Random Thought #2: Small Victories and Minor Setbacks

My time in the military seems insulated. That is to say that I feel protected by sociological forces at work to ensure my focus remain on institutional things. This insulated life has afforded me space to thrive without the looming double consciousness and self-doubt that surely exist when considering the demographic disparity in my profession. I never truly thought about race until I was stationed at the United States Military Academy at West Point. I think I’ve been conditioned to say it like that The United States Military Academy at West Point. Sounds prestigious when said the right way. I’ve been here nearly two years now and teaching Plebe Composition and Literature as afforded me additional mediation and revelations regarding my own desires, passions, and ambition. The place has its own allure, albeit, the cadet, as an idea, is a large part of that allure—the allure suggests something antithetical to the moral fabric of a citizenry whose very existence seems saturated in socio-political rhetoric. West Point is indeed a bubble, if not a utopian one, one whereby virtues and morality is given a chance. In this place, the Plebe must assimilate into the unknown, all the while developing a blind trust in an institution that emphasizes the importance of Duty, Honor, and Country. The place seems so noble as to have a reverse effect which threatens to aristocracize and make the meek pretentious and ab bit pompous. You see things here are different; people here pair wine with cheese and meat; drink scotch in the winter, Cavendish in the air, pipe smoke is not a foreign scent. Cigars and bourbon are consumed and business cards are exchanged from hands adorned with beautiful rings of gold and smirks of entitlement. Here, outside my office window, the Hudson River glistens under the sun, it looks like a large plate of diamonds set in a vista of homes I’d never dreamed of being close too. Here, eagle’s and hawks soar outside my window, outside my front door, and in my classroom. The cadets are as different as you might expect—white, black, Asian, Korean, tall, slender, talkative, quiet, precocious, and inquisitive. Their view is much different than mine.

Now I’m not complaining, because my journey has been a hard one and I should be able to enjoy my preference of wine and bourbon, paired with the right cheese and cigar—this is nice; and all the better because I don’t think I’ll ever get to a place where I expect this, although the scenery is good, it seems wrong to want to remain here, but I do. Life seems easier and more rewarding here; albeit, existing alongside the people who, like Ta-Nehisi Coates’ may describe, live in this dream. I suppose my purpose for grappling with these feelings is to achieve some sense of meaning and exigence to justify my existence here. Perhaps, I too am lost in the dream of thinking that such reconciliation is necessary. Even more, the sociological pull situates me a place of autonomy, and simultaneously pushes me out. By this I mean to bring the idea of West Point to life; to personify it and have a conversation with the ideal—let’s use the trope Forrest. Whittaker and I would converse about what has been and what is concerning West Point. Forrest Whittaker because he spent four years here and never graduated; so short of walking along that Long Grey Line, I for one, am grateful for his dismissal, although not the circumstances thereof. Table for later…West Point personified in the likes of Whittaker makes possible the entry to a club that doesn’t require as much preparation. It is a profound thing to consider that the skills that make you eligible may not at all be the skills that enable you to endure. And since I am not a graduate, nor have I experienced the haze of cadet life, I write as an observer, a teacher of West Points’ pride—the cadet. Whittaker enables a real consideration toward the youth of our noble endeavor called liberty. In this place, our military profession seems to place limits on the quest for a particular pursuit of happiness, for that happiness that some seek falls outside of a codified rule of law which ensures compliance within an ideological and very physical apparatus—the Army. I believe Whittaker would inquire about two things: one, the black cadet experience at West Point and how that experience might coincide with the preservation of the idea of West Point. Second, Whittaker would ask about relevance with respect to the obligation to serve our Nation’s sons and daughters and thus provide a unique and realistic estimate to the responsibility cadets owe Soldiers to simply figure out this thing called life.

If I may utilize a metaphor to further illustrate the point, I’d do so by conjuring particular ghosts of West Point. This in an attempt to recreate the pre-Civil War academy and chart the progression up through Jodel and the hashtags# used to demean so many. The ghosts of West Point exists in the barracks, the classroom halls, the library, and even the mess hall. They exists on the parade field, on “fields of friendly strife”, and on our buildings. They exist in our purview, in our hearts, but most importantly, in our minds. I respect these ghosts, but despise them all the same. You see, their history is nothing more than a scroll of achievement the likes of which may never happen again; circumstances are different and thus our potential toward aspiring to certain goals may be considered moot. Surely Whittaker may comment on such a pathway. Perhaps he would advise against following in the footsteps of someone who’s travelled a path decades and centuries ago. I’d argue that the path is overgrown and invisible. Chart your own path. My experience at West Point may be better depicted along the following lines: teaching, mentoring, living, and watching. The personification of Whittaker, to somehow bring this particular ghost of West Point to the front, may allow for a sort of retrospective critique of conventional wisdom from a man who suffered an (un)conventional atrocity.