An attempt at Throwback Thursday

I don’t normally participate in the Throwback Thursday trend, you know posting old photos where I look all young and cute (maybe because my old photos usually trend toward young and dorky?), but today I’m feeling nostalgic. And it’s Thursday. So here goes.

#tbt

Here’s me approximately two years and eight months ago, sneaking in late to the Emerson College New Graduate Student Orientation (I hadn’t learned that the MBTA requires buffer time built into your schedule), and sitting stiffly through a day of death-by-powerpoint presentations reminiscent of military briefings, except instead of camo the audience was in plaid. We were herded to our department meetings, where the Writing, Literature and Publishing program (predictably, in hindsight) miscounted and didn’t have enough chairs. Look! There’s Jen and Shannon sitting on the floor! The department head gave a speech that equally excited and freaked me out. Something along the lines of: everything up until this point doesn’t matter; you need to prove you belong in this program.

Here’s me a week later, in my first ever graduate nonfiction writing workshop, passing out copies of a bare-all-my-baggage essay about my post-deployment mental health struggles to a group of people I’d known for approximately two hours. I knew them enough to know most had little experience with the military. This was New England. This was academia. Here’s me wondering if I’m a masochist.

The feedback those strangers gave me the following week propelled me to a year later. Here’s me submitting that same essay to a contest with Glamour magazine. Here’s me dancing around the living room on the phone with an editor after she informs me that I won.

Here’s that essay last October in the magazine. Here’s that essay last month in my graduate thesis. There’s my cap and gown, ready for Sunday’s commencement ceremony.

When I left the military in Dec 2010, I applied to graduate school in part because I didn’t know what else to do. I was giving up financial stability for (at least temporary) geographic stability. The economy sucked. I had no expectations of a creative arts degree setting me up on a financially viable career path, but I was ready to take a risk to try my hand at something I loved. I hoped Emerson would help me become a better writer and find my footing in the publishing world.

My amazing, talented, and super serious Emerson gang

I never expected my classmates to become my best friends. As it turns out, swapping baggage facilitates bonding. We read the most intimate details of each other’s’ lives, and we weren’t strangers anymore. We were supporters, cheerleaders, commiserators, grammar Nazis, drinking buddies, and so much more.

I didn’t expect to not only find my footing in the publishing world—I’m graduating with a decent publication record, a year of editorial experience, and even a couple paychecks—but also to be welcomed into a talented, vibrant community of veteran-writers. (I definitely didn’t expect to be engaged to one of them!) Here’s us sitting around a restaurant table at an annual writing conference in March. I look around at the array of funky-to-nerd-chic hairstyles and listen in to a conversation analyzing Ulysses as a post-war model for the “new man,” and remark: “Looking at us, you’d have no idea we’re all veterans.” Across the table someone observes: “I think we’re all that one person who didn’t quite fit in in our units.”

Here’s me finding my niche.

Happy graduation, and thanks beyond words to everyone who helped me get here. 

Another tragedy, and all I can do is write

I live in the Fenway area, about a mile and a half from the Boston Marathon finish line. I was safe at home yesterday when the bombs went off. I heard sirens, but with a major hospital complex right down the street, I thought nothing of it.

Then my phone lit up with inquiries from family and friends. Then my boyfriend turned on the TV and hollered at me to call my friend who lives downtown. Then I saw the first shaky video clips.

My initial reaction was horror. How could it be anything else? I joined the frantic texting/social media frenzy to account for my friends. I prayed. The news was a loop of fragmented, terrible details. Two dead. Twenty-two injured. Then 50. Then 75. One hundred.

Other thoughts filtered in. I hope the attacker isn’t a veteran; I hope it’s not a new poster boy (or girl) for PTSD.

I hope it’s not an extremist who reinforces hateful stereotypes.

I hope the bastard is brought to justice.

I thought I was done with war zones.

As a bystander in a situation like this, I think in some ways it’s easier to be a veteran. Not easy, by any means, not un-affecting—especially for those whose trauma symptoms are triggered. But, unfortunately, it’s something we’re familiar with. We’ve been involved in attacks, whether directly or on the fringes. We’ve been through planning and exercises.

We’ve carried that burden, taken that risk, in hopes that others won’t have to; that this will be a safe place to return home; that citizens will not have to live in fear; that children can watch their parents run 26.2 miles on a beautiful spring day.

I thought of the marathon I ran in Houston in 2009—masochistically wonderful and peaceful and inspiring. I thought of watching my sister run Coeur d'Alene last year, my two-year-old niece jogging along on the sidelines. I thought of the fear in the eyes of the Afghan children I met; a necessary, deep-seeded complex no child should have to endure.

Yesterday, more than fear I felt completely helpless. I wasn’t downtown to help and couldn’t get there if I tried. Because I’ve “lived” in an area with a prevalence of certain diseases, I can’t even donate blood.

So I ate a bunch of junk food. I hugged my boyfriend and snuggled with my cat. I watched something funny on TV.

And I wondered if I had been there, what would I have done? When my fight or flight reflexes kicked in, which would win? I don’t blame those who ran away—self-preservation is a logical and natural human reaction, and probably saved lives yesterday, not to mention alleviated mass confusion. But as a veteran, as someone with training and experience, would I join them?

Or would I be one of the hundreds who ran toward the scene? Would I help clear debris and carry victims to safety? Would I use my combat lifesaver training to render emergency first aid? Would I offer soothing words and a hand to hold?

I hope if I were there I would stay.

I hope I never have to find out.

RIP to those who lost their lives in this senseless attack. May victims and family members find comfort and healing—physically and emotionally.

Thanks to the first responders, medical and security personnel, K-9 units, blood donors, and those around the city and across the nation who’ve offered thoughts and prayers of support. You have shown that tragedies like this unify us and make us stronger.

May we hold onto unity and love long after the wounds begin to heal. 

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

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.

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

What I think about when I think about running

Yesterday was farthest I’ve run since my knee injury three years ago.

To say it felt good would be an understatement . . . and a lie.

Of course it felt good! I conquered a milestone! I was also supporting a good cause: the 8th Annual Pat’s Run in support of the Pat Tillman Foundation, which provides scholarships to veterans and military spouses.

The run also felt like crap. It was hot outside, and though my knee was surprisingly pain-free, the rest of my body protested the entire 4.2 miles.

I know what you’re thinking (other than that I’m a total stud): Why 4.2 miles? The 4.2 mile course is in honor of Pat Tillman, #42 when he played football for Arizona State, who walked away from a lucrative NFL contract to become an Army Ranger after 9/11. His patriotism inspired a nation. In 2004, his friendly fire death in Afghanistan shocked a nation.

Every year, to remember the man behind the media storm, Pat’s Run is held in Tempe, AZ, finishing at the 42 yard line of the ASU Sun Devils Stadium. The race draws more than 30,000 people annually and has spawned 25 “shadow runs” across the country, including here in Boston, where yesterday nearly 100 participants – veterans, ASU alumni and supporters – came together. To remember.

I used to run to forget.

I ran to drain my mind of my stressors and worries, to get lost in the rhythm of my feet. In my job as an Air Force public affairs officer, where a ringing phone could signal an emergency at any minute, where nothing was predictable, I relished the consistency of running. Left, right, left, right, left, right. Breathe in, two, three, four; breathe out, two, three, four . . .

A part of me wishes I could still run this way. I wish I could run faster, because my demons are closer now. I wish I could run longer, to try to outpace them.

In a lot of ways, running still feels good – mentally, if not physically. But when I run now, I can’t help remembering how it used to be. My easy stride, my breath flowing deep and natural. So powerful. Now my legs and my lungs strain with every step.

I remember maintaining a 7:27 pace for a 4-mile race in my prime. I held steady at just over nine minutes for 26.2 miles around Houston in 2009. Yesterday, just under nine minutes for 4.2 would have to do.

When I run, I remember dawn in Indiana during pre-deployment training: the scatter of loose gravel as my unit started our morning run, the swish-swish-swish of my Air Force warm-up pants, and the first stabbing pain in my knee. I didn’t wonder how I would make it through a nine-month deployment with an injury. I wondered how I would make it through nine months without running.

I remember falling into a jagged rhythm on the loose, sticky belt of the treadmill in our Forward Operating Base’s gym. Staring into the white tent wall dripping with condensation, my iPod transported me back to the beach in Florida, or to the 1990s, or any time or any place that wasn’t a rickety treadmill in Afghanistan where my knee wouldn’t let me run any further.

Yesterday, after about a mile, I didn’t want to run further. But then I remembered that I could – it was a beautiful day in AMERICA and my body was working, at least for the moment. And I remembered those who could no longer enjoy beautiful days in America:

Maj. Randy Voas, Killed in Action, April 8, 2010
Capt. Ryan Hall, Killed in Action, Feb 18, 2012
Lt. Col. JD Loftis, Killed in Action, Feb. 25, 2012

So I kept running, for them.

My breath was ragged. My muscles pulsed with the effort of each footfall. Left . . . right . . . left . . . right . . . I’m sure my face was contorted into a sweaty, tortured expression that could scare small children.

But watching the line of red t-shirts – #42 on the back – snake along the Charles River; knowing I was part of something bigger than myself, I felt powerful again.

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.

Planes, Trains and Humvees

Call me crazy, but I actually enjoy air travel. Yes, you lose a day, but it’s an excuse to spend said day reading and/or napping. I also enjoy airports. Yes, the food is overpriced and you have to lug your carryon to the bathroom, but they’re great venues for people watching. Or you can buy expensive exotic perfumes duty free (I’ve never actually done this – I favor my $12 drugstore cologne – but it’s nice to have the option). Or you can get your shoes shined or sit in one of those $1 massage chairs (actually never done this either). Or you can catch up on the latest celebrity gossip without ever buying the magazines (Definitely done this. I hope people who see me realize US Weekly is just a way of killing time. Really, it is. Seriously. Don’t judge me).

I think there’s a part of me that has always found air travel intriguing. I’ve never quite understood why people get so unbelievably I’m-going-to-yell-at-these-poor-people-just-trying-to-do-their-jobs/thank-goodness-I’m-on-blood-pressure-medication stressed about it.

But as I flew back to Boston this week, sleepy, but relaxed and contentedly stuffed with Christmas chocolate; as I was bombarded with the little airport annoyances and the people overtly annoyed by them, something donned on me: maybe I don’t get so annoyed because I’ve been through much more bothersome travel scenarios. For example, after having driven across the country, I know air travel sure as heck beats that option. And air travel anywhere sure as heck beats air travel to and from rural Afghanistan.

Looking around at my fellow travelers annoyedly aligning their laptops, shoes and carryons on the security belt, I wanted to tell them that it’s better than emptying out the entire contents of several jam-packed duffel bags into bins and watching someone sort through it all with a fine tooth comb, throwing away things like vitamins no longer in their original container.

At the crowded terminal, overhearing my fellow travelers annoyedly groaned about layovers, early arrivals and “long flights from Vegas,” I wanted to tell them it’s better than boarding an exhaust-spewing bus in the middle of the night, twice as many body armor-clad people as seats, and 24-hours straight of flight time; it’s better than transferring from contract aircraft to military aircraft to smaller military aircraft to helicopter; it’s better than a four-day layover in Kuwait or at Bagram Air Base, sleeping under a tent in a rickety bunk with 100 other people, with all the lights on all the time, and finally drifting off into a fitful sleep only to be jolted awake by the sirens of incoming mortars.

Squeezing into a coach seat while my fellow travelers annoyedly huffed and puffed about limited leg room and noisy children, I wanted to tell them it’s better than pull-down web seating on a C-130 where your butt falls asleep almost immediately after takeoff and your hair keeps getting caught in the netting behind you; where the engines are so loud they issue passengers earplugs.

Hefting my mondo, just-barely-within-weight-limits suitcase onto the airport shuttle the driver exclaimed, “Wow! You made that look easy!” I almost said, “Dude, you should have seen me in full body armor lugging four bags and two weapons across the HLZ while the Chinook spewed dust and gravel everywhere” (or more accurately, “You should have seen me in full body armor being helped by my burly teammates . . .”)

I tried to assume the same smug pride later on the subway when I very politely informed the conductor that I had a large bag and would it be possible to exit from the middle door instead of climbing up, then down the steps of the front platform, and he very impolitely cut me off and grunted, “Use the front door.” (Seriously, MBTA? You open the rear doors for the first 12 stops of the route, it is really impossible to help an overloaded girl out?)

So yes, I would be lying if I said I don’t get annoyed at all. (Don’t even get me started on oversized carryon roller bags . . . ) There’s a part of me that does. But mostly I tell it to shut up. Besides, it’s the people who really bother me. I get annoyed at people getting annoyed. Then, instead of expressing my anger, I brood on it silently. Does that make me more stoic? Less annoying to objective observers? More prone to high blood pressure? Or just plain hypocritical?

Okay, I admit it, I’m a hypocrite. I tell myself this often, and often I forget. So now I’m saying it to you all so you can keep me accountable: Lauren, keep things in perspective.

When you’re wandering the isles at a home improvement store, dazed and confused because you know nothing about home improvement, don’t stress. It could be worse – you could be looking for twine and giant twisty ties to help pack all your life’s belongings into a 12x8 storage unit for the next year. (Except the cats, of course; those go to your parents).

When the T goes underground in the middle of your texting conversation and you’re cut off from technology for – gasp! – five whole minutes, don’t stress. It could be worse – you could climbing to the top of the old guard tower (where a somewhat paranoid but maybe slightly justified voice keeps telling you you’re going to get hit by sniper fire) to get two measly bars on your Afghanicrap cell phone.

When you’re waiting in line at a deli (café, restaurant, etc) and the customers and/or the servers are moving like molasses, don’t stress. It could be worse – you could be waiting in line outside a chow tent in the snow in anticipation of what is sure to be another exciting meal of dry, overcooked meat, soggy vegetables and your choice of three kinds of potatoes.

When you get your Seattle snow globe souvenir confiscated at airport security . . . well that really just doesn’t make any sense. What illegal substance could you possibly inject into a snow globe?

Whatever. I’ll get over it. Somehow, life will move on.

It always does.


(P.S. I think I just made up the word “annoyedly.” Catchy, huh?)

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.

Painful reminders

It seems to be an unwritten law of the cosmos that when things are going well, something is bound to fall apart.

Things here have been going very well. I love my grad school program and my new Boston friends. I’m getting settled into a place where I might even stay for a while (you know, with no pesky travel requirements to places like Afghanistan). I haven’t fallen down when the T jolts to a start in quite a while. I’ve been writing a lot, and talking a lot, and through those outlets I've started to make peace with my military experiences. I found Cinnamon Toast Crunch on sale yesterday at Stop & Shop. And I’ve been running again.

I even started making plans; for a Jingle Bell run in a couple weeks, for “Lauren’s comeback 5K” in the spring. I should know better than to make plans by now, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t help hoping. Last weekend I nudged the treadmill odometer to 2 miles . . . a measly accomplishment compared to the 2009 Houston Marathon, but something I was proud of: the most I’d run – pain free – in almost two years. It was so encouraging.

Things were going so well.

And today was no exception. I got a good sleep, ate a delicious Cinnamon Toast Crunch breakfast, had a productive morning, and triumphantly jogged the entire loop around Jamaica Pond – for just the second time ever! Then, starting my cool down, a familiar pain; dull at first, then building to a sharp stabbing in my left knee.

The pain transported me back; back to the wheezing of the rickety treadmill in Afghanistan and the drips of condensation from the gym tent’s ceiling; to cursing the treadmill and body armor and Afghanistan for the pain that wouldn’t let me push harder or faster – or at all – to outrun the stress of the deployment. It brought me back to the sterile white walls of my temporary corporate apartment in Florida; to sappy chick flicks, greasy take out and one too many beers – my escapism substitute for the exercise I no longer had. It brought me back to depression, anxiety and isolation; to a dark hole I’ve worked so hard to climb out of.

It’s a pain that reminded me, in case I’d forgotten, that there are two parts to my life: before Afghanistan, and after. Before, when I was healthy, settled, sure of myself. And after, where those things remain very much in flux. It’s a pain that reminded me that – for better and worse – my life will never be the same.

I know I’m lucky. In the great scheme of things, with everything that could have gone terribly wrong, a bum knee isn’t too bad of a draw. And I know I’ll be okay. I’m much stronger now, and I have some additional factors on my side. For one, I’m in America. That makes everything better. I have my support group of family and friends. And I have writing – a coping mechanism that I terrifyingly lost in Afghanistan. I also have a team of doctors at the VA trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with me so they can fix it. (Or, as I’m fearing, so they tell me I need to learn to live with chronic pain. But even that – distressing as it would be – would at least give me something concrete to lean on).

Well docs, now’s your time to shine! You told me me to “run until it hurts, and we’ll go from there.” So I did. I just wasn’t expecting it to hurt so much.

And I don’t mean my knee.

Dating in the "real world"

In talking to some girlfriends this week I realized something kinda crazy . . . I haven’t dated a non-military-affiliated guy since HIGH SCHOOL! Wow!

I guess I took it for granted at the time, but until now I’ve always had sort of a built-in dating network. College was . . . well, college. And ROTC was perhaps even an amplified version of the college dating pool: we were all college kids of similar ages with similar backgrounds, who shared similar interests and similar values and spent A LOT of time together. And as a female, the odds didn’t hurt either. (neither did the presence of guys in uniform).

Then on to active duty and more guys in uniform. I know it sounds cliché, and I don’t intend it to sound arrogant, but seriously, as a female in a small military town I was somewhat of a hot commodity.

So now I find myself in the “real world” where the playing field is a bit more complicated. The odds have definitely changed. When people ask if I’ve met anyone yet in Boston, I tell them, half-jokingly: “Well, my grad program is approximately 5% male, approximately 2% available and approximately 1% straight . . . so, no.”

To be honest, I don’t even know what I’m looking for in a guy (although straight and available are definitely requirements). Someone asked me recently what my “type” is, and I realized I have absolutely no idea. Did I ever have a type? Is “men in uniform” a legitimate type category, or was that more a virtue of proximity? Do I need a type? I find myself suddenly attracted to men with facial hair – where did that come from?! Is it some kind of sub-conscious rebellion against the military?

But beyond that, I think the bigger issue is that I have no idea how to even go about meeting someone in the “real world.” I’m not working right now, so I don’t have access to that corporate network. I’m certainly not the type to sit in a bar, cleavage runneth over, waiting for some schmuck to buy me a drink. So I’ve just been doing my thing . . . for nearly three months now. And so far the only legitimate, actionable interest I’ve received has been from the Karaoke DJ on my birthday and a porn star on Halloween (I think it was just a costume??).

So I did what it seems people do in the real world: I joined an online dating site. I figure if nothing else it should be amusing/educational/good writing fodder.

In my profile I tried my darndest to briefly (and wittingly, charmingly) summarize my crazy Air-Force-Officer-turned-creative-writing-student personal history. I posted a nice head-and-shoulders picture, a picture of me all 1980s from Halloween (hey, it worked for the porn star!), and a picture of me in Afghanistan, surrounded by a group of local schoolchildren (I was going to post a badass shot of me with full body armor and two weapons but thought that might frighten potential cyber suitors).

The very first message I received asked, “Do you know any special karate moves that you learned in the Air Force?”

Hmmm . . .

Wish me luck!

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.