The Fairer Sex

Let me preface this by telling you that I’m not a big horse-race person. I don’t know much about it at all. I did rejoice a little when this year’s Preakness was won by a filly instead of a colt. Of course there was plenty of lead in on the news informing the masses on why her participation was a BFD. Those are inevitably followed up with the man on the street type comments, and one came from an older man who stated with a smug little smirk, “Fillies should race fillies, and stallions should race stallions.” There’s always one that thinks like this, isn’t there? You know someone is going to open his big yap because deep down he’s afraid if a female races, she just might win. So she did win and then what? Out comes the whining about how she had an unfair advantage.

And if she lost, you know what? Someone would come out with “well she had no business racing anyway.” And this is just about horses.

I have a feeling the attitude extends to plenty of other areas. I remember an argument discussion I got into online about who should have a role in combat in the military. The guy kept insisting on whatever was best for the “morale” of the troops. My argument is based on whatever is best for the military, which means the most competent people for certain jobs get to do those jobs. According to the law, it is illegal for women to be on the front lines in a combat role, but what happens when the rules change? I was branched Air Defense Artillery in the Army, which is defined as a Combat Arms branch, however I was limited to being in Patriot units since the Patriot Missile System is generally relegated to the rear ranks. It wasn’t designed to move very often and the long range of the missile means you can shoot from afar. Well this time around, those units moved right along with the infantry, which put women on the front lines. Then last weekend I watched “Lioness” which is about "Team Lioness"--female soldiers who were assigned one type of specialty, while given an additional duty of going into towns and going into the homes of people suspected to be conspiring against Americans. Since these were families, and families generally have men and women, and it’s not even cool for men to do body searches on women in OUR culture, guess what? They needed women to search the women in those houses. Some of these patrols involved close range firefights (combat) which technically made the whole situation illegal. There was even one soldier who had hunted before entering the military, who was specifically given the duty of carrying a squad automatic weapon because she was a good shot. This wasn’t getting caught up in a supply convoy that hit an explosive, it was sending female soldiers directly into a combat zone even though we have laws specifically against that. And while we’re on the topic, it’s kind of absurd to declare that an entire half of the population can not be in combat. How do you avoid that in a war? There are green zones but nothing is really safe, is it? I feel like all of this is based in fear, and in this case it’s the fear of seeing women come home dead or maimed. Even if you’re a soldier and in the role of protecting others and fighting battles, sometimes people still think you need to be protected, not for your own good, but for theirs.

There was a recent episode of “Cold Case” (stop that laughing) I watched that involved a fictional military institution (Pennsylvania Military Institute, or “P.M.I.”—get it? Like “V.M.I.” except it’s not, wink, wink). Anyway, this involved a 2003 case of a female cadet who mysteriously turned up dead. I told my husband “This is kind of not relevant anymore,” but then again, maybe I’m wrong. I remember 1995 when Shannon Faulkner entered the Citadel. I remember the disbelief at the people fighting her entrance into the school as well as my own classmate who claimed “The Citadel is done if they ever let women in.” (I wish I’d asked him why he chose West Point, since most of his discussions involved high praise for The Citadel).

Shannon Faulkner didn’t make it, but was that any surprise? She wasn’t really in shape, but also, she was the only woman to enter with her class. That’s pretty much a recipe for failure. At least the service academies let in more than one, and at least many of them made it through. Someone has to be the first, but it’s easier to be the first when someone else is doing it too. Your name might not make the news, but you have a better chance of getting through.

I’m sure there was just as much bullshit in the first class of female West Pointers. The first year is hard enough, I couldn’t imagine the additional sexism heaped onto that already generous pile. When you have a general, and graduate, General Westmoreland, claiming that women in combat would have to be “freaks” you have to wonder. For every guy that speaks his true feelings, I’m guessing there are a bunch that secretly think it, but don’t say it.

Maybe this extended to the way we were viewed as cadets too. I remember the mindset that we “gray trou” weren’t dating material. I am guessing this was based in fear too—who would want to date someone that wouldn’t be wowed by your uniform or your daily exploits because she’s doing pretty much the same thing? And then--horror or horrors--what if she’s better at doing it than you are?

I was never any kind of stud at anything at West Point—I struggled with many things. I also don’t think most guys were against me. I’m sure there were a few, but without the vast number that helped, I wouldn’t have made it. People are changing, and I think men change as they live and see what women can do. I think they change when they have daughters and turn into the person that does not want someone else limiting his kid’s future because she’s a girl.

How to piss off a bunch of people in 342 words or less

If nothing else, this article proves how quickly a story can travel. I saw it in its original form, on Sunday as part of a collective “ways the government could save money” piece. The idea of it is not new; I remember being a yearling and going to the dayroom with my companymates to watch a 60 minutes piece about closing the academies. As much as we complained about our cadet lives, it was entirely different when the criticism came from the outside. We scoffed, we laughed and we claimed the suggestions being made were conjured up by people who clearly had no clue about being in the military. The dollar amount for graduating someone in four years was thrown around too. The value of the education is about $50K more now, but the argument remains the same: It's cheaper to develop officers through civilian schools, so let's close the service academies. My response to that is this: what the academies offer is an intangible thing that can only be understood by people who have gone to one of them, or those who are familiar with the every day routine. If you don't get it, maybe you never will, and that's not intended to be mean, or smart assed or pat. To some people it really boils down to money (and let's not even discuss how anyone arrives at the $300K bill).

And because we all know I'm petty, let's address some specific criticisms:

The title--
It’s so simple, and I don't mean the cleaned up, stylistic way of writing. Basic would be a better description, basic like the title of the essay you wrote at the start of third grade:
“What I did last summer”


Some of the comments regarding cadets themselves--

“They are crackerjack smart...”

Can someone please explain what “crackerjack smart” means exactly? If I’m “crackerjack smart,” then how is it that I have never heard this term before? Is there wisdom in that caramel coated popcorn/peanut mix that I haven’t discovered yet? Why not discuss Crunch ‘n’ Munch and Fiddle Faddle while we're at it? Out of the three, which is the smartest? Is there a prize inside the skull of every cadet and West Point graduate?

The glaring inaccuracies—

“…we should send them to civilian schools where their assumptions will be challenged, and where they will interact with diplomats and executives, not to a service institution where they can reinforce their biases while getting in afternoon golf games.”

Golf games?

Golf games?!

Dream a Little Dream

There’s a dream I’ve had in the past few years that always disturbs me. I’m back in college, starting out for the semester and while I know there is a certain required course on my schedule, I can never remember what day and time I have to attend the course, or in the instances when I do remember, I can not find the classroom, or else I've missed so many classes that there's no possible way to catch up. Sometimes this missing course is English, sometimes math--but the subject never plays a huge factor. Despite these variations, the outcome is always the same: I don’t complete the course, which means I can not graduate on time.

The closing scene is a review by the academic board. Somehow I make it all the way to right before graduation before anyone catches the error. By then the answer is that I have a few days to catch up on a semester’s worth of course material or else I just won’t graduate. Given the time crunch, there's no way for me to catch up. Will they take pity on me or give me the boot? Let me skip a few lessons in the interest of time or make me suffer for being an idiot? Or will honor come into play as I am fully aware that I've missed the course and yet I tried to deceive everyone around me into thinking I had taken it? Who knows. I never find out my fate before I wake up. I emerge from the dream in limbo.

I know this is a completely unrealistic scenario. If I can’t find the classroom, I can ask someone before an entire semester passes me by. If I don’t remember the day and class period, I can pull out my schedule and verify it. If I miss the class, the professor can contact me. There is no way that at West Point a cadet could go without being missed for one class period, never mind an entire semester’s worth of lessons. It just wouldn't happen (not without extreme consequences, anyhow).

Knowing this, I still wake up feeling like a fraud. As if four years of courses (and three summers of making up for failed courses) did not result in a legitimate diploma. As if the ring came from a Cracker Jack box. As if the dream (with its inaccurate academic building layout and multiple variations) somehow trumps reality.

It happens like that sometimes. There have been times when I’ve woken up dazed and it takes a few minutes to accept that what I remember either is not how things happened or that those things never happened at all. Sometimes it takes longer. Have you ever had a dream where you witnessed your significant other cheating on you? “What’s wrong?” he or she will say in the waking hours that follow. “Nothing” you mutter in response, though you want to say "How could you?" Despite knowing it was only a dream, you're absolutely disgusted with them. Disgusted!

Imagine my surprise when I received an official looking envelope from West Point’s department of admissions. “Oh no, it’s a letter revoking my degree” I thought when I saw it there on my dresser. I looked over at my husband’s mail pile and noticed that he did not have a similar envelope. Well, duh. Of course he didn't get one! He’s not the fraud.

Heat rose through my chest and throat as I tore it open.

Inside was an update on the numbers of minority cadets in the current and incoming class. And after that, a request for me to volunteer to be a field minority recruiting representative for the academy.

Oh.

I Suppose You’re All Wondering Why I’ve Gathered You Here Today

An interesting thing happens when people discover that I’m a West Pointer.

They say, “Oh, I didn’t know,” or even more dramatic: “Why, I had no idea!”

This is said in an accusing “Why didn’t you tell me?” tone, as if I were purposely holding back a secret.

Here’s the secret: It’s not a secret. I wear my ring every day at work. In fact, if I leave the house without it I don’t even make it out of the development before realizing, “hey, I forgot my ring” (no I don’t turn back to get it, that would be a bit much). It’s not really the kind of jewelry I’d choose, but class rings have a list of required elements, and in the case of the academy, there’s an extensive list, so it’s a sizeable ring. Even the girls’ standard rings are big. The only things you can customize are the color and quality of the gold, the finish, and the rocks you want in the setting. Mine is a few steps away from Liberace grade gaudiness, with a ring of eight tiny diamonds around an oval, faceted amethyst. If you didn’t notice me sporting the hunk of gold containing what appears to be a glitzy purple eye, then maybe you need to have your vision checked.

Aside from the ring brandishing, I don’t reveal anything unless it’s relevant to the discussion. See the following example:

“So you’re going to your ten year reunion this weekend--is that high school or…?”

“College.”

“Really? Where’d you go to school?”

“I went to West Point.”

If the person didn’t know this, we’ll shift to the “I had no idea” conversation. If the person knew but forgot, they’ll nod slowly and say something like, “Oh yeah, that’s right.”

Shortly after I was hired, my boss at a previous job pulled me into his office for a getting to know you type orientation deal. We chit chatted, but really I just wanted to go back to my desk and get back to figuring out whatever it was I was supposed to be doing. I already knew he was a West Pointer, a ’73 graduate, but I didn’t mention anything about myself until he asked me where I went to school. “Well, why didn’t you say something?!” he said. His face was devoid of a smile and his eyes were serious; it was as if he thought I had pulled a prank at his expense. For the rest of the time I worked there, I had the distinct impression that he held my keeping quiet against me.

But really, what was I supposed to do? How do people expect me to make this known? The name of my school is on my resume, it’s on my transcripts and it’s on the ring I wear Monday through Friday during business hours. How else should I tell the world I went to West Point?

Short of hiring a town crier, I’ve come up with a few ideas--

Just as a meeting starts, I'll rise from my chair and say, “Before we begin, there’s something you all should know about me…”

Upon settling a dispute: “But I’m not wrong—don’t you know where I went to school?”

When being volunteered for something I don’t want to do: “Well, I believe my diploma from West Point excuses me from this menial task—good day!”

I realize it appears that there’s always an advantage in admitting that I’m a West Pointer. This isn’t always true. When people know, they suddenly have an increased level of that dreaded intangible known as “expectations.” At the job from “9 days a week,” one guy found out and I could practically hear him thinking, “Well then, what the hell are you doing here?” His brother was an academy graduate so he had a pretty good idea of the goings on during those four years and what he concluded was this: West Pointers aren’t supposed to be underachievers. They aren’t supposed to be anything less than the best.

It’s a lot of pressure. People have an image of a West Pointer and I defy that image every time someone squints at me and says “But you don’t seem like a West Pointer.” It’s an absurd thing to say because the place attracts people from all walks of life. It’s not as if everyone accepted to the school is sent through a factory and homogenized before popping out on the other side on a conveyor belt--perfectly molded cadets standing tall like toy soldiers. If that’s what you thought, I’m here to tell you it doesn’t happen that way.

I was a square peg for four years straight. Among the best of the best, I was like the sediment in a fine wine, settling into the bottom of the cask. I was unathletic and did terribly at most of the required courses. I was a psychology major (okay, you got me--I mean “field of study”) in a school known for its engineering program. After graduation, a friend confessed that someone had said about me: “She’s the most unmilitary person I’ve ever seen.” When she told me this, I was hurt--insulted, even, but with some time and perspective, I now recognize the truth in his statement.

Over a decade removed from my graduation, I see my classmates and realize maybe I wasn’t the only square peg. Many people have left the Army and taken their own paths. Some have stayed in while juggling other endeavors on the side. Each person has defined what qualifies as “best” for themselves and if that doesn’t fit some other person’s ideal of what a West Point graduate *should* be doing, then the person making the assumption needs to widen their perspective.

I don't Like Sundays

So--the title of this journal, “Sunday Night Poop” does not refer to a post televised football game bathroom visit after a feast of beer, chips and chili. It’s not anything crude or rude, I promise (or apologize, depending on who’s reading). West Point graduates would be familiar with the term and everyone else?
Probably not.

So without further ado-doo…here is the Sunday Night Poop:

Six bells and all is well.
Another week shot to hell.
Another week in my little gray cell.
Another week in which to excel. Oh, hell.

This little ditty is generally shouted out by a plebe (upon orders from an upperclassman) during Sunday night’s accountability formation. I don’t even know if they* still have those—I think those formations ended my senior year. Back in my day, they held formation every Sunday (barring block vacation time) with the exception of (wait for it) Superbowl Sunday. Back in my day, you couldn’t find Bugle notes online, you had to wait till your first day (unless you came from the prep school) to get your grubby paws on that book o’ knowledge. Back in my day, cadets didn’t get issued laptops, we didn’t have phones in the room, oh…never mind. Old grads are the masters of the “back in my day” game. Even if you say it, there is a chance someone who graduated before you will top whatever crap you had to endure.

Anyway, I don’t like Sundays. I can’t remember if I ever did like Sundays. Even as a kid, Sundays meant getting ready for school, goodbye freedom, it’s on to Monday in just a few short hours. I know that is a gloom ’n doom fatalistic countdown mentality but there it is. Accountability formations at West Point only compounded my Sunday hate. Even now, over a decade later, I still don’t like them. Whoever wrote the “Sunday Night Poop” didn’t like them either.

Oh well.

* Who is “they?” The establishment—the military brass, the head honchos, AKA “the Man.” In other words, the ones who make the rules.

Hoop-Dee-Doo

No, there's no polka playing, but two of the major songs related to West Point (The Alma Mater and "The Corps") will be updated to reflect that there are male and female graduates.  I had gotten a link to a survey awhile back, asking for my opinion--whether I thought the words should be changed.  I voted "yes" but the majority (70-something percent) voted "no."  I figured the issue was dead once the results were out, but it appears the Supe disagreed.

The funny thing is that I might never have known about the survey--it wasn't very publicized at all, but now that this is "news" it has even hit the local circuit, complete with stock footage of the Glee club (camera panning to the faces of the female cadets, of course) with the teaser "Guess what's changing at a service academy?" (okay, it was worded better than that, but that's the gist of it).

P.S. Clicking the title of this entry will send you to the Supe's letter on this subject.