not meaningful like we sometimes trick ourselves into believing and certainly not a replacement for inquiry and genuine engagement.

More from Hoffman: “We like to think we can have no idea ‘what goes on over there’ or ‘what kinds of risks people are taking.’ That we can’t imagine ‘the horrors they’ve seen.’ This is part of elevating soldiers to mythic status — seeing their experiences as outside of human existence, as things we can’t consider. But we actually can know, we can imagine their lives — very easily — by listening and by opening our eyes. By letting people who are returning take off the masks society insists they wear. By being a strong enough, rational enough nation to stop slapping heroic cowboy-and-Indian narratives over the sad and extremely common reality of violent conflict.”

Anyone who’s read my writing knows I’m in agreement. I stress the importance of listening to veterans, reading military writing, and viewing other forms of military art (watch Sebastian Junger’s documentaries Restrepo and Korengal). But I also believe it’s a two-way street. In order for the public to listen, read, view, veterans must speak, write, create. It’s just as easy for a veteran to think, “you don’t know what it’s like,” or “you can’t possibly understand how I feel.” It’s just as easy for a veteran to—intentionally or not—build him or herself up to that mythic status and shut others out to the possibility to learning. Yes, we bear some of the responsibility, too.

So where does that leave us, semantically? You see someone in a military uniform walking through the airport, what do you say? I personally would appreciate an attempt at (a non-political) conversation: What is/was your military job? Oh, public affairs, what does that entail? Where have you served? Ask questions that show interest and give the servicemember a chance to respond to the degree to which he or she is comfortable.

But that’s just me…I’m curious to hear your thoughts. Veterans, how, if at all, would you like to be approached? Has anyone had a particularly engaging encounter?

Lessons in bureaucracy...and sweet, sweet VICTORY!

One big lesson I learned in the military is that nothing is ever as easy as it should be. Getting paid, taking leave, submitting a briefing for a meeting—everything was drowned in extra layers of bureaucracy. My Army instructors at pre-deployment training were fond of saying, “It’s not the right way, but it’s a way.”

Thus, another big lesson I learned was perseverance. I needed to get paid, take leave and submit briefings for meetings, so I waded through the red tape until I could.

Sometimes it sucked. (Extra administrative stress is exactly what you need when preparing for war). But you know what I’ve learned since leaving the military and entering the “real world”? Sometimes that sucks too.

Sometimes a process like waiving school health insurance because you get comprehensive coverage through the VA hospital is not as simple as filling out the waiver form, showing your VA ID, having a VA representative call the school, or even providing examples of legislation that identify VA coverage as fulfilling the state insurance requirement.

And sometimes it would be easier to give up.

But then, two weeks, two in-person visits, two identical forms, and three phone calls later you receive a response like this that makes it all worthwhile: 

Dear Lauren,  

After reviewing the Veteran's Administration Health Care Program in reference to State requirements of comparable coverage, we have determined that although your program does not meet each individual requirement, you are provided with access to the necessary coverages, and the Health Care Program covers the costs of the requirements which aren't included (specifically emergency care). I have processed your waiver request for the Emerson Health Insurance and Health Services Fee and the charges have been removed from your account.  

I want to thank you for taking the time to send us the information you did regarding the Health Care Program. In order to make our policies clear for future Veteran's with this coverage, we will be revising our website to include the VA Health Care Program under acceptable comparable coverage for waivers.

The VA is a strange entity that straddles the line between the military and the real world. Therefore, it comes with a certain amount of built-in confusion—a knowledge gap, as with so many military issues, on the civilian side, and a perpetual inability for the government to keep up with the need to educate. Caught in the fray are the veterans, left to struggle through frustration and ignorance in order to use their earned benefits.

Until the government effectively takes control (lots of rolls of red tape away, I'm sure), I guess the task of bridging the gap is left to grassroots educators, like me.

So here’s my advice: persevere. Do your research, and throw it in their face (tactfully, of course). Kick and scream (tactfully) until you get what you’re entitled to. Eventually, you’ll get it. And you just might make it easier for those who follow.

For any MA vets struggling with insurance waiver issues (Hi! Thanks for reading!), here’s some helpful legislation:

When filling out MA State Taxes, there is an option to select U.S. Military (including TRICARE and VA coverage) to satisfy the requirement for minimal credible healthcare coverage.  

From the Official Website of the Executive Office of Health and Human Services: 

14. What is required for a student to obtain a waiver from the SHP plan for alternative coverage?

The student must submit a waiver application to the school and certify, in writing, that he or she has alternative coverage, the name of the entity offering the plan, the policy number or member identification number, the name of the subscriber or primary enrollee and the relationship of that person to the student, and a statement that the coverage is comparable to the coverage required under a SHP. The waiver request must be on a form supplied by the institution, and may be submitted electronically.

15. What is considered "comparable coverage" necessary to obtain a waiver from the SHP?
The health plan must provide reasonably comprehensive coverage of health services, including preventive and primary care, emergency services, surgical services hospitalization benefit, ambulatory patient services, and mental health services; and be reasonably accessible to the student in the area where the student attends school.

According to the Mass Student Health Insurance legislation Section 3.05, waivers can be given to students with MassHealth coverage. VA coverage is acceptable for the MassHealth waiver, and qualifies veterans under state and now federal legislation as comprehensively covered 

UMass, the state's university, declares that veterans are eligible for health insurance waivers (See Waiver Eligibility).

And good luck.

Heroism vs. Awesomeness

UPDATE - 8/21/12: Thank you, US Weekly, for proving my point:

Now available on news stands and in the collective American psyche!

So the Olympics are over. This is probably a good thing, both for my sleep schedule and my fitness level. Yes, besides its sedentary nature, roughly four hours of nightly couch-sitting also inspired me to snack . . . the irony of watching world class, zero-body-fat athletes while gorging on popcorn and Twizzlers is not lost on me. For the last two weeks, I relished these things because I love the Olympics. And because I could. Unlike 2010, when I was in Afghanistan - something I discussed in my last post.

This year’s Olympics were everything I’d imagined, full of triumphs, disappointment, Michael Phelps, happy tears, tears of joy, very young-looking Chinese gymnasts, surprising upsets, patriotism, unity, and, as often happens, controversy.

One of the big stories of the Games was the discovery that any medals U.S. athletes bring home and the associated prize money are subject to taxation. The headlines were bold. The reactions, mixed. Sure, some said, their winnings are income and should be taxed accordingly. Others, like Sen. Marco Rubio, R-Fla., asserted that Olympic athletes shouldn’t be penalized for representing their country. Sen. Rubio went so far as to introduce a bill that would exempt Olympians from being taxed on their winnings. 

Missy Franklin, with expensive hardware
(AP)

On both sides, among the media, bloggers, and comment trolls, many called the athletes heroes. Many, like Yahoo sports blogger Chris Chase, compared them to the military.

In this article, Chase chastised the government, “you can't make an exception to athletes representing our country in the biggest event in the world? It's not unheard of: Military members are exempt from taxes when they're deployed in a combat zone.”

I don’t know if Sen. Rubio’s bill will pass, and frankly, I don’t care. My argument is not for or against taxation of Olympic winnings. My issue is the military being used as a measuring stick to assess athletic sacrifice and accomplishment.

This discussion provides interesting commentary on modern American priorities and perspectives. Perhaps the real question is not over earned benefits, but over our collective perceptions of what constitutes a hero.

We throw the word “hero” around a lot. I’m guilty, too. When I was little, I thought Julia Roberts was beautiful and talented; therefore, she was my hero. In high school had my own swimming heroes to go with my own Olympic dreams. That guy who proudly defied convention and rocked the purple Mohawk, studded leatherjacket, fishnet stockings and combat boots – for a minute last week, he was my hero. “Hero” has become so commonplace it’s almost lost its meaning.

So let me ask you: is athletic accomplishment true heroism, or closer to awesomeness?

As Sen. Rubio said in a statement, Olympic competitors “dedicate their lives to athletic excellence.” To make such a commitment is impressive and admirable. But dedicating one’s life to athletic excellence cannot be compared to dedicating one’s life to selfless service. Sacrificing in pursuit of Olympic dreams cannot be compared to sacrificing to protect a nation’s freedoms, to save a buddy’s life, to save a stranger’s life.

The Olympics is the biggest stage for athletes. For military members, the biggest stage is a life-and-death battle that can happen at any time, where bullets are flying, explosives are set, the humvee is on fire and the driver is trapped inside, a live grenade just landed a few feet away.

There are no improvised explosive devices buried in the sand of the beach volleyball court. Kayaking through whitewater is pretty badass, but it’s not on par with driving a humvee through an ambush to get the wounded back to base for emergency medical treatment. Running faster than anyone in the world is impressive, but not the same as running through live fire in 60+ pounds of body armor, having already been shot in your bulletproof vest, having already pulled a buddy to safety; running and rescuing another wounded buddy from two Taliban soldiers trying to drag him away, dragging him yourself back to safety while returning fire, and dressing his wounds, with no regard for your own life.

Staff Sgt. Salvatore Giunta
U.S. Army

The latter is what Salvatore Giunta did in 2007 in Afghanistan. He was awarded a Medal of Honor. But Guinta, like many military members, doesn’t see himself as a hero.

He told VanityFair, "I did what I did because in the scheme of painting the picture of that ambush, that was just my brush stroke. That’s not above and beyond. I didn’t take the biggest brush stroke, and it wasn’t the most important brush stroke. Hearing the Medal of Honor is like a slap in the face. I don’t think you know what I did. I didn’t do shit."

And the ChristianScience Monitor,“In this job, I am only mediocre. I’m average” . . . ““If I’m a hero, every man that stands around me, every woman in the military, everyone who goes into the unknown is a hero,” he says. “So if you think that’s a hero – as long as you include everyone with me.”

If we’re talking numbers, an Olympic gold medal nets $25,000 in prize money - that’s about Guinta’s annual base salary while he was deployed to Afghanistan as an E-4. Giunta was 17, the same age as four-time gold medalist Missy Franklin, one of the “heroes” of the Games, when he swore an oath to defend his country. At 27, Michael Phelps has more Olympic medals than any athlete in history. At 27, Guinta is still haunted from watching his friends die.

People make sacrifices every day. Some sacrifice social life to work their way through college. Some sacrifice time with their children to put food on the table. Some sacrifice time and social life and other young-person aspirations to pursue athletic excellence. All sacrifices are noble. 

But we should be more careful about what we call heroic. 

Little and big things

In Afghanistan, there were little things I missed every day. Flannel pajamas. Starbucks white chocolate mochas. Paved roads. The sound of the ocean. Guacamole. Thinking of these things reminded me that I wasn’t home.

Then there were bigger things that I missed terribly, desperately, things that didn’t gnaw at me on a daily basis but that, when a thought or memory struck, could cripple me with sadness. Thinking of these things reminded me that I was missing life.

I missed my family, of course. A sticky note on a Christmas tin full of homemade cookies brought me to tears. I wasn’t there for the birth of my twin nieces; “Auntie Wowen” was introduced much later to giggling six month olds. I wasn’t there for the wedding of a longtime friend. I missed every major holiday.

And I missed the Olympics.

I’ve always loved the Olympics. My childhood could be measured in four-year increments . . . then later, after 1994, by twos. Primetime Olympic coverage was family time in the Johnson household. I remember cheering when Dan Jansen finally stayed on his feet to win speed skating gold, when Kerri Strug stuck a one-footed vault landing to ensure the women’s gymnastics team the top spot on the podium, when local 16-year-old swimmer Megan Quann made brash predictions of beating the world’s best 100M breaststroker on the world’s biggest stage – and then did.

With two parent athletes, two athlete siblings and my own delusions of swimming grandeur, Olympic fandom is in my blood. I love the grace and athleticism. I love the stories of struggle and perseverance, of overcoming seemingly insurmountable odds. I love the unity among teams and among nations. I love the badass, muscle-bound, tougher-than-nails athletes who can’t help but cry when their national anthem plays. I love the theme music. I love Bob Costas.

I never saw Bob in winter 2010. From a grainy Armed Forces Network satellite feed on a TV in the corner of the Forward Operating Base Gardez chow hall, I caught snippets of curling and women’s hockey – the only two events that seemed to play during meal time (and, unfortunately, not my favorites). I didn’t watch Evan Lysacek become the first U.S. male figure skating champion since 1988, or Lindsey Vonn win the first ever U.S. gold in women’s downhill skiing. I didn’t hear any inspiring rags to riches stories, or see a single medal presentation. Perhaps worst of all, I couldn’t share favorite moments with my parents and siblings.

More than a sharp break in a lifelong tradition, missing the Olympics was a reminder of everything else I was missing. It was a realization that life moves fast, and in America, in Vancouver, around the world, it was moving without me. I missed a year of holidays, a year of news (Swine Flu! Haiti Earthquake!), a year of pop culture (who is this Gaga person and what is she wearing?), a year of technological advancements (what happened to two dimensional entertainment? Do they still make cell phones with buttons?), a year of people and places I love growing and changing. Without me.

I by no means regret volunteering for my deployment, so you could say I don’t regret, as a result, missing 349 days of life. And I guess I don’t. In some ways, though, I’m still working to make peace with it. Not only did the world change, but so did I – we spent a year growing up separately; we’re still getting reacquainted.

But I suppose in the same way time pulls you apart from people, places and experiences, it also stitches you back together.

In two years, I’ve seen several 3D movies and upgraded (and become hopelessly addicted) to a smartphone. I’m caught up on current events. Lady Gaga’s crazy outfits on magazine covers no longer freak me out. I no longer freak my nieces out. I’ve had the kind of quality visits with family and friends you can only have when making up for lost time.

And for the next two weeks I’m going to get reacquainted with my childhood Olympic tradition – only this time my viewing will be technologically-enhanced with a flatscreen TV and the power of DVR!

Living proof that change isn’t always bad . . .

GO TEAM USA!

Okay seriously...what is she wearing???

Lady Gaga (AP)

The limits of “therapy”: Some writing on not writing

I left the Air Force, I moved across the country, I enrolled in grad school, I started a blog to write about war. But I never said writing about war was easy.

I said it was therapeutic. And it was. Until it wasn’t.

I can’t pinpoint exactly when that shift occurred – I think it’s been shifting for a while – but it manifested itself in a very unattractive emotional breakdown last week. In the midst of my crying/nose blowing/self-pitying incoherent sob-infused mumbling, I had an epiphany: writing about painful experiences is painful.

Okay, that wasn’t really an epiphany… it’s pretty self-explanatory: Writing a personal account of a traumatic event means reliving, re-engaging, re-imagining said event. Of course it sucks! But writing also means processing, intellectualizing, making peace with the event, essentially ripping off the Band-Aid and exposing the raw wound so it can be treated properly. So you can heal.

Writing is proven effective in promoting healing after trauma – proven through my personal experiences and through legitimate scientific and psychological research. Cognitive Processing Therapy, one of the main methods currently being used to treat PTSD in military veterans uses writing as a key component; it’s a direct antidote to the PTSD tendency of “avoiding people or experiences that remind you of an event.” (My boyfriend, Colin, chronicles his personal experiences with Cognitive Processing Therapy in a blog series for Copaiba.org)

What I realized, though, as I writhed on the floor of my boyfriend’s car (seriously), is that there’s a limit to how much healing can take place within the delicate balance of reimagining and intellectualizing. Too much of the former too soon following the event, or within too short of a timeframe, and the brain can’t progress to the latter.

Looking back, I think I tipped the scale during my final assignment last semester. I wrote a piece about my first experience with death in the military; a friend was killed when the aircraft he was piloting crashed in Afghanistan. Understandably, it was a hard piece to write. But the event had been gnawing at me . . . I knew I had to process it, and writing was the best way I knew how. It was painful, but I had a deadline, so I gutted it out, vomited everything up on paper. As happens with vomit, the result was a bit messy.

Armed with feedback from my class, a few weeks ago, I set out to clean up the mess. But I couldn’t. Literally. Not only could I not write any more about the event, I couldn’t even think about writing without feeling physically ill. When I wasn’t feeling ill, I was feeling terrified because I was reminded of the last time my psyche forced me to stop writing – In Afghanistan, when I slipped into my own version of the Dark Ages and wasn’t sure I’d ever find my way out.

The emotional breakdown came later, when the same ill feeling crept into other efforts at other pieces. From there it was a short leap to doubting the validity of my future plans, cursing my lack of focus/motivation/organizational skills, the malicious cycle of getting upset over getting upset, dubbing myself a failure, writhing on the floor of my boyfriend’s car.

They say if life gives you lemons, make lemonade. But what if you don’t like lemonade? What if you’re allergic? What if you can only drink small doses and life just so happens to give you a crapload of  lemons?

Maybe I need to wait for my lemons to ripen a bit (though patience has never been my strong suit). Maybe I should just throw some away, try some apples instead.

Maybe I shouldn’t be mixing school (or indeed, my future livelihood) with “therapy.” Maybe I shouldn’t put so much pressure on myself to be productive (and gag the inner voice that keeps telling me it’s the whole reason I’m here!). Maybe I need to stop defining productivity in terms of numbers of pages – and numbers of pages that directly apply to my now very scattered and incoherent thesis project idea (see previous parenthetical).

Maybe I should forget about maybes and what ifs, have a glass of wine and go to bed.

If it was that easy – if anything was – this blog would be pretty lame. 

The real world sucks

Last week I took a overview class on the publishing industry, hoping to learn more about my future job prospects. I learned (among some other legitimately cool/enlightening things):

1. My prospects suck.

2. Anyone who wants to write for a living is crazy.

3. Anyone who wants to publish, edit, design or print books for a living is also crazy.

Amidst the discussions of business planning and finances, which seemed to strategically coincide with my monthly bill-paying routine, and the arrival of a health insurance statement, and the planning (ie. budgeting) for an upcoming trip, my head was spinning with numbers. A head full of numbers is always an unsettling feeling for someone who’s used to working with words, but on this particular occasion, it really hit me: Being an adult sucks.

When it comes down to it, I’ve never been an adult before. Sure, I grew up and went to war, but I did it in a bubble. A military base is essentially a small city, full of like-minded people telling you what to do, where to go, what to say, and how to dress. I was part of a well-oiled machine which, in exchange for my blood, sweat and tears, would provide me with everything to meet my basic needs. Right out of college I had zero debt, a steady paycheck, a housing allowance, healthcare benefits, free moving services, a gym membership, a work wardrobe, access to religious advisors/career advisors/education advisors, and all-expense-paid trips to lovely vacation destinations like Afghanistan.

Military life certainly has its cons. In typical fashion, these are the things I noticed most while serving. There were midnight recalls; contingency responses; high-stress, high-profile assignments; working long hours, holidays and weekends that made it difficult to find time to utilize many of the available services. Next to trendy, chic civilian women, I felt frumpy in my camouflage and boots – a uniform that essentially declared me “Property of the U.S. Air Force.” And of course there’s the whole Afghanistan thing . . .

But I didn’t realize until now how, in many ways, my life was so comfortable. Sheltered. Meandering somewhere between childhood and independence.

Then came war.

People say war makes men out of boys. If to be a man is to carry a country’s expectations on your shoulders, to live on the edge of death, to witness the cruelty mankind is capable of committing, and to question everything in which you believe, then yes, this statement is true.

Thus, the military both inhibits the transition to adulthood, and forces it.

And what comes after? What happens to these “men” when the bubble pops?

I left the military still fresh from my baptism-by-war. I can’t say the rug was ripped out from under me, because I stepped off the rug. But that’s how it felt. My only foundation was military-made, and was shaken by my deployed experience. Afterward, I had nowhere left to stand.

Unemployment is a common post-military landing place. In 2011, the Iraq and Afghanistan veteran population had a 12.1% unemployment rate, compared with 8.9% among their civilian counterparts. After eight months as part of that statistic, I chose grad school.

The lack of structure in an academic environment both excited and overwhelmed me. So did my expanding wardrobe. (I take, on average, 40 minutes and five outfit changes to get dressed in the morning.)

Most things about civilian life intrigue me, but my shrinking bank account is just plain scary. I’m not used to seeing all those red numbers, with so few black ones to counteract. Apparently I’m not alone. A recent article on marketwatch.com reported that “veterans ages 29 or younger have average monthly expenses that exceed their net income by $880 as well as average credit card debt of $7,234.” YIKES!!

Granted, financial woes are not just a veteran problem. These are tough times for many. However, I’m sure a lot of of these veterans are, like me, struggling to reinvent ourselves outside the military bubble. When you take the cog out of the machine, the machine still runs. But the cog is useless.

We’ve outgrown the military, but in our circuitous route to adulthood, we failed to keep pace with our civilian peers.

I like to think of myself as pretty responsible, though I’ve been known to go on an occasional shoe shopping binge (justified under "non-combat boot footwear diversification"). I like to think of myself as pretty low maintenance, though past boyfriends and my dad, who lugged around an entire suitcase full of aforementioned diversified footwear when I moved to Boston, might disagree.

I’ve never made a budget because I’ve never had to. Just another lesson I’m learning the hard way out here in the real world.

I gave up a comfortable life in exchange for uncertainty. I didn’t realize how difficult, how complicated, how uncomfortable the transition would be. But for me it’s worth it, because I seek other comforts: expression, creativity, peace of mind, fulfillment, a cute wardrobe. A life that is mine.

And a winning lotto ticket.

Actual magnet from Lauren's fridge

PTSD: The new four-letter word

The acronym is familiar to me, as it is to anyone who has access to mass media in the western world and can read, watch and listen to how it’s “breaking” young men and women returning from military deployments. It’s familiar to me as a veteran, who has known and worked with many whose records bear those letters. I witness every day how it colors the words and actions of someone I love.

But recently, PTSD hit me in a new way.

As of last week, I’m donating my body to science. (Incrementally, by way of Veterans Affairs research studies.) My initial study is investigating brain functioning in veterans with diagnosed stress disorders and/or traumatic brain injury. I spent a day clicking blinking computer boxes, memorizing words and pictures, and counting backwards by threes (by FAR the hardest!). The study also involved a lengthy psychological evaluation. As I prepared for that section, I settled into my chair, ready to rehash what I’ve been discussing with social workers, psychologists, and my unwitting creative writing classes for the last two years.

I talked. The psychologist nodded, scribbling notes onto a series of pages. She prompted me, I kept talking. Then there were no more pages and I had nothing left to say, and, flipping back through her notebook, the psychologist said, “Well, you’re definitely still exhibiting symptoms of low-grade PTSD.”

???????

This was not something I’d been told by the previous social workers or psychologists. This is not the diagnosis reflected in my VA disability rating, which proclaims me a sufferer of Chronic Adjustment Disorder . . . Is that the same thing?

“No,” the psychologist clarified, “they’re definitely different. What I get from you is definitely PTSD.”

Definitely PTSD. Not an official diagnosis, really. An opinion rendered in a non-treatment capacity, one of many professional opinions I’ve received. The outlier. But hearing those letters with my name brought an onslaught of emotions:

Affirmation – so that’s why I feel and act the way I do. Maybe I’m justified, after all. (Followed quickly by . . .)

Guilt – what right do I have to be linked with PTSD? I, who spent most of my deployment behind a desk, who was never shot at, who never shot at anyone, who was never blown up, who made it home safely with my entire unit. So many horrible things I didn’t experience. How can I be associated with veterans who did?

Weakness – maybe I am linked with those who suffered more, and because I suffered less but had a similar reaction, that makes me weak. They say everyone has a breaking point, maybe mine came sooner than most. Maybe I was never meant to be a soldier.

Fear – if I do have PTSD, what does that mean? There are so many things that scare me about that acronym, about the complication, the destruction it can leave in its wake.

More guilt – how can I fear the things in others that I myself embody?

Ultimately, I know I’ll be okay. I know I’ve come a long way in the two years I’ve been back from Afghanistan. In many ways, I think I’m stronger. I know I’m stronger. Those four letters are merely scribbled in a research notebook. They hung in the air for a moment over a table in a VA testing room, then disappeared.

But they seeped into my consciousness, where they’ve been gnawing at me, making me think about how we view PTSD as a society – something that has colored my perspective more than I’d like to admit.

Despite living on the fringes, I don’t understand PTSD. Most people don't. My boyfriend, Colin, had been lecturing on PTSD for a couple years before he was officially diagnosed. When we started dating, I was hesitant to get involved because of those four letters. Conversely, I was convicted by my fear. If anyone can understand a veteran’s emotional state, shouldn’t it be a fellow veteran?

PTSD is scary because it is unknown. Until recently, no one talked about it; military mental health care has always been shrouded in stigma. Now, it seems, as soon as the military is beginning to acknowledge the inevitable mental and emotional affects of war, the issue is being sensationalized outside the military, and veterans are stigmatized by the civilian community.

Lack of knowledge breeds misrepresentation and misunderstanding – two things the media is famous for propagating.

In the latest example, on April 19, “Dr.” Phil (quotations added), aired a show titled “PTSD Takes Veterans from Heroes to Monsters.” As if the title weren’t enough, it came with this melodramatic ad. Following heated response from the veteran community, the show’s name was changed to “Heroes in Pain,” post-broadcast. But the message was already out. As they stressed in public affairs training, the initial message is the one that sticks.

Before Dr. Phil’s show, military mental health advocacy faced another hurdle when U.S. Army Staff Sgt. Robert Bales became the new face of modern warfare after allegedly massacred 17 civilians in southern Afghanistan. For many, Sergeant Bales has come to represent this generation of veterans: broken, unstable, a hopeless tragedy.

Veteran unemployment continues at an unprecedented rate. There is no denying the PTSD stigma plays a role. In the minds of employers, the “impressive military resume” we were all promised upon enlistment is being weighed against an imagined mental health resume.

No one wants to hire a Sgt. Bales. No one wants to associate with the likes of those profiled on Dr. Phil: the drug addict, the husband who beats his wife, the one who set his wife on fire.

To Dr. Phil’s audience, I’m Frankenstein.

To civilian employers, I’m a loose cannon.

To the VA, I’m damaged goods.

Amidst these messages, how am I supposed to view myself? How are veterans dealing with the emotional scars of war supposed to respond to military messages encouraging them to seek help when seeking help might lead to a diagnosis, and a diagnosis might lead to labels and disenfranchisement?

A new debate, discussed in this article, questions whether a name change would help alleviate the stigma around PTSD. Replacing "disorder" with "injury," for example, communicates that healing is possible.

Whatever you call it, the truth is, PTSD can be scary. It can manifest in ways which, when sufferers don’t get needed treatment and therapy, can lead to violent outbursts like the extreme examples above. These examples are hard to ignore when they scream at us from every news broadcast. But they are the exception. There are many more like Colin and me than like Sergeant Bales.   

Mental health will always be an issue in the military. Just as combat is in the job description, emotional and mental strain are among the expected side effects. Mental health is a bigger issue than it needs to be because we either don’t talk about it, or we talk about it in the wrong way. We ignore it, or we sensationalize it.

On either end of the spectrum, the ones who suffer are the veterans. And they have suffered enough. 

I left my heart in Afghanistan

I guess I’ve been slacking a bit in the blog department. Sorry. Got caught up in the whirlwind of a new semester (more on that later). In the meantime, many thanks to my friend, Nate Jacobs, for saving me the trouble of coming up with a whole post. These insightful and articulate thoughts come from him:

I seem to learn more and more about myself every day since I left the military. Today I came across a guy who happened to be an Iraq veteran. Meeting another vet was like giving water to a thirsty man. I really haven't encountered any other vets since coming to Portland. Instantly there was a bond at what I haven't experienced in a while. Finally, someone who understood. Finally, someone who I didn't have to explain myself to. Our conversation became a game of how many war stories we could share we before we had to go our ways. I can tell he felt the same relief that I did having encountered another vet.

This just goes to show the power of the military bond. I left the military of my own choice. However I left a large chunk of my heart and soul in Iraq. I really wanted the Iraqis to learn and take control of their country. I really wanted the violence to stop. I had committed 100% of my being to doing whatever was in my power to make that happen. Like a Band-Aid ripped off a wound, it's not a clean separation. There's a little bit of Iraq still left in me. I can only hope there's a little bit of me left in Iraq.

Oddly enough, tonight I came home after the experience and turned on the TV. There was a TV show about a bunch of vets honoring a recently fallen 101 Airborne troop who had died in Iraq. The imagery and the playing of taps instantly brought me to tears and I cried like a child. That proverbial Band-Aid covers a wound that will always stay fresh. A wound that I never want to heal. I left the military. The military will never leave me. Iraq affected me profoundly and I'm grateful for the experience.

Well said, Nate.

Sometimes I forget how much Afghanistan affected me. No, that’s a lie. Sometimes I deny it. Nobody really wants to be tethered to – let alone defined by – a singular experience. Even an Olympic champion probably doesn’t want to be known just as an Olympic champion. Every champion has a face and a name and a personality, and a multitude of experiences that come before and after that crowning event.

But it’s impossible – and erroneous – to try to separate the two. That moment in the arena, in the pool, on the track, was the culmination of months and years of blood, sweat and tears, intense focus and commitment, passion and perseverance. And it made an impact; sent reverberations from the champion’s life to the world in the pages of history books. You can take the champion off the podium, but his footprints remain.

You can take the girl out of Afghanistan, but you can’t take Afghanistan out of the girl.

I learned so much from my military experience. I discover new lessons every day. Granted, some of the lessons suck: Life isn’t fair, idealism isn’t realistic, people have the capacity for tremendous cruelty, no one looks good in tapered light gray sweatpants. But in the real world, the bad comes with the good; and someday, hopefully, eventually, they even out. Or maybe, if you work at it, they even leave you in the positive. That’s what I’m shooting for when I pour my wine glass a little more than half-full.

Like Nate, I truly hope I left a piece of myself in Afghanistan. I’ll never know for sure. And I think it’s the not knowing that makes the separation so hard for me. An Olympic champion has the history books; concrete written proof that he left his mark on the world. In a warzone, nothing is quite so concrete. You have the statistics: number of missions completed, bad guys killed, schools built. But what does that mean? Even the concrete walls around the schools my team helped build could be whittled away with the picking of a fingernail.

Nothing is concrete, except the memories.

So where does that leave us? Inexorably tied to a place and a time we’ll never be again; perhaps sometimes even wistful for it because whether we like it or not, it does, at least to some extent, define us.

I guess I’ll think of myself as a puzzle. Afghanistan and the military are big pieces that don’t necessarily fit snugly with everything else. Do I need to bend and reshape them? Or mold everything else around that chunk? Or do I need to forge new pieces to fill the gaps? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll always be a bit skewed and misshapen. And maybe, in the end, I’m better for it.

At least I won’t be wearing tapered light gray sweatpants.

Time flies when you’re keeping resolutions!

I don’t usually make New Year’s resolutions. For one, I suck at keeping them. Then I feel bad. And no one likes to feel bad. But I also believe that if you really want to change something, why wait until January 1st? Like the saying goes, “No time is better than the present!”

That being said, I do like the symbolism of a new year: a fresh start, a clean slate, and, I suppose, a proverbial fire under your rear if you really need one to get you going.

If ever in the Life of Lauren there was a time for fresh starts and clean slates, it was New Year’s 2011. December 30, 2010 was my official last day as an active duty Air Force officer. Thus, I began 2011 as brand-spanking-new civilian. FREEDOM! No work. No title. No responsibilities. No obligations. (And no house, no concrete plans, no paycheck, eeek!)

I didn’t make any official New Year’s resolutions, but if I had, they could have been these:

1. Figure out what I want to do with my life. While I’m still working out the finer details (like how to make a living . . .), I know with 100% certainty that I want to be a writer. I’d even go so far as to say that I’m supposed to be a writer. If you believe in “finding your calling,” I’ve found mine. A career change is always a leap of faith. But sometimes it’s worth it to follow your passion.

1.5. Get accepted into a grad school program in support of said career choice. Check! (Thanks, Emerson!)

2. Make up for lost time with family. Call me old fashioned, but I’m the kind of person who actually likes my family and enjoys spending time with them. Don’t let the fact that I’ve – twice now – chosen to move to the other side of the country fool you. I really do like them. Maybe even a lot. They have always been my biggest supporters, my confidants, my voices of reason, my shoulders to cry on. I hated the geographic separation from Florida and I hate it from Boston. I hated it most from Afghanistan, where “just a phone call away” didn’t really apply. Sure, we had email (as long as a storm didn’t knock out the connection). Sure, I had cards and pictures taped precariously to the plywood wall above my bed that sometimes unstuck themselves and scattered over me while I was sleeping. Sure, we had static-filled, 12-hour time difference phone calls placed from a crowded office where no conversation was really private. Maybe it was the stress, or the danger, or the sheer distance, but during that year away, I ached for my family in a way I never had before.

So, when my conversion from Air Force officer to grad student included an eight month transitional period, I jumped at the chance to move back home. (Wait, you lived with your parents for eight months?! you ask. By choice?! I did, dear readers. And it was wonderful.) I watched chick flicks with my mom, went house hunting in Boston with my dad, bonded with my beautiful baby nieces who previously had no idea who I was beyond my face in photographs. I stashed all my life’s belongings in my parents’ garage.

And I healed. There’s no Band-Aid like family.

3. Discover who “Civilian Lauren” is. With a massive life change (and no uniform to wear every day, no institutionalized code of conduct, etc.) comes a bit of an identity crisis. Again, I’m still working out the finer details, but this I know:
- Civilian Lauren has bangs. She likes to wear nice, tailored clothing and high heels. Except for sometimes when she just wants to wear pajamas all day.
- She likes to speak her mind, even when people around disagree. If she has a strong opinion about something – and she has quite a few of those, it seems – she’s not afraid to show it.
- She’s feisty, emotional, sometimes irritable (especially when she’s hungry or tired), and a bit moody. But overall, I think she’s pretty cool.
- She’s a veteran. Sometimes she likes to talk about that, sometimes she doesn’t. (It’s a big can of very slippery worms, after all.) But she has accepted it as part of her identity – all the good, bad and ugly parts of it. And she’s proud of it, too.

4. Be thankful. I know it sounds trite, and I won’t get too much into it (you can read more in my other posts), but thankfulness was definitely a theme of 2011. Though they came with a price, with sacrifice and some baggage I still struggle to carry, I’m thankful for the decisions I made to join the military and to go to Afghanistan. I’m thankful for the experiences I’ve had and the worldliness I’ve gained. I’m thankful for the veteran’s organizations and programs that are helping me learn to carry my acquired baggage gracefully.

In a time of financial crisis, foreclosures, unemployment and debt controversy, I’m thankful to be debt-free, that I had the luxury to be able to leave my job and take a leap of faith, that I have the resources to be a homeowner. Sometimes the post-Afghanistan cynic in me tries to convince me otherwise, but in a time of protesting, political/religious/athletic scandals and bad news splashed across every page of the newspaper, I’m thankful that there are still a lot of GOOD people out there; GOOD news and GOOD things about being an American. (And, incidentally, I’m thankful for freedom of speech, freedom to assemble, and freedom of the press. Those are pretty cool, too). And in a time of so many broken, dysfunctional, strained relationships, I am, of course, thankful for my wonderful family and friends.

Huh, maybe I'm better at keeping resolutions than I thought?

Now, looking forward on this eve of another symbolic fresh start, my unofficial non-resolution list-of-things-to-think-about/work-toward-in-2012 is as follows:

1. Have my condo “visitor ready” at all times. a.k.a. be more organized. That’s on my list in some form every year. . . (Reference comment about not keeping resolutions)

2. Work on those finer details from 2011 non-resolution #1. Writing contests and literary journal submissions? Freelancing? A publishing internship? A wealthy benefactor and/or a scratch ticket addiction? We shall see, my friends!

3. Ditto for 2011 non-resolution #3. Namely, I want to learn to manage that irritability and moodiness, balance that cynicism. I want go through that baggage and throw out any bitterness that got stuck between my socks and undies. And I want to keep talking (and writing) about the veteran thing. I think that's important. Plus, most of the time it feels pretty good in the end.

4. Continue to be thankful. ALWAYS!

5. Limit my intake of Twizzlers, chocolate and Cheetos. Seriously. This is just ridiculous.

Cheers to that!

Wishing everyone a blessed 2012! If you’re making New Year’s resolutions, best of luck. (If not, maybe you can help me eat my junk food?)

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Why didn't I take the blue pill?!

I have a deck of cards filled with “Would you rather…?” scenarios. The cards ask scintillating questions such as, “Would you rather spend a 24-hour period hearing car alarms in your head –OR– the sound of a dentist’s drill?” and “Would you rather write ‘I am an idiot’ 10,000 times without stopping –OR– suck 75 thick milkshakes through a narrow straw without resting (no need to swallow all the shakes)?”

Here’s a question that’s not in the deck: Imagine you have an injury. Would you rather ignore it and let it heal, but be left with a nasty scar that sometimes spasms unexpectedly with sharp pain –OR– pick off the scab every time it forms, making the wound fresh and raw again, occasionally pouring lemon juice or some other stinging substance into the exposed wound; but thus enabling the wound to heal completely (or as completely as possible, with perhaps some light scarring)?

Back in September when I first started grad school, I chose option 2. I turned in my first workshop piece, 10 pages detailing my initial therapy session after I returned from Afghanistan; all my fears, anxieties, and confusions. All my baggage. I had known my classmates for approximately a day. And I showed them my wounds, let them watch as I ripped off the scabs. I might as well have offered them lemon juice.

As if that wasn’t enough, I did it again and again over the next four months, with two more workshop pieces, two papers, and many candid discussions. Because that’s what personal nonfiction writing is all about; turning yourself inside out, exposing your scars and imperfections in a way that’s honest and (hopefully) resonant.

And when it comes down to it, that’s what healing is about too. Then you patch up the wounds and turn yourself right-side-out again and the scars aren’t quite as visible; like the inside stitching along a seam. If, on the other hand, you ignore those wounds, though it may feel better initially, eventually they begin to fester. There’s a word for that . . . oh yeah, its denial. Usually nothing good comes from that.

I was a bit in denial when I first arrived in Boston for grad school. And I was afraid. Afraid of going “back there;” of digging back into that dark part of my life. Afraid of opening myself up, of the negative response I might receive. Thankfully, I received a tremendously positive response. And in submitting that first piece, I started chipping away at a barrier – a barrier I need to get through to heal, and also to be the writer I want to be.

Writing (or talking) about personal stuff is hard. It’s emotionally draining. When I shut my laptop after an evening of writing I feel emptied out; exhausted with the effort of coaxing images from a closed-off corner of my mind, spinning them into words and pushing them from my head through my muscles and bones – with a long layover at my heart – before they finally patter out into my keyboard.

But it’s also strangely therapeutic. To flush out that corner of my mind. To not be in denial. (They say that’s the first step to recovery, right?) When I see the words on the page they seem tangible. Manageable. Not so overwhelming after all.

And perhaps most significantly, people appreciate that honesty.

Because in order to truly connect with someone, you have to make yourself vulnerable, and you have to trust. That’s something on some level I’ve always known, but struggled to accomplish behind adolescent insecurities. And while there’s a trust in the military – an incredible life and death kind of trust – it’s physical more than emotional. It’s an understatement to say that vulnerability isn’t exactly encouraged in the military.

So grad school represented a bit of an aligning of the planets for me – a time when I needed that connection desperately, when I was in a place where it was offered, and when I was finally mature enough to handle it. My classmates and I bonded over our vulnerability. Sometimes we joke that our classroom discussions are like group therapy. When you’re all inside-out together, no one has reason to be ashamed.

As I look back on my first semester of grad school, that’s the most important lesson I’ve learned.

Here’s some other stuff I learned:
- You can walk pretty much anywhere in Boston. It is not recommended to do so wearing heels or Converse tennis shoes.
- The green line is never on time.
- Crosswalks are merely a suggestion.
- On average, it takes approximately five MFA students approximately 10 minutes to figure out how to divide a restaurant bill. We could write you a dissertation on the quality of the food, but don’t ask us to do math . . .
- Cheetos, Twizzlers and chocolate DO NOT constitute a balanced meal. But they really do help me write papers.
- Writers and cats seem to go hand-in-hand. (An informal poll that I just ran in my head shows a disproportionate number of my classmates have cats. But then again I’m not great at math.)

Thanks to my amazing colleagues at Emerson for your honesty, feedback, support and inspiration. I’m looking forward to working with you for the next 83% of the program! (That math is right, trust me).



Oh, in case you’re curious, I would opt for the dentist’s drill and the milkshakes.

A chance to say "thank you"

(This is a long one, but I think this day warrants it)

When I was in ROTC in college, I remember being angry that my school didn’t observe Veteran’s Day. More than angry; I was pissed. I told anyone who would listen (and even some who wouldn’t) how pissed I was. I was so high-and-mighty back then; a young cadet with really no understanding of what it meant to be in the military. But I was on to something . . . something that has become much clearer – and much more aggravating – in the years since: veterans are underappreciated.

I’d like to say it’s better now than it used to be. And in many ways it is. Thank God we’ve progressed beyond the Vietnam-era, when soldiers – many who were drafted into service against their wishes – came home to face angry protesters, be spit on, called “baby killers.” What a dark period in American history. Now, it seems, whether or not people agree with this country’s wars, they overwhelmingly support those fighting. I’m grateful for that.

The Post-9/11 GI Bill is a huge improvement over the outdated Montgomery GI Bill, and more veterans are taking advantage of their education benefits than ever before (I’m one of them!). There are also laws in place now to allow service members to break leases if they’re relocated or deployed (I’ve done that!), and laws that require employers to hold jobs for Reservists and National Guardsmen if they’re activated. There are more and better agencies supporting veterans both in and out of the military (I’m definitely using some of those!).

But even when the support systems work, they’re often mired in stigma and move at an excruciatingly slow pace. Organizations are understaffed, underfunded and tangled up in bureaucratic red tape.

And, if statistics are any indication, there’s still a long way to go. Last year for the first time in history the military suicide rate eclipsed that of the civilian sector. While the national unemployment rate hovers around 9%, the unemployment rate for veterans who left active duty since 2001 is a staggering 12.1% (Maze).

Many veterans return from combat with obvious, tragic wounds like missing limbs and severe burns. But many carry deep, unseen scars as well. Studies show that around 40% of OIF/OEF veterans have been diagnosed with some type of mental disorder (depression, anxiety, PTSD), and an estimated 10-20% of returning troops have at least a mild brain injury (Zoroya).

And since the economy is the “hot topic” of the moment, consider this: A new enlisted troop in the rank of E-1 earns $17,604 in annual base pay (the poverty level is $10,890). A first-year officer in the rank of O-1 nets $33,396. By comparison, the minimum salary for a rookie (now-on-strike) NBA player is $473,604 (2010-2011 data). If that’s not a sad commentary on modern American priorities, I don’t know what is.

The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan are officially the longest wars in this nation’s history. Reserve and National Guard Forces are more than pulling their weight with frequent deployments to backfill manning shortages and often don’t have the support structures active duty troops have upon return. We live in an era where, arguably, more is being asked of the all-volunteer military force than ever before.

Yet still, in the debate over national debt, military retirement benefits are on the chopping block; the benefits that were promised upon enlistment, that were paid for in 20+ years of blood, sweat and tears and unfathomable sacrifice.

I’m not asking you to run out and write your congressman (although that would be awesome!). I’m just asking you – today, any day, every day – to say “thank you.” Sometimes that’s all it takes.

I remember once after a long, hard day at work I stopped for takeout on my way home. I was still in my uniform, looking, I’m sure, unprofessionally frazzled. When I got my food, someone had picked up my tab. I thanked him and he said, “No, thank you for your service.” I cried the whole way home because it felt so good to be appreciated.

When I got back from Afghanistan, all it took was someone saying “thank you” to open the flood gates. I had felt so isolated for so long, in a place where people were, at best, ambivalent about my existence; a place so cut off from the rest of the world. That small gesture – thank you – showed me people cared.

So today I want to say thank you to those who bear the burden:

To those who have served, and those who continue to serve, THANK YOU.

To those who have been force shaped, medically discharged, prevented from deploying or in some way limited in the capacity to which you could serve, you are veterans too. THANK YOU.

To those who serve on the homefront, maintaining families, careers, sanity, LIFE while your spouses, children, parents, siblings, friends, coworkers deploy, we couldn’t do it without you. THANK YOU.

**If you want to say “thank you” in another way, the following link has a comprehensive list of organizations that support service members and their families. You can send letters and care packages to deployed troops, “adopt” a service member, volunteer with or donate to a non-profit veteran support organization, or contribute to a scholarship fund for children of service members killed in action. Check it out: http://www.military.com/spouse/content/military-life/military-resources/how-to-support-our-troops.html


References:

Fairweather, Amy (prepared by) “Swords to Plowshares Iraq Veteran Project.” Nchv.org. National Coalition for Homeless Veterans, Dec. 7, 2006. Web. Nov. 10, 2011.

Maze, Rick. “Jobless rate increases for young veterans.” Airforcetimes.com. Air Force Times, Nov. 4, 2011. Web. Nov. 10, 2011.

“Veterans’ Mental Health Concerns Rising.” Psych Central Online, July 18, 2009. Web. Nov. 11, 2011.

Zoroya, Gregg. “Troops risk undetected brain injury.” Usatoday.com. USA Today, June 7, 2006. Web. Nov 11, 2011.

THANKS!!!

I just need to take a quick moment to say... WOW! I am so humbled and amazed by the feedback I’ve received from just these three measly blog posts – from veterans saying they can relate, and from non-veterans saying this information is interesting and important (And, yes, even telling me that I’m fascinating. You know what? I’m almost starting to believe it! But don’t worry, I won’t let it go to my head.)

It’s unbelievably wonderful to know that these words are reaching people. When I’m feeling depressed or insecure or suffering from writer’s block, that will keep me going.

Sometimes life throws you down, steps on you and runs away laughing. And it sucks. But then, sometimes, as you’re picking yourself up, dusting yourself off and looking around self-consciously to see if anyone noticed, you realize that in your struggle you inspired someone else. And it still kind of sucks. But it’s also kind of awesome. Maybe it’s all even worthwhile.

Life gave me lemons, and since I’m no good at making lemonade, I’m going to keep writing. I need to for my own sanity. But thank you all for helping it to be so much more than that.

A Veteran's Identity

I figure a good place to start is the question of identity . . . a good place, but an extremely complex one, especially for veterans. We’ve been talking a lot about identity in my graduate program. I’m studying creative writing (I know, I know, about as far away from the military as you can get). In order to be a good writer, you have to know who you are, know where you stand. Without that foundation, your writing has no purpose, no direction. It makes sense for non-writers too.

The great James Baldwin advised, “Know from whence you came. If you know whence you came, there are absolutely no limitations to where you can go.”

Okay, so from whence did I come? It was a question I answered in checked boxes on my graduate school applications:

Citizenship: U.S. Citizen
Race: Caucasian
Gender: Female
Education history: Bachelor’s Degree
Years of work experience: 4-6
Ever been convicted of a crime: No
Are you interested in financial aid? Yes please!

Supposedly this amalgamation creates a rough picture of my “identity.” Then comes the kicker:

Are you a veteran of the Armed Services: Yes

What does that box say about me? Is there a set of values/principles/stereotypes that goes along with the label of “veteran?” I’d like to hope they’re positive traits. What about if I check the box next to “disabled veteran?” What stigmas come along with that?

I have to admit, when I moved to Boston a huge part of the allure was that no one knew me as a “military person.” That had been my defining trait for more than four years. Well eight years, really, if you count ROTC. (And before that I was in high school and no one knows who they are in high school). So it’s fair to say that for my entire adult life, up until about a month ago, my identity was largely wrapped up in the military. I competed in triathlons, I went to church, I baked awesome chocolate chip cookies, I was a doting mother of cats, but when it came down to it I was an Air Force Officer, first and foremost. My first name was “Lieutenant” or “Captain.” I wore the same clothes every day, styled my hair the same way every day. On duty and off, the values, rules and time commitments influenced what I did, where I went, who I associated with – my identity as I knew it.

So when I separated and moved across the country to a place where no one knew me (except for the few people who looked at the boxes on my application), I had something I’d never experienced before: a clean slate. I could literally be anyone I wanted to be. I could dye my hair! I could wear platform heels and gaudy jewelry! I could order a margarita with lunch, then join a protest rally! I could walk around Boston with a British accent and no one would be any wiser! I could just be a student.

A part of me wanted to leave the military identity completely behind. Don’t get me wrong, I had some great experiences in the Air Force, but I guess I was tired of it defining me. I know I was tired of it. But the bigger issue was it came with baggage. Why did my prospective Boston friends need to know, for example, that I spent nine months in Afghanistan and – depressed and disillusioned – started to question everything I believed in? Why did they need to know I’d been in therapy since redeploying in March 2010? Why did they need to be exposed to all these newfound passions, annoyances, random-outbursts-to-strangers-who-push-the-wrong-political-button? I don’t look like a military person any more. It would be so easy just to cover everything up with some fabulous new persona.

But alas, life isn’t easy. Especially when you’re in a creative non-fiction writing program where you sit around a table and lay out your baggage for everyone to rifle through. Discussions are fueled by our inner most secrets – the conflicts and decision points that feed into our identities as people and as writers.

When it came time for me to share, I was terrified. Not only was my façade busted, but I had no idea how everyone would react to me as a baggage-toting veteran. When I was in the Air Force I lived in a small southern military town. The exact opposite of Boston. My classmates were mostly coming from similarly opposite environments. How would I be received?

To my tremendous surprise and relief, my fears were unfounded. People found me interesting. They wanted to know more. They thanked me for my service, and for sharing my story. That in itself was a lesson worth blogging about.

I’m going to keep sharing. And while I do I’ll wrestle with the bigger issue: in this gray area between the military and civilian worlds, where, exactly, do I fit? Like it or not, my military service will always be a part of me. I can’t – and shouldn’t – shut it out, but I don’t want to be consumed by it either. Somewhere in the middle is the delicate balance of my identity.

Once I figure that out, I can tackle the second half of Baldwin’s quote and decide where I want to go from here.


Source Cited:
Baldwin, James. (1962). “My Dungeon Shook: Letter to My Nephew on the One Hundredth Anniversary of the Emancipation.” The Fire Next Time. New York, NY: Random House, Inc.