A Love Story

This is a bit of a departure from my usual blog content, but bear with me, it is military related. It’s a story of the loneliness and isolation that can accompany military life, and the adaptability necessary for (or bread from) military transience. It’s a story of comfort and compassion. It’s a story of a cat. And in honor of Valentine’s Day, it is, above all else, a love story.

(WARNING: The following may be sentimental or even downright mushy. But that’s okay, because it’s Valentine’s Day).

I got Annabelle in April 2007. Six months earlier I had moved across the country—literally as far as one can move in the continental U.S., from Seattle to Florida—to begin my Air Force career. I’d left home before, but it was a temporary arrangement, to a series of college dorms. This was my first time really truly on my own.

I dove into my new job, moved into my first grownup apartment, and adjusted way too easily to the Gulf Coast bar scene. But socially, I struggled. Everyone I knew was two time zones away. In an environment where relationships are rank-dependent, I was one of two young officers in my office and the only unmarried one. Without the social Velcro of a classroom or work setting, I was clueless on how to make friends.

So I did what any single, lonely girl would do: I adopted three cats.

Okay, that’s not really how it played out. I’d grown up with cats, loved them dearly, and planned to get one of my own once I was settled in in Florida. But fate had other plans. The day I called my apartment manager to ask about a pet deposit, he found a beautiful long-haired black cat and her four newborn kittens on his property. A few weeks later, when the kittens were weaned, I carried mama and two babies across the courtyard to my apartment. Annabelle, Gracie and Milo Johnson. We were a happy little family.

First family photo!

Eventually I did make friends (among whom I was the center of many good-natured Cat Lady jokes, which I thought afforded me a level of social prestige—I’d always wanted a cool nickname!). But we were all busy with stressful jobs and steep learning curves, and as with all nascent adult friendships, my connections lacked the shared history to make me comfortable enough to really open up. To cry. To scream. To cry and scream while eating ice cream for dinner in front of Sex the City reruns. To wonder what the heck I was doing with my life and why did I keep screwing up and when would I get a boyfriend already.

My cats didn’t say much, but they were good listeners. Especially Annabelle. While Milo and Gracie entertained me with their spastic kittenly antics, Annabelle comforted me. She was my lap cat. She greeted me at the door as soon as I got home. She slept on my bed every night. If I had visitors, Milo and Gracie hid. Annabelle went to the first available lap.

In my frequent absences, they liked to hang out on
"off limits" surfaces like the kitchen table

Military life can obviously be hard on people: the long and unpredictable hours, frequent moves, TDYs and deployments. We don’t often think of the toll these things must take on military pets. Less than two months after I got my cats, I was sent out of state for a six-week training session. The cats stayed with a gracious colleague (thanks Amy!).

During other, shorter trips, a series of friends rotated through cat care duty.

For base exercises, emergencies and special events, I volunteered for night and weekend shifts because I didn’t have a family at home.

When it came time to deploy, I moved out of my house and left my cats in the care of my parents . . . on the other side of the country. My parents flew to Florida to help me pack, then flew a terrified, yowling Milo and a silent, cowering Gracie back to Seattle as carryons. The airline had a two pet per flight rule, so Annabelle made the trip alone in cargo. (Her mellow demeanor made her the obvious choice—proof that no good goes unpunished).

My nine months in Afghanistan probably would have been much more pleasant with a cat. As it was, I settled for a stuffed one. My sister had given it to me before I adopted my real cats, and it just happened to look like Annabelle. The likeness slept with me on my hard Afghanistan mattress.

Back in Seattle, my mom worried about me like mothers do, and pampered my cats, fattening them up like grandmothers do. She adored them all, but said Annabelle gave her the most comfort. Annabelle sat in her lap, greeted her at the door, slept on her bed.

When I returned from my deployment, “home” was a fuzzy notion. In Florida, most of my friends had moved to other bases or were themselves deployed. My belongings were still in storage, my cats still in Seattle. I had eight months left in my military commitment, the definition of transient. Not wanting to sign a year-long lease, I bounced from spare bedroom to corporate apartment to housesitting; I took odd jobs and short term assignments at work so as not to upset the balance of operations without me.

A few months after my homecoming, my grandfather passed away after his own war: with cancer. I made it to Seattle to say goodbye and attend the memorial service. When I left I authorized the loan of “The Therapy Cat” to keep Grandma company. Annabelle took a trip to Tacoma, breaking in a new lap and getting hopelessly addicted to cat treats.

I completed my Air Force commitment just before Christmas and moved back to Seattle. I was luckier than most recently separated veterans: I had time to decompress before jumping into the next chapter of my life, and a safe, supportive place to heal. I kept to myself much of the time, holed up in my room writing about war, reading about war, thinking about war. Annabelle kept an eye on me from my childhood bed.

The following fall, I moved across the country again—not quite as far, just to Boston this time. I was excited for graduate school but hated the thought of starting over again, friendless and catless.

The transition wasn’t as difficult as I’d feared. Maybe because I’d done it before. Maybe because I found myself in classrooms with wonderfully welcoming and supportive peers. Maybe because I had a plan to bring my cats along as soon as possible. Probably because Boston has a lot of really good beer.

Whatever the reason, by the end of my first year, I was feeling happy and almost whole again. Almost. Taking advantage of the glory that is student vacation time, I flew to Seattle for a few weeks, then returned, cats in tow. Again hampered by the two pet per flight rule, and again trusting Annabelle to best handle the stress of separation, Milo and Gracie came first.

The cats brought a sense of life, comfort and coziness that had been missing from my condo. (It sounds so cheesy, but anyone who’s ever had a pet can understand). They’re just so stinking adorable and endearing.

I felt bad separating Annabelle and her babies.






They were family; they groomed each other and cuddled up together, legs and fur entwined so that it was hard to tell which cat ended where. 

I missed her too, of course. And I didn’t know it yet, but I needed her in Seattle. 

She was waiting for me when I flew home unexpectedly last fall, devastated with a broken heart. Once more, I holed up in my old room. Once more, she watched over me.

Finally, a month ago, we were all reunited. Annabelle tolerated the cross-country flight better than I did, and within 48 hours claimed her territory sprawled out on her back in the middle of the condo hallway.

On her first night, she peed in the bathtub. Like directly over the drain. Whether or not you’re a cat person, that’s impressive!

It took a few days, but Milo and Gracie decided they were glad to have Annabelle back too. The Johnson family was whole again.

Then last week, Annabelle died.

The vet said it was probably a heart condition, a common cause of sudden death in cats. But I like to think of her as a fuzzy black four-legged guardian angel. She came to me when I needed her and helped me through some of the most difficult times in my life—and did the same for my mom and grandma. She saw all of us over the holidays, checking in in turn, making sure we were okay. In Boston, she could tell I was okay; happy, healing, settled, in good hands. And she saw that her babies were okay.

Then she decided she could go. 

RIP to a remarkable cat

Gracie and Milo only snuggled when Annabelle was there
(she clearly brought out the best in everyone)

Evidence that my dad once let her sit on his lap!
(anyone who knows my dad knows what a phenomenon that is!)

She didn't mind my three-year-old nieces

As a parting gift, she gave my boyfriend a soul . . .
never before had he cried at the death of a pet

Good Samaritanism

Summer 2010:

It was a dark and stormy night . . . Actually, I think it was warm and clear. But it was dark and stormy inside my head. I had finished a long day of work, in a series of many long days, and was en route back to my new condo. Which wasn't really my condo; I was house-sitting for a friend who was deployed. Before that I’d been in a short-term corporate apartment, before that I’d spent a few weeks in a friend’s spare bedroom, and before that I’d been in Afghanistan. All my belongings were still in storage.

I had recently started seeing a social worker at my Air Force base’s Behavioral Health Clinic for the depression and anxiety that had been nagging me since my deployment. At work, I was good at pretending I was okay (hence the long days, time is always a good substitute for motivation), but not far below the surface, I was stressed, tired, and unsettled, teetering on the verge of falling apart.

And, as I drove “home,” I was hungry.

I wasn't in the habit of stopping at restaurants in my uniform. I was always anxious to leave base and put on “normal” clothes (ie. pajamas), to de-militarize as quickly as possible. But that night, I needed some comfort food and couldn't fathom the energy to scrounge up dinner from the meager contents of my borrowed kitchen.

The green glow of the Olive Garden sign beckoned me from the side of Highway 98. I placed a To-Go order for something creamy and smothered in cheese and slumped onto a bench in the waiting area. All around me, people were laughing and chatting excitedly. Just listening to them made me tired.

When the hostess brought out my order, I had my credit card ready. She shook her head and smiled warmly. “It’s already been paid for. The gentlemen thanks you for your service.”

Shocked, I mumbled a “thank you,” took my food and returned to my car, where I immediately burst into tears—not because I was tired or stressed or frustrated or missing my cats that were still in Seattle with my parents, but because I was appreciated.

January 2013:

As we begin this new year, a lot of people seem to be looking for a fresh start. For many, the last few years have been soured by a tough economy, political bickering and countless other personal and financial problems. Whatever you’re dealing with in 2013, I wish you strength and perseverance.

And I issue you a challenge: Sometime this year, take a moment to step outside your own crazy, busy, frazzled life to make someone else’s day. Buy coffee for the customer behind you at the Starbucks drive through. Carry groceries for the older woman in your building. Thank those soldiers at the airport, the cops directing traffic at your 5K, the firemen on break outside their station.

The Olive Garden Good Samaritan didn't know I’d had a rough couple months. Maybe I wouldn't have been as touched by his gesture if I’d been in better spirits. If he’d gone on with his meal and not given me a second glance, he’d have an extra $15 in his pocket, and I’d probably be just fine.

I don’t know the story of the soldier sitting by himself at the Conn. Red Robin last month. I don’t know what his job is in the Army. I don’t know if he’s deployed once, multiple times, or not at all. I don’t know if he saw me slip the waitress my credit card to cover his check. I don’t know if it made him smile.

I just know, for me, it felt good on both sides.

**Photo from the Flickr Creative Commons: “Buying dinner with Change” by Flickr user “Juli Crockett” (Licensed by CC 3.0)

If the world ends, at least I'll have been in a book

A while back I wrote a poem. Or, I wrote something that maybe kinda sorta a little bit resembled a poem. (Hey, I write nonfiction. The extent of my poetic knowledge is Where the Sidewalk Ends. But sometimes content just begs to written in a different way.) On a whim, I submitted my poem-ish thing for publication in an anthology of veteran writing. And to my surprise, it was accepted!

Look! My name's in print!

Just before Veterans Day, my poem, as well as a short essay, were published along with the work of 60 other veterans in Proud to Be: Writing by American Warriors. I may be slightly biased, but it's a pretty amazing collection, featuring writing from both veterans and their families, spanning from World War I to Iraq and Afghanistan, covering the experiences of medics to infantrymen to staff officers.

I'm still reading through the pieces—I have to take war literature in small doses—but every essay, story and poem hits me in a deep, intimate way. Regardless of the era or the battlefield, there's a thread through each; a raw, emotional something I can relate to. It's once again a testament to the veteran connection. And to the power of art to bring people together. 

It's easy to feel isolated by your unique experiences; we need reminders like this to show that we're not so alone, after all.

Veterans and non-veterans alike, I encourage you to check out Proud to Be. It's available from the Southeast Missouri State University Press, Barnes & Noble, or Amazon.

Since the rights revert back to me (and since I'm a shameless self-promoter), here's a sample of the content, my first published poem:

          The Soldier’s Two-Step

Barely five feet tall, she does not hunch under sixty pounds of body armor and supplies.The girls in rags run up to her, tell her she is strong. “No,” she says, “You are strong.” And she is right. And so are they.

She cries into a pink pillowcase she brought from home. For a son’s broken heart, a daughter’s birthday, an anniversary, missed. Dancing between two worlds; her partner the cold barrel of a gun, music the hollow tones of war and hollow, cheerful voices on the phone. This is the melody of loneliness.

The women ask why. Why the risk, the sacrifice? Why do you care? “All mothers are the same,” she tells them, “It doesn’t matter what language you cry in.”

The men don’t ask, they demand: more buildings, more money, more time. She carries the promise on her small shoulders; sharp-edged expectations of two countries. This is the burden of hope.

 In her absence, the broken heart mended, birthdays and anniversaries were celebrated. She is haunted by all that she missed and all that she left, unfinished, behind. The little girls’ faces in her little girl, the purse where armor should be.

From boots to high heels, from gun to spatula, from Humvee to minivan, she keeps dancing. Because they need her to. And because she is strong.

To celebrate the launch of the anthology, several contributors read their pieces for a packed house at a poetry center in St. Louis. Watch a video compilation of the event:

Check out these news stories, reviews and posts by contributors:
The Missouri Humanities Council publication announcement
A review that quotes my poem! Legit!
Thoughts from the fiction contest winner Monty Joynes--who wrote his winning story, chronicling a medic's first days in Vietnam, 34 years ago!
Reflections on the anthology and launch by contributor Jan Morrill, who wrote about her uncle's World War II service

Proud to Be is the first issue of an ongoing anthology series. Submissions are now being accepted for Volume 2 in poetry, fiction, nonfiction, photography, and interviews with warriors. All military personnel, veterans and military family members are eligible. Send in your work now!

Proud to Be is published in partnership by The Missouri Humanities Council, Warriors Arts Alliance and Southeast Missouri State University Press.

Of Ballots and Bullets: An ode to voting in America

I know it’s been a while since my last post, but did you really think I’d miss out on the opportunity to be snarky and inflammatory during election season? Fear not, my friends.

Perhaps this post would have been more fitting prior to Election Day, but I guess I was too distracted by the bombardment of political advertisements whenever I walked/drove/watched TV/listened to the radio/went online that for a while I was really struggling to view myself as an intelligent, free-thinking human being capable of making my own informed decisions, let alone writing about them.

Civic duty swag!

Anyway, all sarcasm aside (for now), in the wake of the election, I feel the need to draw some comparisons. This year was my first time ever voting at a polling station. As a college student attending school out of state, then as a military member stationed across the country, I’ve always voted by absentee ballot. My conclusion: it was easy. I ignored the campaign ads and celebrity endorsements (as much as possible), watched debates, did research online, walked half mile to the polling station, checked some boxes, got a sticker, then went home and watched Quantum of Solace until the news had actual legitimate grounds for announcing some results.

I was in Afghanistan for the 2009 Presidential and Parliamentary elections. It was only the country’s second “democratic election,” and the first election that was supposed to be completely Afghan-led. In Paktya province, my unit and the units we were stationed with played a “supporting” role—helping spread information on the election process and candidates and countering insurgent anti-election propaganda through our "radio in a box" systems, the only thing close to mass media in Afghanistan; assisting with training and mission planning for the Afghan security forces; providing reconnaissance and back-up security at the polling sites for several days after they’d been set up, during the election, and post-election while the ballots were counted and transferred to regional, then national sites; coordinating supplies, like tens of thousands of water bottles, for the security personnel at the sites.

Roughly 80% of the local population was illiterate. There were 140 presidential and parliamentary candidates. On the ballot, each was designated with a set of symbols, which had to be explained by representatives from the election committee, who traveled (or attempted to, or didn’t attempt to because they were threatened by insurgents) to outlying areas of the province on educational missions.

For weeks leading up to the election, insurgents passed out night letters—threatening messages left in homes or villages in the middle of the night warning people against voting—and broadcasted propaganda and threats on mobile radio stations that always disappeared before we could track their locations. Threats ranged from chopping off voter’s fingers, which were dyed blue after votes were cast, to chopping off heads.

In Paktya's capital of Gardez, the Taliban claimed responsibility for a coordinated suicide bombing attack on government buildings that left five people dead, calling it an attempt to disrupt the elections.

On Election Day, the government ordered a media blackout in an attempt to prevent news of violence from dissuading potential voters. I sat in our operations center biting my nails. We had teams standing by for Quick Reaction Force convoys, ready to leave at a moment’s notice to defend against an attack or provide medical support. The screens at the front of the room scrolled through threats picked up by military intelligence, and showed grainy surveillance footage of local villages. I kept waiting to see a building explode. I kept waiting to hear the whistle of incoming mortars or gunfire. I kept waiting for Hell to break loose.

It never did. We fared better than we feared. But still, there were more than 50 attacks throughout the province.

And violence was the problem we were planning for, but it wasn’t the only problem. Afghan law requires 27% of parliamentary positions to be held by females. But in conservative areas like Paktya, many women couldn’t vote without being escorted by a male relative. Not surprisingly, female voters were sorely underrepresented.

Post-election, there were widespread allocations of voter fraud, ballot stuffing and intimidation. In some of Paktya’s villages, the number of votes cast dramatically exceeded the number of citizens. The legitimacy of the election was questioned, and a runoff election was scheduled between President Karzai and his main opponent Abdullah Abdullah.

A month later, we would have to do the whole thing again.

Conveniently, in the way government operations are often convenient, the end of the election coincided almost exactly with the beginning of Ramadan. In order to observe this tradition, many of the Afghan security personnel abandoned their posts. The polling sites were left unsecured.

Ultimately, there was no runoff. Abdullah conceded because he saw the system as too corrupt with no hope of a legitimate election.

I wondered how much the average citizen knew. Were they aware of the fraud? The potential for a runoff? That Karzai had been reelected? Did they have access to enough information to even know their stake in the matter?

Though Afghan citizens are starting to gain access to outside information through mediums like our radios, much of their programming is produced by the government. And their main source remains what it has been for hundreds of years: the local mosque.

So many options . . . so little time!

I often tell people that they should never rely on a single source for news. There is no such thing as completely fair and balanced. Every organization is targeting an audience, lobbying for ratings. Every message, directly or indirectly, is communicated with the intent of eliciting a certain feeling or response. So in the wake of this election, amidst the mudslinging that is still going on not only about candidates but also about FOX/CNN/MSNBC, I just have to say that I’m grateful to have access to the full spectrum. I’m grateful to have mass media at my fingertips, in whatever format I prefer. I’m grateful to have the option to wade through as much or as little information as I chose.

And, though I certainly don’t exercise it as much as some of you (you know who you are!), I’m grateful for the opportunity to disagree, to debate, and to complain. You see, in the military you don’t have that option. Military members cannot express political opinions because they represent the military.

So because I’m no longer beholden to those guidelines, I’ll just say this: Very few people would argue that there’s nothing wrong with our current system, and there were definitely things that frustrated me about yesterday’s election. The fact that the two-party system has become paralizingly polarized. The fact that the poor economy was supposedly the #1 issue, but $6 billion was spent funding campaigns. The fact that my polling station was plastered with campaign signs for a particular candidate for senate, but not a single sign for the other. The fact that one of the local ballot initiatives lumped veterans benefits in with unemployment and welfare, and called for supporting these “assistance programs” with cuts in military spending. (Am I the only one who finds funding veteran programs by cutting active military programs ironic? “Military spending” includes troop support programs, healthcare and protective measures . . . and those—along with “excess” manpower that certainly never feels excess, especially to those who lose their jobs after serving faithfully and being promised retirement benefits—are usually the first things to go. It’s not as simple as just bringing troops home. There is necessary, and expensive, post-war support. But that’s another blog post for another time.)

I vote because I can, and because it’s my duty and privilege as a U.S. citizen. But I also know that voting isn’t enough, that one man or woman can’t make everything perfect and certainly can’t make everyone happy. And instead of complaining (or, okay, sometimes while complaining), I choose action. I choose to educate and advocate, and to look for—and make—opportunities to stand up for what I believe in, because I’m pretty damn fortunate to live in a country where I can do that.

So thank you to those of you who voted. You have earned the right to be excited/angry/vindictive/controversial. Just remember that rants and raves are usually just rants and raves. And whatever you’re ranting or raving about, please take a break on Sunday to thank those who have willingly given up their own rights to do so in order to protect yours. 

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.

DON'T Free Bradley Manning: A rejected Op-Ed for your reading enjoyment

One of the great things about having a blog is that when I write an op-ed no one wants to publish, I can post it here! While I pay my writerly dues and amass a collection of rejection letters, I'm glad I can subject you, dear loyal readers, to what the masses will never see. I welcome questions, comments, recommendations to find a new field of study . . .

Here is the latest: 

DON'T Free Bradley Manning

On Sept. 6, protestors took to the streets in Boston and more than 30 cities nationwide to demand the release and pardon of Bradley Manning, the 24-year-old Army intelligence analyst who faces possible life in prison for charges of releasing secret military information through the WikiLeaks website in 2010. 

Outside the local Obama headquarters downtown, the Boston protestors carried signs and distributed handouts with the slogan “Blowing the whistle on war crimes is not a crime.”

As a former military public affairs officer, I agree with this slogan, and I agree with the principle of Manning’s actions—his intentions to, as the Bradley Manning Support Network website states, “inform the public and promote ‘discussion, debates, and reforms.’”

However, Manning’s methods were illegal, reckless and potentially dangerous, and for that he should be held accountable.

Bradley Manning (AP)

I‘m no stranger to the flow—or lack thereof—of government information. In fact, the strategic “spinning” of information, and my role as a spinner, in part drove me to leave the service. Now a civilian, I relish the freedom to speak candidly and to openly express my opinions.

But there are certain things I will never discuss, because such information could endanger my military comrades and hinder foreign relations. All veterans must bear the burden of selective silence.

Despite Manning’s obvious security breach, the Bradley Manning Support Network website stresses that “Not a single person has been harmed by the release of this information.” Though some officials are more wary, general consensus seems to assess the damage as minimal. For that, we are fortunate.

Some of the documents released on WikiLeaks dealt directly with my nation-building unit in Afghanistan. These items were classified for a reason; they addressed ongoing operations and investigations of insurgent activity. If this information had landed in the wrong hands—hands linked to the subjects of the operations and investigations—the U.S. personnel named in the documents could have faced serious danger.

Furthermore, classified communication can reveal military “tactics, techniques and procedures,” the exact processes for planning and executing operations. Enemy knowledge of these systems could easily jeopardize their effectiveness, and again, put those involved at risk.

Manning’s charge of “aiding the enemy” refers to his knowingly making such information available to the enemy by enabling its posting on the internet, a resource to which any audience has access.

These actions equate to treason. Treason is punishable by death. Intent is irrelevant.

Like Manning, during my time in the military I saw information that I felt belonged in the public domain. The American people deserve the opportunity to make informed decisions about a war they support with resources, sons and daughters. But a delicate balance exists between transparency and operational security. When tipped, this scale can compromise military and bureaucratic missions.

To assert that the military walks this line well would be brash. The military has a process for releasing information, but as in many dealings with the U.S. government, this process can be frustratingly long and painstaking, more difficult than it should be. Far too often, officials withhold information unnecessarily, even against regulations.

In these instances, we need people with courage like Bradley Manning. America entrusts our military with upholding the highest standards of conduct, with using resources wisely and supporting our collective best interests. The media and whistle-blowers serve to maintain accountability.

Still, one can blow a whistle without abusing sensitive information. Unfortunately, Manning did the right thing the wrong way.

The Free Bradley Manning campaign considers their subject a hero and a scapegoat. They express concern that Manning’s potential life in prison sentence and his treatment during pre-trial incarceration at Marine Base Quantico, which included extended solitary confinement, will serve to intimidate future whistle-blowers.

On the contrary, Manning must be an example of punishment befitting actions.

We cannot set the precedent that good intent justifies law-breaking, that lack of perceived damage negates the known potential for damage, and that there exists an acceptable level of treason.

I hope Manning’s actions do bring about international debate and reform. And I also hope his methods are penalized accordingly.

Remembrance

The candle warmed my face. It was a breezy night, one of the first that really felt like fall, and the flame danced and sputtered in front of me. Other candles came to life, bathing the gazebo an eerie glow. I thought how strange it was that this was the first Sept. 11 I’ve observed by lighting a candle.

I guess that’s how it’s done in the civilian world.

Each Sept. 11 on the Florida military base where I was stationed, life stopped for a moment. No one was too busy to pause and remember. But there, we had reminders every day—our camouflaged uniforms, the Rotator shipping out a new group on deployment, bringing a group home. The routine absence of family and friends. The memorial outside the chapel, the plaques in the air park, the streets bearing names of those who would never return.

When I was in Afghanistan, we held a remembrance ceremony on the helipad—the only space large enough for our formation—ducking from dust and gravel kicked up by the rotor blades of incoming helicopters. We didn’t have to work to remember there, either; each of our lives hovered in the aftermath. If we got too comfortable, there were 17 faces to bring us back, watching us from behind frames on the conference room wall, under a sign that read "Fallen Comrades of Paktya Province."

Out here in the real world, reminders are scarce.

Even I often get distracted. I stress about schoolwork and my new internship and the cat hair that clumps in the corners of my living room. Then I see a news report on Afghanistan. Or another name. Or something unexpected that brings me back to camouflage and dusty helipads and faces on a conference room wall.

Sometimes it’s more comfortable to forget.

Today, flags flew at half mast, and the TVs at my gym streamed footage from 11 years ago. But traffic swirled around our little vigil, students chatted and laughed on their way to class, the metallic bing! of bat-on-ball rung out from a baseball game across the park.

There weren’t enough candles to fill the star etched into the gazebo floor. I wished there were. With two empty tips, it looked like a feeble effort; a tribute made and then hastily forgotten.  

I knelt at one edge and tipped my candle, letting a drop of wax stain the concrete. I set the base of the candle on the drop and held it until wax merged with wax and it stood upright on its own. The crowd thinned. The moment had passed.

Adjusting the shoulder strap of my knapsack, I walked down the gazebo steps, back into the real world. I turned once before leaving.

My candle was lost in the collective glow, a small marker of light, of stillness on a busy city night.