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. 

Veteran-Writers and the surprising benefits of stalking

Last week I stalked someone.

For those of you who don’t know me, I do this a lot. Don’t worry, it’s not as creepy as it sounds (at least that’s what I like to think...). I’m just being resourceful! That’s what Google is for, right?

Anyway, last week my stalking victim was Colin D. Halloran, a former Army Special Forces Infantryman, Afghanistan veteran, poet and veterans advocate. I learned that Colin and I would both be at the Association of Writers & Writing Programs (AWP) Conference last weekend in Chicago, where he was signed up to lead a panel about helping veterans transition “from Combat to College” through writing programs. Because I’m in the midst of such a transition myself, and because I’m a writer, and because I get giddy when I meet other veterans, I was intrigued. So I stalked Colin. And, perhaps against his better judgment, he was receptive.

Colin and I met the first day of the conference. In the great tradition of writers (and military veterans) everywhere, we talked over drinks. We exchanged the basics: time in service, job titles, home stations and deployed locations. We discussed our respective MFA programs. I complemented Colin on his "very un-Army" blazer and bowtie. Then, for some incredible reason, he trusted me enough to bare his soul, allowing me to pick through it in the pages of his unpublished book of poetry. The fact that he opened himself up to me two hours after we met (and after I’d stalked him!) is a testament to the veteran connection.

Now, I’m first to admit that I don’t know much about the craft of poetry. I just know how it makes me feel. And reading Colin’s poetry felt like he was reaching straight into my soul. It felt like he had inserted a device into my brain that chronicled my thoughts and fears, sorted through and unscrambled them, sucked them out and fashioned them into something tangible and accessible and – against all odds – beautiful.

It was awesome! And kind of frightening. How did this unassuming guy I just met understand so much about me?

I’ve felt a similar bond with other veterans; people who “get it,” who've “been there, done that,” who can relate to all the complicatedness spinning around in my head. It’s wonderful reassurance that I’m not alone.

Meeting a veteran-writer, as it turns out, is a double-whammy. Here’s someone else who knows what it’s like to feel a piece of writing bubbling up inside you, the manifestation of an experience trapped for too long in the past. Someone who knows the wave of relief and the drain of exhaustion that comes from finally letting it out. Someone who used to deny the big hunk of his identity that’s wrapped up in his veteran status but doesn’t anymore because of his writing. Someone who understands the power writing gives him over his experiences and tries every day to harness it. Someone who writes because he has to.

Even though we’re newly acquainted, I’ll be brash and assert that Colin D. Halloran is pretty amazing. Despite suffering from PTSD and a knee injury that forced him to be medically evacuated from Afghanistan, he wants to go back to war. He wants to pick up where he left off, to complete his “unfinished business” supporting his unit and serving his country. Amazing, right? But when I told Colin that, he shrugged it off. It’s just part of the job. Such a Special Forces response.

Colin’s poetry is profound. (SPOILER ALERT: If you stick with this blog post to the end, you’ll have the distinct pleasure of reading a piece!) Beyond being a darn good writer, though, he hopes his writing will help others. I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that it already has.

A former public school teacher, Colin gives readings and speaks to teachers and student populations about the unique challenges veterans face when transitioning to a school environment. He advocates writing classes in particular as a way to create a safe space where veterans can find common ground and begin to intellectualize their experiences.

In his AWP panel, Colin stressed that civilians can’t understand what soldiers have been through until soldiers understand what they’ve been through. That’s where writing comes in. Colin has been there. I've been there. We’re still there, hovering somewhere along the spectrum of healing and understanding. I imagine we’ll be hovering for a long time. Maybe forever. Hopefully moving, slowly but surely, in the right direction.

Hovering sometimes can be disconcerting. But it’s always nice to know I’m in good company.

Shout out to Colin’s fellow AWP panelists, more amazing people doing important work:
Christine Leche, a writing professor at Austin Community College, who teaches veteran writing courses. She has spent several months teaching soldiers in deployed locations and is the editor of a forthcoming anthology of veteran writing.
Charlotte Gullick, head of the creative writing department at Austin Community College, who has taught veterans.
Kelly Dalton, a Navy veteran and discourse community specialist.

Shout out to my traveling buddies Shannon and Krysta.

Shout out to AWP for supporting the wonderful world of literary dorkdom and to Chicago for being a cool town.

Now, as promised, a poem, courtesy of Colin D. Halloran:
(Watch an Colin Read an excerpt from this poem here)

THE SECOND STORY WINDOW DOESN’T SEEM SO HIGH

Or maybe it does.

I find it hard to know just what I think these days. I cannot trust the thoughts I think I think – I think.

In war I thought it all was so uncertain, but uncertainty was guaranteed. But here, college, and of all places freshmen Psych class, where certainty should be ensured by class lists and start times, I’m uncertain once more. And this window doesn’t seem so high.

I wouldn’t think of jumping (though clearly I just did). And if I can’t trust the thoughts I think I think should I put faith in the unthinkable?

Other students are looking out the window too. This window with a perfect view of approach routes, of the roof of the buildings across the street, of the main intersection. The seventeen cars that have passed. The three that have done so twice. Are the others noticing these things too? Are they aware how high it is? Or isn’t?

My peers (though it somehow seems unfit to use that word – I never complain about the weight of my backpack), they daydream. They gaze, detached, out the window because out there is not in here and in here there is a woman talking, droning, about drinking. Alcohol.

I drink alcohol. Beer mostly, but never the cheap stuff. I was cursed with a palate. Sometimes wine. This palate is developing. But that’s out there. And out there is not in here. I cannot drink in here because in here is school and out there is not, though I learn (and maybe more). And in here, here being school, there is a woman talking about alcohol.

Some guys (boys?) have stopped looking out there and begun to pay attention to this woman. She has asked who in here drinks alcohol out there. These fellows think they’re cool. I can tell because they nudge and do the “bro-nod”. Chuckles. I indicate, more reverently, that I can be counted in this category.

She moves in.

Questioning, frowning. Why? How? Fake ID? I must be wrong. This is a class for freshmen. This is why she is here. To talk to first years about their first years and the dangers we’ve been warned of since 7th grade.

But the dangers I’ve faced did not come from college bars, from darkened street corners. The four years that separate me from those wedged into desks around me carried me to places they only see in books, on TV. No streets for corners, no college for bars. Just violence from an unknown enemy. That was always certain.

So now I sit, and think the thoughts I think or dare not to, and while those around me dream, I can’t help but notice that this window doesn’t seem so high.

YOU CAN STALK COLIN TOO!
Read samples and purchase his forthcoming poetry collection here
Visit his website
Follow him on Facebook
View his blog series from Copaiba Press: "Witness", "Speak", and "Heal"

HAPPY STALKING!

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.

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.