These clubs were not exclusive; anyone could join, whether they identified with the group personally or not. They were also privately funded. Some of these are national organizations, which allow cadets to network with civilian students at events outside of the granite walls of West Point. There are graduates outraged, and with that outrage came news articles. Apparently due to the category of these particular clubs, they were disbanded while other clubs, the Polish Club for example, and all religious clubs, were spared. I read comments on LinkedIn from the colonel who signed the letter. He backpedaled, stating that these clubs were under review. The words "disbanded effective immediately" don't exactly paint the picture that there will be any reviewing and re-banding.
When I was a cadet, I was part of the Contemporary Cultural Affairs Seminar Club, better known as "CAS." This was the "black" club, with a history of being overtaken because black cadets could not start a black student union, but that is part of another story in academy history.
CAS was my social outlet in a place where I felt I didn't belong. This was my way of knowing people outside of my barracks and classes. For an introverted cadet who seemed to struggle with everything at that place, this club offered a brief reprieve and an occasional weekend trip. Joining this club a sense of belonging that wasn't hinging on my academic grades, athletic performance, or military bearing and I imagine cadets and graduates who were members of the eleven other clubs feel similarly.
I was a suburban middle class kid who didn't appear disadvantaged on paper, but that didn't tell the whole story. My dad had died February of the year I entered West Point. The domino effect created by losing the family's breadwinner, meant my mom sold our house in the fall of the same year and moved overseas to be with her family. My sister had an active duty careeer in the Air Force, a spouse with his own active duty career, and young kids. I didn't have the support network of cadets whose parents drove up for weekends in their cars proudly adorned with West Point decals, or a nearby home to visit when I wanted a moment away without having to wait for an extended break. Mine was the family who didn't show up, and it wasn't anything personal, but a pattern of repeating what they knew. We didn't plan a trip around my sister's graduation from basic training. Instead, she flew home and we watched the videotape of her training, and laughed at the instances where she appeared among the patched together clips, like when she was struggling through an obstacle course. There was a stark practicality in my family that bordered on coldness, a you're-an-adult-now-so-you-don't-need-us mindset. For example, instead of sending packages, my mother would send money -- which is also nice, but she didn't seem to understand the importance of knowing someone cared enough to buy what they knew you liked, and carefully assemble a package especially for you. Explaining would be pointless; I'd only hear "But it costs less just to send you the money so you can buy what you want!"
I entered West Point in a time of personal grief that I had to push away in the name of getting through my first year. The mental health support at West Point at the time (early '90s) ranged from being an unhelpful waste of time to feeling like a deterrent. I remember going to the Cadet Counseling Center to deal with my grief and being told to work through a personality test first. I never returned. I'm saying all of this to share that I felt a lot like Mayo from "An Officer and a Gentleman" at West Point, like I had nowhere else to go. There was no "home" to go back to, as my mom had sold the house and moved to Italy after my dad died, and moving in with my sister and her growing family was not an option.
All of this backstory isn't my attempt to garner sympathy, but my way of saying CAS was my place to go.
I don't remember how I got invited into the club. I know in the flurry of walking to and from classes, several black cadets would look you in the eye, ask questions, and act friendly, as if to break away from that initiation ritual of breaking you down into nothing and rebuilding you until you were ready to graduate and commission. The club met in a designated academic classroom in the evenings, and much of the discussion revolved around activities. I got to travel to Manhattan one Saturday. A cluster of us in our white over gray uniforms were heading down a sidewalk on our way to the Blue Note Jazz club and a man who was watching us smiled and exclaimed, "Cadets!" As much as some of us hated the gruel of our daily lives, we also had occasions that gave us the feeling that we were lightning in a bottle -- special in our uniforms during this brief time in our hopefully long lives. The delight that stranger showed us, this group of black cadets -- validated that feeling. We planned and organized, held CAS "jams" where you could socialize, dance, and shed the mask that came with being among the "best and the brightest." I got to take a trip to Washington D.C., when the Museum of African Art first opened, and that trip included a group of us going to the home of a member whose family was local to relax and have dinner. These clubs formed with the intent to connect people, not divide them.
In a place where I struggled academically, athletically and militarily, CAS gave me a glimmer of something positive, a much needed break, especially in the years before I was allowed to have my own car and move around freely. We had fun, and we also talked about real things, like the importance of cadets choosing certain career specialities when they graduated to ensure some of us would represent in the higher ranks.
As a cadet, there were clear markers that others didn't think we belonged, or that we should group ourselves together -- people that did not delight in our existence. People asked why we sat at non-mandatory dinners together, or why we sat together at the football games. I got the sense that the people asking didn't actually care about the answer, and they lacked the ability to empathize with feeling like a token at a place that was just as much yours as it was theirs. These people didn't ask why we had a barracks building named after Robert E. Lee, even though he was on the wrong side of history, or recognize that they themselves had the privilege of blending into obscurity without the pressure of feeling like any misstep would be a reflection upon an entire group of people. The disbanding of these clubs feels like these people that questioned why we sat together achieved the goal of ensuring we can't gather to have fun, feel a moment of comfort or talk about what plagues us. I can't help but think there are miserable people in the world who somehow think the answer to solving their misery is to ensure no one else is having a good time, either.
This quickness to disband these clubs is alarming, as if implying these clubs existed out of something nefarious, or they are somehow no longer needed, and it also sends the message to current cadets that places where they feel a sense of belonging are going to shrink or disappear entirely. It sends the message that fitting in is more important than belonging, and I can tell you, even when when I wore the same uniform as everyone around me, I still stood out. I don't know what's going to happen, and my realization after attending a recent discussion with other graduates is that West Point has always been reactive, not proactive. My hope is that this action was a punt by the leadership with a hope that they wouldn't get fired and replaced by loyalists. A quote I've heard and read since receiving my West Point prospectus as a candidate is, "Much of the history we teach was made by people we taught."
I can only hope we remain on the right side of history.
