I went to a college that wasn't a college, it was a federal service academy. This meant wearing some form of uniform during every daylight hour, living in barracks, not dorms, and being put in situations that hindered healthy social development because nothing about that place resembled a "normal" experience. I was also dealing with being challenged academically. I had decent grades in high school, and was talented at taking standardized tests, but I had no study skills. When you're introduced to a learning method where you read about the subject ahead of the in class lesson and you skated through every exam and major assignment in high school, it's a humbling experience. I spent my first two years on academic probation as I attempted to level off mmy GPA.
When I went to West Point, I knew it would be a population that skewed very white and very male. Women made up less than 15% of the population, and less than 10% of the Corps of Cadets was black. I did not want to admit it out loud, but with those numbers, I expected the odds of having a romantic relationship were ever in my favor.
It didn't take long to figure out I was wrong -- female cadets were not treated like a hot commodity. Now that I'm older, I understand why: this place drew the most traditional men and least traditional women. With the ratio as it was, we wore the same uniforms, we went through the same challenges -- trying to impress us in their uniforms and by boasting about their daily life was a tall task. Knocking us down a peg or ten was a way to reject us before we could reject them. We even had a derogatory name based on the wool uniform pants we wore: gray trou.
My pattern of crushes continued, and I continued not to do any introspection on why I was this way. Having a crush felt like the intensity of taking drugs without the nuisance of paying someone to obtain them. It took decades to look at myself and see the patterns, but at this age I was a bit of a junkie.
That said, I didn't actually want a boyfriend -- I didn't have the capacity to manage the academic course load and the emotional load of a romantic relationship. On top of that, sex and possible pregnancy was not an option. Remember, I was like Mayo from "An Officer and a Gentleman," I had nowhere else to go. Imagining the shame of squandering a West Point education because I'd gotten pregnant was all the birth control I needed.
There were guys that pursued me; Some guys didn't want female cadets but not all. There was a guy a year behind me, another who was a classmate in Gospel choir, and a few others, to include my husband (and ex-husband) to be. Sometimes they were too nice, and by this I mean not amenable to the occasional gossip or snark. I don't talk bad about people by default, but if I need to commisserate, I need that other person to be there for it, not to scold me or say "Giselle, that's so mean." We're human, we're not always going to be our best version of ourselves at all times. Sometimes we need an accomplice to join us in our observations of fuckery in order to truly connect.
I went on dates, but it was usually a one and done deal because I was either too awkward, or I wasn't motivated to give it another go. There were also times when I had to fend off or give in to unwanted sexual encounters. Dating in a healthy way was a challenge as there wasn't much time in the schedule to get to know someone and go for outings off post. We could take pass on weekends, which involved hotel rooms, binge drinking, and rushing into sex. One of these weekends, I rented a car with my friend T and went to Penn Relays. We didn't get a hotel room, which landed me on top of a hotel bedspread (yes, ew) in a bed with a classmate who I liked, but not that way. Another guy was asleep in the room with us (also, ew) when he pressured me into a blow job. Saying no only resulted in being pushed to say yes. Sometimes you bend to another's will because you weren't prepared to fight. Where was I going to sleep, I thought, in the rented Nissan Altima in the parking lot? If I had to give my daughters advice in the same situation, I would have said yes, sleep in the car. Most recently I saw this person at my twenty year reunion, and he hugged me and acted cordial. I played along (more fawning, ew) but have him blocked on every social media platform.
Oddly enough, I was comfortable talking about this with my friends, who understood completely. "Ah, yes, the courtesy blow job" Heather said over the phone, and we laughed. The shame I felt wasn't over the act, but for not standing up for myself and leaving the room. For awhile I even tried to gin up a crush on the guy as a way to retroactively make that encounter more palatable (no pun intended, really). I knew I didn't want to put myself into that predicament again.
The entitlement some of the guys had stunned me. One classmate, a football player, came to my room uninvited, hinting about how much he would love a massage. I don't know why he thought I was the audience for this, we didn't really know each other, and this wasn't an effective way to win me over. Another time I was with T again. We were visiting a hotel where a bunch of our friends were hanging out following the 500th Night dance (sidenote: this is a celebration for cadets in their junior year when they have approximately 500 days before graduation). She and I split company and I was cornered in the hallway in separate instances by not one but two different classmates, expecting sex. What baffled me most was, I did nothing suggestive to these people, I was simply walking around. I didn't flirt with them, I didn't lead anyone on; my existence in the same place where they were, and that place being outside of West Point, was all it took, apparently to ask, "Are we ever gonna have sex?" This time around T and I did have a getaway car. My 500th night date, who happened to be my future husband at the time, had been able to join me for the dinner and speech but could not go off post with me because he was still serving punishment tours (see, this is one of the many aspects of "not getting to have a normal social life" at West Point). He did, however, have a car because he was a senior, and they could own and park their cars on post. Before we went to the hotel, I sweet talked him into lending it to us, and fortunately T knew how to drive a stick shift. As soon as I found her that night, we made our escape and I gave her the rundown on how my night had gone. My now ex-husband uses this story as evidence that I used him because I knew he liked me, but he doesn't seem to understand how grateful I was (and still am) for the favor.
While I was a cadet, we were organized into academic companies during the school year. These companies were units of approximately 110 cadets, and we lived in the same floor of the barracks, we ate mandatory meals together, paraded together and played intramural sports together. I spent my first and second year in the same company, and between sophomore and junior year I, along with every other classmate, "scrambled" to new companies. This occured with the reasoning that you could get a fresh start if you had a not so great reputation. It meant meeting new people, changing roommates and re-establishing yourself. Before everyone split off to their summer assignments, the incoming cadets got to visit their new academic companies. Whenever someone asked where I was scrambling, I would hear, "Oh, T.M. is in that company!" He was the president of the class ahead of me, and I didn't interact with him until I arrived at my new company the following semester.
Junior year in the new academic company includes a "Cow-Firstie" bash, an unofficial weekend get together between the incoming juniors ("cows") and the seniors ("firsties"). It's held at the house of a cadet who volunteers their home for the debauchery. From what I understood, the point was to drink, bullshit, crash and get back to West Point intact before the evening accountability formation. During one of our lunch formations, T.M. made an announcement that he had room to give someone a ride. He had the voice of an M.C., the humor of a stand up comedian, and the car -- a classic convertible Camaro -- of a celebrity. Nothing about this guy was small, and I, who was usually the shrinking violet, was interested. I talked to my roommate R about him, and apparently he had inquired about me. On the weekend of the party, I caught a ride with T.M., and we drove across the Hudson river in the famed Camaro with the top down, aimed in the direction of the party. At some point we stopped for gas, and he emerged from the little convenience store with a can of Dr. Pepper and a small carton of strawberry milk. "You have to try this," he said, and mixed the two. It was surprisingly good, and it felt like he had let me in on a junk food secret.
I also got him to leave the party early because I planned to finish the night at a CAS Jam, which was at Camp Buckner, an outpost where every cadet spent the summer between their plebe (freshman) and yearling year. Camp Buckner was deserted during the school year, but Barth Hall -- the recreational center there -- was open for business. When I talked to T.M., I said I didn't want to finish the evening getting drunk and sleeping over at someone's house, it wasn't my thing. He nodded and appeared to empathize, although I suspected he didn't agree. We reached Barth Hall, and there were plenty of CAS members milling around outside. When he pulled up (remember, he was known by pretty much everyone) and I stepped out of his car, we caused a bit of a scene. Not many people actually knew me, and on top of that, when you're quiet and shy, it's an invitation for people to develop their own stories about you. The resulting story was, "She likes white guys." There are variations on this, "She only likes white guys," or "She doesn't mess with black guys," or whatever else can be derived from being dropped off at a party with mostly black people in attendance by one of the most well known, highly visible white guys in the Corps of Cadets.
And who was my ride home from the CAS Jam? My future (and now ex) husband. If I had a crystal ball, I would have penned several seasons of a dramatic comedy based on my life back then, while everything was still fresh. We had danced to a couple of songs, and he offered to drive me back to the barracks. Our ride home was quiet; this was my first encounter with him alone, and he seemed intense. He parked, I thanked him for the ride home and quickly dashed off to my room.
T.M. and I hung out for a month before things shifted. Most of that time he was serving punishment tours, which meant he couldn't leave post. He still went to the Firstie Club, the bar intended for (you guessed it) firsties, and would wind up in my room for some drunk flirting before going to bed. In an odd twist to the story of me "only dating white guys," T.M. revealed his insecurity one night after one too many at the Firstie Club. I had told him the story of the classmate sniffing around for a back massage, and he said something to the effect of, "All the black guys want you." I had to reassure him that this didn't matter to me. Besides, wasn't it more important to be liked and wanted? I didn't believe any one of these guys offering themselves actually liked me. It felt like the opposite.
T.M. also had an on and off yearling girlfriend, who I pretended didn't exist. That was just the start of my pattern of ignoring red flags to indulge in the potential of another person. T.M. was also older -- he had served in the Army as a linguist before coming to West Point, which meant he was 24 to my 20. When you are still living in a place that had a boarding school vibe, including bed checks and a designated time for "lights out" you could argue that everyone there was at the same stage in life, regardless of biological age.
I spent a long weekend visiting my sister to meet my newborn niece, and before I left, I lent T.M. my body pillow. He was going to be stuck in the barracks, so he sent me off with a note and told me not to open it until later. When I unfolded the note, I read, "Tonight I'll be holding your pillow and wishing it was you."
That note sustained me. Finally, I thought, after decades of holding torches for people I liked who liked me but not in that way, I had found someone with mutual feelings. And, as that old saying goes, "Easy come, easy go."
My roommate R was a diver, and on occasion, I had the room to myself when she had a meet at another school. Soon after I returned from my weekend away, R had an away meet, and this was the chance for T.M. and I to spend some post-lights out time together. Yes, it was against the rules, but there was no way to catch every cadet who broke the rules. I was my usual awkward self, even though this was a wanted encounter, and as far as one could get from a courtesy BJ situation. T.M. slept in the room, both of us crammed in my twin bed until the sun came up. We woke up on a Sunday morning. As T.M. quietly slipped out of the door, he promised to talk to me later.
Apparently "later" meant "never." The man ghosted me two decades before that term got added to the Merriam-Webster dictionary. This was a near-impossible task, considering we lived down the hallway from each other, and would see each other at breakfast and lunch formation, and every other mandatory company event. To make things worse, seating assignments at the tables in the Mess Hall shuffled on occasion, and this time around I shuffled to T.M.'s table. That was by design, of course; T.M. and I had planned it before I had become invisible to him.
I remember trying to talk to my mother about what happened. This was new territory for me, as childhood had taught me not to share anything personal with her. When I called her in need of a sympathetic ear, she delivered her response in a mocking tone: "Oh, did someone break your heart?" My mom was a competitor in the suffering Olympics, and since she was widowed, my little problems were laughable. This was both hurtful and oddly validating, as my original childhood instinct was correct. My sister became my confidant. "I don't know what to tell you, Giselle," she said as I pressed the hallway payphone receiver firmly against my ear, "It's a terrible situation."
I stayed at the table out of sheer stubbornness, seated to the immediate left of T.M., who sat at the head. I kept my body tilted away so he remained a blur in my peripheral vision. He was his usual loud self but I found him more obnoxious than endearing since I wasn't in on the joke anymore. Every day I dreaded breakfast and lunch. Eventually I enlisted a male classmate to swing by the table in the mornings, and in the afternoons, you guessed it, I asked future ex-husband to get me. When I tried explaining what was going on and why I had asked him to walk me away from that table, he held up a hand. "You don't have to share." I'm sure he was trying to spare me but I wanted him to know what happened. This was playing out to be another life lesson from one of those other old sayings: "Don't shit where you eat."
I spent the rest of that year slowly getting over someone who was in my face for another eight more months, until he graduated. During this time, I also went on a few dates with my future ex-husband. There were no sparks with him, but he treated me well, and that placed him solidly into the category of "someone I would marry." I know, I know, wrong again. If I had that crystal ball, I could have put more thought into the conclusions I was making, but this was the best my 20 year old brain could do at the time.
There are more stories from those four years but this post is long already, and I've done enough scab picking for today. One misconception I had was believing the crushes and obsessions would ease up after I got married and could focus my love and attention on "my" person. How wrong I was.
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