$h!t the military taught me

I recently took a rite of passage to adulthood: I got a job in retail. Contrary to the warnings of many of my peers (who completed this rite years ago), I’m actually really enjoying the experience. Sure, customers can be picky, rude, and ungrateful. Sometimes it’s hard to keep smiling and stay cordial. But I appreciate being pulled from my solitary writerly cave and into daily social interaction. It’s refreshing to focus on something completely different. My coworkers are awesome, and meetings always involve pizza.

Not counting internships and work-from-home gigs, this is also my first job since leaving the service. Working in the “real world” has helped me realize many of the lessons I took from my time in the military. 

So, in the spirit of Thanksgiving, I’m compiling a list of gratitude. In the spirit of the military, I made it into an acronym: PAEAP, which you can remember with this Thanksgivingy phrase: People Always Eat Amazing Poultry.

PUNCTUALITY

I used to be perpetually late, regardless of what time I was supposed to arrive (but especially in the morning), where I was going or for what purpose. I didn’t mean to be late. I’d give myself ample time, I wouldn’t dawdle; I’d just hit a time warp and suddenly need to leave five minutes ago. In my college freshman English class, I was downgraded from an A to an A- because I had too many tardies. (The classroom was in the building next to my dorm, and the class started at a very reasonable 10am . . .)

The military beat lateness out of me.  Mornings were popular. Schedules were tight, and delaying a meeting or sneaking in late risked earning the commander’s wrath. Though a tad hyperbolic for my line of work, I took the saying to heart: “If you’re early you’re on time, if you’re on time you’re late, and if you’re late you’re dead.” Anyone who knows me knows I’m still not a morning person. But I can rally if I need to. (Incidentally, I also credit the military for indoctrinating me to black coffee.)  

ADAPTABILITY/INITIATIVE

Life in the military is often trial by fire. You’re expected to learn quickly, frequently with little or no instruction, sometimes in high-stakes situations. My deployed position was in many ways make-it-up-as-you-go; Information Operations for use in counterinsurgency/nation-building efforts was a new application. All doctrine was based on Vietnam-era kinetic warfare (direct enemy engagement). There were no standard operating procedures. Our guidance was vague—to the point of, to quote a colleague’s commander, “Sprinkle some IO dust on that.”

The expectation isn’t to instantaneously know the best way to accomplish the mission, but to figure out a good way. Initiative can mean asking for help, using the resources at your disposal to make an informed decision, making a “command decision” (a judgement call), or all of the above. It does NOT mean panicking, wallowing in self-doubt, or being paralyzed into inaction. I use these skills almost every day—particularly these last few weeks as I learn the ropes of a new service-oriented industry. If all else fails, I remember one of the unofficial tenants of public affairs: If you don’t have actual confidence, have pretend confidence.

EFFICIENCY

The military expects its members to operate with what they call “a sense of urgency.” Everything you do, whether it’s cleaning your weapon or cleaning your plate, should be done as efficiently as possible. There are a bajillion checklists, fill-in-the-blank templates and step-by-step guides to make this easier. In some situations, though, circumstances call for time-saving procedural deviations (see Adaptability/Initiative).

Speediness often comes into conflict with my perfectionist inclinations—I’ve had to learn to balance my high personal standards with what is reasonable to accomplish effectively in a timely manner and with available resources. Each customer may not have flawlessly gift-wrapped purchases, but they’ll be satisfied, and I can move onto the next customer rather than keeping him/her waiting.

ASSERTIVENESS 

I’m a natural pushover and avoider of confrontation. Governed by emotions and drawn toward peacemaking, I'd prefer to get walked on than make waves. Public affairs is kind of a wave-making entity. I often found myself a lowly lieutenant in a meeting with high-ranking leaders who were focused (understandably) on the immediate tangibles of a situation. PA was an afterthought, when the shit hit the fan. In order to pre-empt mass confusion and/or media and community outrage, I had to proactively speak up and assert my position as the subject matter expert, even when I felt anything but. As a supervisor and ranking officer, I also needed to stand up for my Airmen. I was the buffer between their wellbeing and demanding customers.

Though the stakes are lower in small business retail, my actions still represent the company. I’m still the (actively learning) subject matter expert. Confrontation remains mildly nauseating for me, but I’ve learned that the anticipation is usually worse than the actual event. More often than not, long-term benefits are worth temporary discomfort.  

PERSPECTIVE 

Most situations are preferable to living in a warzone. Being yelled at by a persnickety customer is a hell of a lot better than being yelled at by generals and/or Afghan government officials. Interactions carry very little risk of inciting an international incident. In all likelihood, no one will be injured or killed. As my husband is fond of saying, “At least they’re not shooting at you.”

As always, I’m thankful to be spending the holidays with loved ones and grateful for all who have worked and continue to work to make that possible.

If you're shopping this weekend, please be kind to your salespeople!

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

Response to American Sniper demonstrates vast spectrum of war experience

I’m cleaning, like I do when I’m anxious. My husband Colin is thinking about shoes.

“Women and children,” he says. “You determine their intent by their shoes.”

We saw American Sniper earlier. All through the movie I fidgeted, like I do when I’m anxious. Colin sat rigid. Now he’s thinking about shoes.

“Women have no cause to wear shoes with tread,” he says. “So if they are, they are far more likely to blow you up.”

I say something like, “that makes sense,” because it does, and because I don’t know how else to respond. I often don’t know how to respond when Colin’s brain is in Afghanistan. I know his mind needs to dwell there for a while. It bounces between mountain passes and desert, between quiet conversations and the rumble of Humvee motors, or gunfire. Often it fixates on the suicide bomber who rammed his truck into Colin’s convoy. The young Afghan boy caught in the explosion. Colin’s gunner, his friend, engulfed in flames.

My brain goes to Afghanistan sometimes, as well, but to another time, another location, another mission. Colin served as an infantryman in 2006. My role in 2009-2010 as part of a nation-building Provincial Reconstruction Team was largely bureaucratic. However, when we met in 2012, Colin and I connected through our disparate war stories. We talked. He lent me his then-unpublished manuscript of war poetry. I shared an essay about redeploying. Our writing, our experiences, were drastically different. But they were also the same.

I discovered this connection, too, with my mother, who served as a nurse in Saudi Arabia during Operation Desert Storm. When I came home from Afghanistan, despite the decades, borders, and job duties that separated our wars, Mom and I found common elements weaving through each deployment, and the aftermath.

In the weeks since its release, American Sniper has generated heated discussion of many colors: respect and admiration for what Chris Kyle and his family endured, attacks on his character, praise for the film’s raw and intimate portrayal, admonishment for lack of political context, rebuff for the use of the mythical/hero formula and appreciation for the same.

Perhaps the most impassioned debate comes from within the veteran community. I’ve seen numerous articles and social media posts from veterans proclaiming that the movie did not accurately represent their time in the military or in Iraq. Many express the valid concern that this contemporary war film will become the contemporary war film and will shape (or perpetuate) public opinion. Others rejoice that the movie has spurred conversation, regardless of the nuances.

The response mirrors war itself. War is a spectrum. Or more accurately, war is a complicated graph of various separate but related spectrums: of danger and comfort, of excitement and fear and humor and absurdity and friendship and guilt and shame and pride.

Veterans easily point fingers at those who had it worse, or better, or different.  We elevate some to the top of the heroism hierarchy. The rest are left muddling somewhere in the middle.

Kyle’s war certainly more closely resembles Colin’s war than it does mine. Still, Colin never engaged in urban combat (“urban” isn’t a term associated with most of Afghanistan). Colin worked directly with the local population, rather than viewing them solely through a rifle’s scope. He didn’t deploy multiple times. He didn’t leave a family at home.

But the movie left him thinking about shoes.

“I shouldn’t be sad,” Colin says. “I didn’t even come close to doing what Kyle did. But I did more than most, so it’s not like I feel insufficient. I don’t feel depressed. I just feel sad.”

I feel sad, though for different reasons. I’m remembering being on the other side, when my mom deployed and left me behind. I’m thinking about all the things I might have done differently in Afghanistan, all the things I might have done better. I’m trying to figure out what “better” would have been.

I’m also worried about Colin, because I’ve seen his sadness spiral deep and dark and lasting.

No, Kyle’s war was not Colin’s war. It wasn’t my war, or my mom’s war. It wasn’t anyone’s war but Kyle’s. Yet his narrative contains threads Colin and I, and many other veterans, can latch onto.

For the general public, American Sniper provides one perspective. One perspective, from one man, in his unique personal circumstances—and filtered through a Hollywood lens. One perspective cannot come close to a full representation of war.

But it helps.

As long as we have war, we need discussions of war, stimulated by literature, film and other mediums. The public bears responsibility for consuming and engaging with this art, in all its forms, from all its sources: veterans, journalists, civilians, Iraqis, and Afghans.

However, the onus is on veterans, too: for producing it. In order for the public to listen, read, view, veterans must speak, write, create. If we hope to achieve an environment in which veterans can have comfortable dialogue with non-veterans, where discussions of war are candid, not taboo and not sensationalized; if we hope to bridge the oft-referenced “civilian-military divide,” we, the veterans, must lay the groundwork. We must stop the finger-pointing and heroic hierarchies. We must put aside the pride and stubbornness and self-sustaining ideas that one type of soldier has more right to tell his or her story than another. We must welcome all narratives: familiar, traditional, and not. 

More narratives facilitate both a greater public understanding of war and increased opportunities for each individual veteran to find a story—or a thread—to which he or she can relate.

“I’m sad,” Colin says again. “I don’t quite know what to do with that.”

Eventually, he settles on sleep. The next morning he decides to join a support group at the VA.

#GivingTuesday (yes, it's a thing!)

Happy Giving Tuesday! Apparently that's a thing. (A good thing, obviously, I just feel very old and uninformed not knowing about it until now.) If you, like many, plan to supplement your holiday consumerism with some good old fashioned charitable contributions, let me point out a few military/veteran-focused nonprofit organizations worthy of your consideration:

Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans of America (IAVA)

The largest organization for Post-9/11 veterans and their supporters, with membership topping 250,000, IAVA also boasts a stellar 5-star (93.32/100) rating from Charity Navigator. Unlike many veteran organizations, IAVA doesn’t charge membership dues; their funding comes through fundraisers and donors. They’re a community for veterans to connect, hosting “Vet Togethers,” parades and other events across the country, but much of IAVA’s impact comes from legislative initiatives. Every year they “storm the hill” to bring veterans’ concerns straight to congress. They were the driving force behind the Post-9/11 GI Bill and other game-changing enterprises. Currently, IAVA is pushing to enhance veteran mental health care and end the suicide epidemic, lobbying for Clay Hunt Suicide Prevention for American Veterans Act. **You can help FOR FREE, by signing the petition here.

Got Your 6

I wrote a post about Got Your 6 two years ago when they first got started, and I'm excited to see how they've grown! “Got your six” is a military term meaning “I’ve got your back.” This organization has our backs with an unlikely ally: Hollywood. You may have seen their star-studded public service announcements, like this one:

…or noticed their snazzy “6” pins on the lapels of your favorite entertainers (which would make great stocking stuffers...hint, hint!). Got Your 6 is working to bridge the civilian-military divide by changing the conversation about veterans and shifting perception from “victims” or “charity” or even “heroes” to empowerment and potential. Like it or not, the entertainment industry has a lot to do with that. Portrayal of veteran characters on TV and in movies, in songs and literature, works into our collective psyches. (Got Your 6 recently published a fascinating—and disturbing—study on the topic, which you can read here.) In addition to PSAs and swag, Got Your 6 partners with 30 leading veteran non-profit orgs supporting their “six key pillars of veteran reintegration”: Jobs, Education, Health, Housing, Family and Leadership.

Team Rubicon

Team Rubicon epitomizes the idea of veterans continuing to serve. Trained and organized with military proficiency, their primary mission is as first responders following natural disasters, deploying to ground zero to provide immediate relief before conventional aid arrives. Efforts have ranged from small community service projects, to clean-up after Midwest tornadoes, to sending teams on humanitarian missions to Haiti and the Philippines.

More than just providing services to others, Team Rubicon also supports veterans with, from their website: “three things they lose after leaving the military: a purpose, gained through disaster relief; community, built by serving with others; and self-worth, from recognizing the impact one individual can make.” I have several friends (veterans and non-vets) who are active in Team Rubicon, and I’ve seen how the program has enhanced their lives. If my word isn’t enough to convince you, Starbucks CEO Howard Schultz wrote highlighted Team Rubicon in his new book: For Love of Country: What Our Veterans Can Teach Us About Citizenship, Heroism, and Sacrifice.

PHOTO from teamrubiconusa.org: Team Rubicon members in action in the Philippines in response to Typhoon Haiyan. Focusing on the hard-hit city of Tacloban and the surrounding towns, TR treated over 2,100 patients with immediate medical care.

Writing/Artistic Organizations

A cause close to my heart is using writing or art to work through trauma and intellectualize military experiences, and to share those experiences with others. What better way to create an engaged, informed and supportive community? Along those lines, I recommend the Veterans Writing Project, Words After War, Warrior Writers, Military Experience & the Arts, and the Veteran Artist Program. The missions are similar, but programs, mediums, teaching methods and operating locations vary. Donate and/or check out their artistic projects (more stocking stuffers!).

There are many more worthy military charities, as general or niche as you want, as diverse as veterans themselves. For other areas, Military.com offers a comprehensive list, as does Charity Navigator.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS, and happy giving!

Truly Uncamouflaged

Last week, I was officially discharged from the military.

I haven’t served since Dec. 2010, when my active duty commitment was complete. Since then I’ve been a “civilian,” a fulltime graduate student, a person relishing my post-military freedom—especially my freedom of speech. But I’ve also been a name on a list.

The beginning:June 2002, ROTC commissioning
ceremony,  with my mother (USAFR, retired)

When I signed my military contract and accepted an ROTC scholarship back in 2002 (side note: I feel old), I committed to eight years of service: at least four years active duty and the remainder in the Individual Ready Reserves (IRR for the acronym-happy military). I wasn’t required to drill or work for the Air Force in any capacity. I wasn’t paid or eligible for benefits. All I had to do was update my contact information annually, just in case...

Just in case they needed someone in my position to fill an assignment. Just in case they needed me to deploy.

I was in Afghanistan with several Army soldiers who had been recalled from IRR. They all performed their duties honorably, but the appointment obviously weighed heavily on their morale. They had been plucked from their civilian lives on short notice, thrust into a job at which they were rusty at best in a place to which they hoped to never return.

Though I’ve been out of the military for almost four years, that “just in case” has been there in the back of my mind. During the Arab Spring and escalating conflicts in places like Libya and Syria. The Air Force has not traditionally needed IRR backfills, but the last few years have seen a shrinking military. When I left active duty, my career field was at critical manning levels. (I wanted to teach ROTC but couldn’t be released for “special duty.”) Drilling reservists were being slotted for regular deployments.

So as June 2, 2014 drew closer, the date when my contractual obligation would be complete, I got anxious. June 2 arrived. My husband opened a bottle of champagne, and my family and I breathed a collective sigh of relief. After four years, it seemed anti-climactic.

As an officer, in order to completely sever my military ties and not remain indefinitely subject to recall, I had to take one more step and resign my commission.

I understand this is a very difficult decision for many people, and it’s not something I take lightly. But for me it was an easy choice. I’d done my option-weighing, mentor-advice-seeking and deliberating in 2010. I’ve had four years to reaffirm that I made the right move in getting out. Four years when I’ve seen friends deploy for their second, third, eighth tours. When I’ve seen the military continue their push to “do more with less,” involuntarily separating “overages” and expecting those who remain to pick up the slack (the same thing that happened to my career field several years ago, shortly thereafter forcing us into critical manning and a 1:1 deployment/dwell time cycle). Four years when the news from Afghanistan and Iraq has left me questioning the purpose all over again. Meanwhile at home, people don’t realize we’re still at war.

But mostly, in these four years I’ve seen myself find my footing. When I got out in 2010 I had a vague idea of what I wanted to do and a vague plan to delay really deciding by going to grad school. I struggled reconciling the veteran part of me with everything else I felt I was, or wanted to be. Now, as cheesy as it sounds, I’ve found my place.

I have no regrets about my military service. I’m grateful for the experiences it gave me and the people I met. There are aspects I will always miss. But I’m done. I’ve moved on. I’m striking my name from the list.

Leaving the military was a leap; resigning my commission was a simple step forward.

The end: Sept 2014, honorably discharged

The decision to resign or stay in is a personal one, and everyone has different rationale. Have you resigned your commission? Have you decided to stay on IRR? Are you at that crossroads? I'd love to hear your thoughts.

NOTE: As with many government activities, the process for resigning my commission was a bit convoluted. My understanding is it differs by component, but if you’re looking for guidance please let me know and I’d be happy to pass on lessons learned.

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?

On the next decade

Well hello, Blogosphere. It’s been a while. 

It’s been so long that it’s now 2014…how did that happen? It’s been so long that I’m now 30. Eeek…how did that happen? But, perhaps contrary to the opinions of popular culture, I’m actually excited to be moving into this new decade.

My 20s were fine, but they were messy. There were the typical growing up things: going to college, getting my first full-time job (for which I felt sorely unprepared), living on my own, suffering through more than one broken heart. There were things that on the eve of my 20s I couldn’t anticipate: moving across the country not once but three times, running a marathon, buying a condo, going to war, needing therapy.

There were things that made me feel powerful. Things that made me feel mature. Things that made me feel hopeless and helpless and weak. Mostly, I fumbled. What I lacked in job experience I made up for in time and energy. I threw myself into work and “love” and play with the fervor that only a 20-something can, alternately having fun and trying to outrun the cynical voices of my young psyche: What am I doing? What am I supposed to be doing? How do I do this? What does this mean? What’s the point? WHO AM I?

I know these struggles are not unique to me. Our 20s are inevitably a time of transformation—from our social circles, to our professional lives, to our priorities, right down to our brain structure. But I think these issues are intensified in a military environment—and/or when you leave that environment.

A very military family, at my commissioning

I signed my military contract at 18. For the next four years, I was a college student, but mostly I was an ROTC cadet. I was held to the standards of conduct and grooming commensurate with my position as a soon-to-be Air Force officer. Because we spent so much time together and because, for the most part, we shared similar values, my ROTC classmates became my best friends. ROTC activities (both official and unofficial) dictated my social life.

After I commissioned, the Air Force moved me across the country—about as far as one can move from home without crossing an ocean, from Seattle to the Florida panhandle. Again, this is not an entirely unique situation, but the military transition is unique in that it serves as a half-step of sorts toward independence. I was living on my own for the first time, but I had assistance finding a place and a housing allowance once I did. I was in an unfamiliar area, but I had a whole city of a base to fulfill my basic needs. I knew no one, and though as a young, single female officer in a small unit it was harder to meet people in my demographic, it was easy enough. (I may or may not have stalked every female 2^nd Lieutenant in the base’s network and sent a mass email about getting together for dinner…). I didn’t need to stress over what to wear in the morning.

A military base is a strange microcosm of real life. At once intimate and segregated. The learning curve is steep because the stakes are high, yet always governed by rules, regulations and routine.

Most strikingly when it comes to the tumultuous 20s, as a servicemember, you must internalize the values of the military. You must talk the talk and walk the walk, because everything you say and do reflects on the military. As a public affairs officer, where my job was to promote support for the Air Force, I—rightly or not—took this to the highest level. I drank the Kool-Aid. The Air Force ideology became my ideology. The badge on my uniform all but declared me [Property of] U.S. Air Force.

Then I deployed and gained exposure to other ways of thinking and to the shortcomings of the ways I’d adopted. Isn’t that what your 20s are about? Gaining perspective? Learning and growing? Sometimes it comes gradually, through a natural progression of experiences. Sometimes, it metaphorically whaps you in the head with a 2x4.

My one-size-fits-most military persona was shattered. Shortly thereafter, my contract was up and I re-entered the civilian world. And all those things the military had cushioned for me during my last “coming of age” were no longer there. I didn’t have a career trajectory set out in front of me. I half-heartedly applied to a few jobs in the PR field, which seemed safe and logical but unsatisfying. I took a leap and followed a dream and applied to grad school to study writing (because an English major wasn’t financially unviable enough).

I moved across the country. Again. But this time I didn’t have military movers to help, just my parents and seven suitcases and a series of hiccups in the condo sale and a very patient lawyer and a hotel an hour away and a hostel downtown and the couch of a generous grad school classmate who thankfully didn’t think I was a homicidal maniac.

I spent hours trying on different outfits, trying to figure out what style suited me (anything

but camo and combat boots was fair game!). I was self-conscious as a non-native New Englander and a non-traditional student, and had to constantly remind myself that I didn’t need to censor what I did or said—that autonomy was both liberating and terrifying.

Despite the marvel of Google maps, I got frustratingly lost in my new city. Boston felt enormous and crammed with people, yet I struggled to connect with anyone outside my grad school classes. I tried on-line dating and seriously considered joining a convent.

But in the big enormous city I also discovered the wonder of freedom. I could be anonymous. I could be a student, I could be a veteran, I could be a hermit-writer-cat lady, or all of the above. With my new wardrobe, I could chose to stand out or blend in. In class, I could listen to lectures and feedback, take time in forming my own opinions, and present them how and when I chose. I could speak my mind. Or not.

It’s finding our individual windows of freedom and getting comfortable there, I think, that our 20s are all about. With is prescribed structure, the military complicates that process. But I also credit the Air Force for shaping my window with a breadth of experience and contact with people that helped move me a few steps closer to answering that elusive “Who am I” question.

I’m starting this next decade with a pretty good idea.

Welcome, Veteran Poster Boy: Aaron Alexis

I should be polishing the essay I turn in to my workshop class tomorrow, or starting the research paper due next month, or chipping away at that looming thesis project. But sometimes there’s something that needs to be written before anything else can be. Today, that something revolves around Monday’s shooting at the Washington, DC Navy Yard. 

It’s been a violent week. Last weekend, three separate shootings rocked my home city of Boston. The Navy Yard incident, though farther from home, hit me hardest. Not because of the scale—though how can you not balk at the gruesome facts: at least 12 killed and eight injured in the “single worst loss of life in the District” since a Boeing 737 crashed into the Potomac River in 1982, killing 78 people.

No, the Navy Yard shooting hit me hardest because the shooter was a veteran. 

Aaron Alexis, the new veteran
Poster Boy
UNCREDITED/AP

That makes it personal. That adds Aaron Alexis to a list of high-profile poster boys who represent what the public knows to be a veteran. He’s in the company of Army Staff Sergeant Robert Bales, who recently pleaded guilty to killing 16 Afghan villagers in March 2012; Iraq veteran Benjamin Colton Barnes, who shot and killed a park ranger at Mt. Rainier National Park almost exactly a year ago; and Army veteran Wade Michael Page, who fatally shot six people at a Sikh temple in Wisconsin in August 2012.

Of course, any shooting death is tragic. But a perpetrator with military connections makes it doubly tragic for the veteran community. Cue the ripple effects of reinforced stereotypes.

Additionally, this situation is hard for me because I know that as a veteran, Alexis had access to a support network.

The military and VA certainly don’t lack for negative press, especially in light of shocking statistics like in 2012, the number of military suicides was higher than the number of American soldiers killed in Afghanistan. Still, the military community comes with an inherent support network that includes not only official mental healthcare channels, but also chaplains, family support centers, supervisors who are trained and charged with their soldiers’ well-being, and, of course, peers who have “been there, done that.” So many resources—if Alexis had reached out to one, could this tragedy have been prevented?

And is it really that simple? Of course not.

Seeking help requires a degree of self-awareness and an emotional vulnerability that goes against military culture and training.

The military thrives on an ethos of hyper-masculinity. In war, you can’t afford to be emotional. I am by nature one of the most emotional people I know (I still have to fast-forward through Mufasa’s death scene), but in Afghanistan, out of necessity (and somewhat unwittingly), I built barriers around my emotions. It was a defense mechanism that enabled me to do my job—one which keeps war-fighters focused and alive.

But emotional dullness doesn’t translate back to “real life.” I recognized that on some level—that’s what spurred me through the doors of my base’s Mental Health Clinic when everything in me wanted to turn around. My military mentality told me I was weak. A failure.

In hindsight, I realize that incredibly difficult, controversial decision was one of the most important choices I’ve ever made. But can a veteran be faulted for not making it? Is there an element of institutional failure as well?

Right now, the details of Alexis’ military career are sketchy. There's no information on whether he deployed. Reports say that during his service as a Navy reservist he had a “pattern of misconduct” but ultimately received an honorable discharge. The New York Times also reports that Alexis “exhibited signs of mental illness” for many years. 

Surely, there were people who interacted with Alexis and noticed red flags. Surely some such interactions occurred during his time in the service.

In response to the shocking suicide rates, the military has become, in theory, hyper-aware of mental health issues. One of my annual Air Force training requirements was a lengthy Suicide Prevention presentation that was so cheesy and mind-numbing that we all joked it made us want to commit suicide. Each unit took “training days” to discuss our individual and group concerns. We filled out questionnaires about our mental health. We were given flyers with a hotline number.

Mental health was a hot topic for discussion, but too easily clashed with the aforementioned culture in practice. A change in culture starts at the top, and takes more than handouts and PowerPoint. And ultimately, each person is responsible for his or her own sphere of influence. How many paths did Alexis cross where he could have been turned? How many people were too busy, too distracted, too disinterested, too self-absorbed, too scared, too lenient to act?

As a 2^nd Lieutenant, my second year in the Air Force, I got a call in the middle of the night that one of my Airmen had been put on suicide watch. The Airman was someone I directly supervised, someone I interacted with on a daily basis, someone I was responsible for. I had failed. It can be so easy—and so terribly costly—to fail.

I could never justify or rationalize the killing of innocent people. I’m not making excuses for Alexis’ actions. I imagine there are a million factors that combine to make a person commit a violent act. And I imagine that no matter how strict our gun laws or how strong a person’s support network, if someone is dead-set on committing violence, he or she will find a way to do so.

I can only hope that in the wake of this tragedy, we can all take stock of our potential for failure—as individuals, as institutions, as a society—and be hyper-aware in practice of prevention.

Food for Thought on National BBQ Day

Last year was the first time Memorial Day really affected me. 

I’m ashamed to admit that. 2012 wasn’t my first year with military association—my mother served in the Army and deployed to Saudi Arabia when I was seven. It wasn’t my first year as a veteran myself, or my first year with a connection to a military comrade killed in action.

Memorial Day 2012 was, however, the first time I gave the holiday the consideration it deserves.

Previously, I’d bounced between opposite ends of the spectrum of observance. Before I served in the military, I flitted past the final Monday of May without much thought. There are so many distractions in civilian America: work, family, friends, school, health, groceries, cleaning, sports, hobbies, politics . . . With holiday weekends come travel, traffic, sun (or complaints about rain), relaxation, barbeques and beer . . . It’s easy to overlook the meaning of the holiday; or to simply acknowledge, but not honor the purpose.

In the military, it’s impossible to forget. Reminders are everywhere, every day of every year.

My base in Afghanistan had a memorial wall with portraits of each of the 17 fallen comrades of Paktya province. I stared at those photos daily; proud faces of young men who had died in the space where I lived and worked. My base in Florida had names chiseled into a memorial outside the base chapel. There were plaques in the airpark commemorating those lost in aircraft crashes. Streets shared names with fallen Airmen. I attended memorial services; I wrote profiles on their subjects. Every day was Memorial Day.

I don’t remember how I spent Memorial Day 2011, my first year out of the military. Maybe I was stuck in limbo on that spectrum—at once too separated from the military, cozy with my family in my childhood home in Seattle; and too close, my war still fresh and raw and unprocessed.  

As Memorial Day approached last year, my mind went back to the faces in Paktya and the names at Hurlburt Field. It lingered for a long time with memories of Randy Voas, Ryan Hall and JD Loftis. I didn’t tell my mind to go there, but I didn’t try to redirect it either. I let those names and faces and memories form a backdrop to my time with family, to my sun and relaxation, food and drink. I toasted them. Then for one minute on Memorial Day, at 12:01pm Eastern Standard Time, I closed my eyes and cleared my head of everything but the names and faces I knew, and the countless others I didn’t, who made the ultimate sacrifice.

On some level, those names and faces are always with me now. They are part of who I am as a veteran. I can already feel them pushing a little harder as Memorial Day weekend approaches, and like last year, I won’t push back. I will again bring them to the forefront for a minute of silence this Memorial Day, and I hope you will do the same.

12:01pm EDT Monday: #GoSilent for one minute to honor the men and women who have given their lives for our country.

Then enjoy your weekend. That’s what they would want.

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