Here is the first of the promised biographical sketches. We have to start somewhere. I thought this might be an appropriate place to start given that in this narrative I’m reminiscing about my clumsy navigation of “new adulthood.” Here I was embarking on a naval career and a college career simultaneously, and now in 2024 I’m on the cusp of a Master’s degree in Library and Information Science. Does life go in a straight line for anyone? For me, it never did. The road from A to Z continues to be one that is full of backward and forward steps, tripping up, getting back up, circling back sometimes, getting over bumps, and occasionally breathing a sigh of relief when the road is smooth! The following sketch, according to Google Docs word count, is 2,583 words. It’s not required reading and there won’t be a test at the end. What’s the point? Well, in the grand scheme of life, perhaps it’s just another thing for which we ask that question: What is the point of anyone sharing his or her story, be it to learn, empathize and connect? People often have ideas about what things are like, and I’ve found in my own experiences that I sometimes feel discomfited when “what things are like” ends up drastically at variance from those preconceived notions. I’ve encountered this variance on enough occasions to teach me to avoid harboring expectations—of situations, yes, but also of people in general.
I can’t even remember how old I was. 18, 19. Who knows? Barely old enough to vote, too young to buy a case of beer. (I never went to the trouble of getting a fake ID. I would not have thought, nor had the confidence, let alone the inclination to do such a thing.) And there was no question of ‘passing’ for 21 on looks alone, because for as long as I can remember I’ve had a baby face that makes me look about ten years younger than I am. When I told people I was in the Navy, they were always like, “Wait? What? I thought you were high school!” Even now, in my 40s, I don’t “appear” as anyone’s idea of a Navy veteran, and most people wonder if I’m in Gen Z, again, a reminder of preconceived notions at variance from “what things are like!”) Anyway, however old I was, 18 or 19, I was an “airman” at the Naval Air Station Willow Grove in Pennsylvania. (Here again, another example of “what things are like”—an “airman” in the navy, not a “seaman,” and based inland rather than by the sea.) I’m sure if I really thought about it, I could pinpoint the year, and by calculating the number of months from my completion of A School1 training, could then tell you my exact rank and pay grade at the time. But it doesn’t matter. Whether I was an E-2 or E-3 is hardly the point. The reason I’m thinking about that time in my life now is more to do with its relevance to what’s going on now. I was just beginning my “college” career—at Montgomery County Community College in Bluebell, PA. I remember the career counselor driving me out there on a weekend to get me registered. It was his mission in life to get young enlisted members of the military into life-enhancing college courses. I remember that day fairly well. It was actually the day that Princess Diana died. The night before, the news had come that she was in a car crash, but sometime that morning I got the news that she was dead, and I was pretty upset because I liked her a lot. Nevertheless, I’d already made plans to go out to MCCC (or MC3, as I like to call it.) We didn’t talk about Diana. Actually, I think he did most of the talking—explaining stuff to me, reminiscing about his own career and educational pursuits, and just, in general, being very pleasant and kind. I went here in my head because, as I look forward to having a master’s degree in May 2024, it’s funny to think how long ago it was that I registered for my first college course. And actually….funny how memories work. They’re coming fast and loose now. That sad “Diana weekend” in 1997 wasn’t even the real beginning of my college career. I’d already taken one college course while still at Burbank High in southern California. It was “Personal Development” at Los Angeles Valley College, a very watered down course that was meant to ease high school seniors into college life. So really Psychology 101 at MC3 in PA was my second college course. Spoiler alert: I didn’t do well in Psyc 101. I can hear Cher Horowitz in my brain: “Ugh. Freshmen Psych rears its ugly head.”2 What was nice about it, I could do the course in the comfort of my barracks room, at night after work. It was a “correspondence course,” those things that amounted to “distance learning” before the internet took off. I did the class with my friends John and Sam. Sam, John’s girlfriend, had as hard a time with it as I did, but John aced it. I think John and Sam had their own apartment already. I remember them driving me back and forth between the barracks and their apartment, where we would study together. Even though I didn’t do well in the class overall, it was an important, eye-opening experience. The notes that came back from the professor were hurtful, but in retrospect, I recognize that she did her best to help me. She detailed exactly where I was going wrong, how I wasn’t answering the question and needed to be more specific, and when I signed up for Sociology 101 in the spring, I was determined to prove to myself (and others, let’s face it) that I could improve. I think the ‘others’ was in general. I wanted to prove it to the teacher, coworkers, superiors, to John and Sam, parents…to everyone I knew, really. Come on, I was 19, at the most. My sense of self was pretty shaky.
I worked in the supply office (called 050, in Navy speak, as in 050 division, and pronounced “oh-five-oh”) at AIMD—the base’s Aviation Intermediate Maintenance Department. We were a small office compared to other divisions. The 050 division consisted of me, two Petty Officers Second Class, one Petty Officer First Class, one Chief Petty Officer, two civilian women, and another Airman like me who ran the Tool Room. Me and this other Airman—I’ll call him Jerry for the purpose of protecting the innocent—actually handled the front end of things together, and I assisted him in the Tool Room. I was kind of his backup in the Tool Room, and he was my backup in the main office. We had each other’s back, truly. Jerry and I had kind of an awkward start but we quickly got over our differences to find our footing in working well together. The awkwardness stemmed from our stark differences and lack of maturity to fully appreciate that there are people in the world who don’t think as I do. He was an extrovert, I an introvert. He never read books. He had no interest in going to college. He just wanted to travel (hard to do in our part of the navy) and meet people and go to parties. He hated working in 050 (although he was good at it) and I loved working in 050. Both of us were pulled to work in 050 from other divisions. 050 is the office for Aviation Storekeepers, which Jerry and I were not, but at this particular duty station, 050 had two rotating positions that were filled on a yearly basis by people from other divisions of AIMD. Jerry got pulled, very much against his will, from 500, which, if I remember correctly, is the division where the planes go for structural repairs. I got pulled from 900, the division that handles all maintenance on the aviation support equipment, like tractors and tow bars and things.3 Since Jerry hated 050 so much, he did his year in the 050 Tool Room, went back to 500, and never looked back. My story was more complicated, because I loved working in 050, and my superiors liked having me there, so they were prepared to move hell and high water to make my position permanent.
050 was, in a way, my first “real” job. Of course, in high school, I did volunteer work—technical work for the Actors’ Company at the Burbank Little Theatre—but even though I learned a lot, not only about technical theatre but about ‘adulting’ as well, I never had to deposit a paycheck until I joined the Navy. I also never had a driver’s license until I joined the Navy. That was another thing that my 050 superiors motivated me to get done. The 050 division had a truck, and in order for me to help drive stuff around the base, I needed a driver’s license. So in addition to taking college courses at night, I took a driving course. I had taken driving lessons before in Burbank, but I just never got the hang of driving out there. For some reason, the change of location (and I suppose other factors) made my driving prowess more conducive. It all flowed without a hitch—driving test, driving license. I delayed buying a car, however, until I could save enough to make a decent down payment. I had a bicycle for short trips, and I was comfortable taking the bus if I needed to go to the mall or something. My Sociology 101 course was actually on the base, so I could walk to it easily. The teacher came to us. Most of life’s essentials were on the base, in easy walking distance—Navy Federal Credit Union, where I did my banking; the Navy Exchange; outdoor swimming pool; gym; and even a 24-hours-open Subway when I was tired of the Galley food.
Sociology 101 was a success for me. The next course I took, I think, was Western Civ. I think that was also a “teacher comes to us” class. (I did take Speech later at the MC3 campus.) I was excited about it because I felt 99% certain that I would declare History as my major. Years into the future, when, post-Navy, I enrolled full-time at Manhattanville College, I did declare History for my major. By then, I was on the GI Bill, supplemented by Pell Grants and money from the Navy’s Temporary Disability Retirement List.4 In 1999, I reenlisted in the Navy for another four–year term. The helicopter squadron at the Willow Grove base flew around the Statue of Liberty. The helicopter circled her while the pilot recited the Oath of Enlistment with me. One of my coworkers came with me to take photos, as I could only bring one person.
By then, I was an AK3 (Aviation Storekeeper, Petty Officer Third Class) and shortly afterwards, I transitioned to my second duty station—the VAW-78 squadron in Norfolk, VA. I’m skipping over a lot of embarrassing stuff, like the injury that put me at the Naval Hospital in Bethesda, Maryland for three months. One day, I was at the 900 division, where I had duties in their supply and tool room. It was not the kind of job where I just sat at a desk. I often had to walk around, do inventories, trainings, and in this one case, as I was helping someone hitch a trailer to a tractor. I feel like I’m on trial, trying to explain a crime. It’s just not the case. Honestly, it was so long ago, and I’ve entirely put the “how it happened” out of my head. I’ve never tried to analyze how it happened or lay blame at someone’s feet. I suppose some people would have gone there automatically. Mine never did. The tow bar fell on top of my right index finger, breaking it in five places. I remember the 900 supervisor sitting with me, a calming presence, working to prevent me from looking at what had to be the horrific sight of my bloody broken finger, while we waited for the ambulance. The weird thing is, I don’t remember the pain. I remember the throbbing, but not the pain. I remember the ambulance ride, the hospital, and getting the stitches—all of it without pain because of the IV in my arm. The plan was to drive me down to Bethesda, do the surgery there, and bring me back to Willow Grove. But once in Bethesda, the doctors looked at my (yes, plural) fractures, and decided to let it heal naturally. I would undergo daily Occupational Therapy and Hydrotherapy to speed up the healing. They felt that the finger would recover its mobility more completely if allowed to heal naturally without surgery. So I lived for three months in the medical barracks at the Bethesda Naval Hospital. I had my own room, and I was just across the street from a major Metro stop. I loved getting on that train and riding around the nation’s capital. I got to know Bethesda, Chevy Chase, Georgetown, Rock Creek Park, and of course the National Mall. I did have to work, even on medical leave, but it was light and limited duty and, therefore, I had tons of time to spend any way I liked. I did lots of walking and I was encouraged to use my injured finger as much as possible. (Today, it’s completely normal, although there is a scar on the inside of the finger that you wouldn’t notice without me pointing it out to you.) One day, during hydrotherapy, I got the wild idea to finally buy a car. The hydrotherapy guy (hydrotherapist?) convinced me that it was a great idea, and when I said I was thinking of buying a Honda, he said, even better. He and his wife drove Hondas, and he knew a Honda dealer in Alexandria who was a military veteran. His wife drove me down to the dealership and I drove myself back in my brand new red Honda Civic HX. When my finger was healed, I drove myself back and resumed my life at NAS Willow Grove, working at AIMD, where apparently my experience had become a safety lesson of some import. (It was put into a safety training, with me unnamed, of course.)
The months-long D.C. excursion gave me a taste of independence and mobility which I was loath to surrender. It wasn’t long before I moved out of the barracks, having got my very own apartment off base, and even got a part-time job at the mall. A lot of new adults struggle to make ends meet in low-paying service jobs. Today, thanks to the Affordable Care Act, new adults get to stay on their parents’ health insurance up to the age of 27. Of course, in my case, I had health and dental covered by the navy, but as one of my shipmates liked to say, the navy is just like a parent in many ways—they feed you, they house you, they even tell you what to wear and give you a clothing allowance to keep your uniforms up to snuff and tidy. Somehow, though, I never seemed to have enough. I spent almost as much as I made, and I wasn’t yet wise or disciplined enough to leave alone what little savings I periodically built up. I had grown up in so many ways—teaching myself to eat healthy meals, exercise regularly (yoga, aerobics, swimming, rollerblading) and take care of my appearance. I never cared about clothes before, but after Bethesda, somehow I acquired a new interest in dressing well. Yet I was still unaware of the interior goods—the stuff you find when you go deep inside yourself, when you recognize the difference between the true self and the roles you play, when you realize how much of yourself you hide from others, how much you moderate about yourself for the sake of the world. I was a long way from “the goods,” and without them, I lacked the inner well of wisdom that alone can create space between myself (my self) and the madness, that alone can assure me that I’m all right and can stop hiding.
The hiding continued for years after my injury. I took the habit with me to Norfolk, VA. My time at VAW-78 was full of drama, and adventure, some good, some not so good, but all of it pushed me a little further toward the person I’m meant to be. I continued my college courses (through Saint Leo University, which held classes on the base. (I took Religion, Biology, and Philosophy.) I lived in a house with some of my “shipmates” from the squadron, a house with a big yard and a Labrador, named Buddy. My room was a tiny nook upstairs, which I converted into the coziest spot in the world. I was OK on the outside. Yet I wasn’t ok within myself, and that made me not ok in company. I shoved everything down, ignored the pain, went to work, went to do my swimming laps after work, went home, and increasingly, after disappointments in a few matters, retreated into myself. These disappointments overwhelmed my fragile, barely-there sense of self and I lacked the inner resources to let them transmute. I was depressed—severely depressed. It wasn’t just a matter of being “sad.” I felt worthless. I remember specifically using that word in therapy. Not hopeless. Worthless. Even in the depth of despair, there was always a tiny part of me that held out hope. I don’t think I’ve ever been without hope. I never wanted to die. I just wanted to get better, to feel better, and even when I was at my lowest, there was something inside me that knew I could do it. I’m sure that’s why so many people in the navy fought so hard to help me—because, in always wanting to help myself, I submitted to receiving their help. I accepted it. I surrendered. Some people talk about “surrendering to God.” For me, it was surrendering to the moment, to what is, and just letting go…letting go of expectations and ceasing to resist whatever was happening. Of course, all of this was a process that took many years to master, and even now, I still falter.
My Navy career closed honorably, and I do not regret any of it, because it was honest. On the morning of September 11, 2001, I signed the papers at the Portsmouth Naval Hospital that closed my medical review. As I came out of the hospital, walking to my car, I received a call from my mother, telling me what had happened at the World Trade Center. (I don’t have any sense of time, or timing in my memory of that day, so I don’t know how much time passed between the planes hitting the towers and my receipt of the news.) With a heavy heart, I think back on my last assignment. In transition out of active duty, I was a driver—driving sailors to the shipyard, to join the fleet. Recognized for my artistic skills, I was also commissioned to draw a mural in the Fleet Liaison building. My parting gift? I won’t say legacy, because that would be pretentious, and it would imply that somehow it’s personal, which it is not. I’m grateful for the opportunity to give something back, something that endures.
A School: First there was boot camp, at Naval Station Great Lakes; then “A School” in Millington, TN.
While there’s no quiz at the end of this article, you do get points for knowing what movie I’m quoting from!
I’d been assigned to 900, but never really got to work there for any significant period of time, and the little time I did spend there, I was put to work as their “050 person,” managing their supply room and tool room. Airman who first arrive at Willow Grove from A School are generally assigned in temporary duties to begin with. Prior to my more permanent assignment to 900/050, I did the normal temporary assignment as a gate guard, posted at the main gate to wave people onto the base. During my time at the gate, we had a presidential visit (yes, Bill Clinton) and I got to see up-close the Secret Service in action! That was fun.
My honorable discharge in 2001 was a medical discharge, and I was considered to have a temporary disability, since my condition was curable. I don’t intend to go into detail about it on this blog. I know a lot of disabled veterans talk about their experiences, most of them by far more traumatized than I ever was. I was one of the “lucky” ones, chiefly because I fell into good hands at every stage. Incredible hands! I had the most compassionate, caring, capable doctors and nurses imaginable—at every stage, in the navy, and out of the navy, through the Veterans Administration and in private healthcare.