When I thought about college and my past habits of living today - things like driving Molly or using the internet - they were a step removed. Just a little disconnected from the future. And I thought that it was as if I were picking up a garment from where it has lain on my shoulders and letting it slip off. It's not pertinent anymore. I'll pick it up when I come back
There are more kids here than previously, and most of us are shipping: five girls, likely five times that of guys at least. My roommate for tonight is named Jessia; she tells me I didn't need to bring so much stuff 'cause they'll make me buy it again. She's a junior in highschool, seventeen, with a southern accent direct from Tennessee and long straight blond hair and weary blue eyes.
"From now till forever..."
Or thankfully not forever. I had a headache a little earlier from saying goodbye to too many people at once, with all the unreality of knowing this is the last time for a long time, and not being able to feel it except as a drop of the heart into the stomach. Or the ankle. For the first time I am truly afraid.
And it's just a matter of heading into the unknown, unfamiliar, and wanting desparately to succeed; to do really, really well. To not go at all.
ah, I am a coward at heart. i am afraid
in answer to your question, Arthur, I hope to develop both wisdom and compassion through this, and so feel deeply and act properly. And to have courage, even if that means no more than stepping out when I fear to go.
So I go.
Salaam, friends.
I had thought to see Angela today, but oh well. Just another goodbye more casual than the occasion would require, if I consciously thought about it.
I have been reading "Ender's Game" in preparation for BT. I figure a little perspective on pain may be useful; pain and orders and militant manners. Today I have put all the supplies in my bag, and a small pile it makes.
These past days feel of unreality, though they have been good as well. I want to remember long sitting in the shadow of the obelisk in the center of Asheville, by the pool, talking to Isaac Wingfield and Angela of politics; or discussing the more complicated reality of heaven with Kendon, drinking coffee. (My guy friends and brothers seems to be cultivating their hair to great affect; more of the similar differences.) Plus ca change, plus la meme chose.
I have a confession to make. I went to the library yesterday, and of the nine books I brought home, I've already read five. Yes, I read fast --very fast, when I'm caught up in the action-- but this is an admission to something akin to escapism. I do it when I'm able. To slow the time, or to lengthen it to the lifetime of a narrative, perhaps. Last summer I would wait out the time until my supper break during the 3-11 shift of cashiering, and then immerse myself in a story until the sweet half hour passed. And when I got home, I would have a snack and finish the book, most likely. Fiction; childrens, young adult, and adult, pouring through my head. It was a good summer for reading.
I went out yesterday and bought the things I needed for BT. I have everything in a startlingly small pile near the post-shelves in the livingroom, and beside it lies the bag I was trying to mend earlier. For a headache, I have left the remaining few holes until I can see straight. (That's due recompense for reading so much, I guess.) The bag is olive drab, of thick, durable canvas labelled "Barnett" with "Smyth" crossed out. Hilary Walton nee Smyth is the donor of said bag. She no longer needed it after she left the Army Band some years back, though she is now in the Air National Guard. She is one of my heros; one of the toughest women I know, but gentle, intelligent, and refined. I'm glad to take her bag with me to Basic.
I talked to Sgt. Buckner yesterday when I went to pick up some papers from him, and was pleased by two things. One is the fact that next week I will spend at a reception area in Fort Jackson, until enough people come to make up a company. When my company leaves the reception station, I will suddenly have a mailing address but not until then. This means that the only person I know will be coming to Fort Jackson with me, on the same bus, from the same area, will likely be in my company. I don't know his name, but he is a bright young man. Dark hair, dark eyes, a junior in highschool, a musician who also understands computers, and who is planning to go to Fort Sam next summer to study radiology. I liked him when I met him, and was glad to know we were at least to be in the same place for a couple days before boot camp. Now I'm likely to see more of this one friend, which makes life there less daunting, somehow.
The second thing was merely Spc. O'Neal, about whom my brother is teasing me. He was with Sgt. Buckner in his office, sorting papers; apparently his MOS is computer related too, and so he's generally useful in the Armory. He also was friendly and courteous. though a more brown and clean-cut individual, around my age. I'm glad to know the people of my unit. I might end up in Iraq with them for an extended period of time. To be frank, O'Neal struck me as the sort of guy I would like to know better. I liked him.
I'm going to go for a walk with my brother Noah tonight. Not only do I need the exercise, I enjoy the company and the conversation.
I finally checked my grades, and to my extreme delight, my GPA improved over this last semester. I don't know how; the grace of God, and not my works, definitely. I didn't make a C in Chemistry, and so-- the A's add.
I went through the semester trying hard not to think about it, but I was petrified of actually knowing at the end. To no avail, and little practicality; what does it matter?
If only so much didn't depend on it, and I didn't feel like a B means incomplete knowledge and a matter of letting the teacher down. As if my failure to understand completely were a sign of poor respect on my part. I'm really weird in some ways.
I forgot, but this is important. I've had this in my head all day.
"You can tremble, you can fear it,
but keep your fighting spirit alive, boys.
When the world is saying not to, march on,
by [George] you've got to march on, boys.
Never hold back your step for a moment.
Never doubt that your courage will grow.
Hold your head even higher as into the fire we go!"
(Which for your information, Misha, is a song from the American Broadway musical, "The Scarlet Pimpernel," although the book was British. I haven't thought of it for months, and now it's in my head.)
I have this tremendous childhood vision of heroism and valour, and it's ruined me completely. To think Mom believes it's the war movies we've watched for years. No, it goes further back: Eowyn always was my favorite, beside Faramir. And I've wanted to be Faramir for years because he's so noble, and so faithful and wise a captain. I'm doomed.
I'm afraid I'm inclined to be philosophical this week. (Sorry, for those I put on the list already. Just have the time now.)
It's my last chance for unnecessary thinking, maybe. From here on out the paring process begins.
The dichotomy I have figured out. From the one world, the more familiar, the leap into military business is the extraordinary, the amazing thing. Basic Training is unendurable except by the very courageous, and I must be brave to attempt it. Whereas college is assumed as a natural step, and of course the only question is where and what you will study.
In the new world, Basic is just the kindergarten. The prequel to life, the beginning of things. Difficult but ordinary; everyone does it when they're young and things are simple. And of course it gets better as you go along. But college, now. College is a wonder; the intent to study and pass intensive courses, and above all, to attempt a degree --there is the anomaly. Barely anyone goes to college, and gets civilian education.
So there you have it. I'm making of myself a hybrid, a cross of two different worlds. I like both very much. I don't think I could live in the new without the old, but it does add such a flavor of excitement. As if the walls of the old house crumbled and the countryside outside was exotic and almost stunning. As if, once I know I can do more, and be truly useful as a person, the heady mixture of what I want to be and what I am will run together smoothly.
I'm beginning to realize I hope for a change like worm to butterfly; a quitessential alteration of being, almost. As if I'm jumping into a breaking place, and asking to be reforged. I seem to be making my own plans for what glorious thing God will do with my life of this. I had better rethink this.
I've been thinking a lot about the place of women in the military. Proper use, etc.
It's a difficult topic, particularly with the scandals lately. I would hate to be sent to Cuba if what I would be doing there would be guard duty. Not that I'd be in the same temptation, but drat it. Women guarding men? All their waking hours? That's just stupid, for many reasons. I tend to agree with Dr. K. in believing that women will always desire to be in authority over men, and allowing such a reversal of roles cannot help but be impairing, particularly in a setting that invites misuse. Some of the girls in, are in because they want to be tough and prove it any way possible; that doesn't help. Others --others are so obviously feminine and nice, you wonder if they can survive. I suppose I'm seen that way, but I'm sturdier than I appear. I wish I could assure people of that, the ones who say with puzzlement to my mother, "But Elsbeth doesn't seem tough at all. Not unfeminine and rowdy. I don't understand it." They should meet Sgt. Williamson. Effecient and very nice; and oh, the very very pretty Marine officer.
I can't remember whether courage is always embodied as a male, as wisdom and beauty are always female. I think it may be courage of a different sort. Another reason for being a medic: the urge to protect rather than attack.
Man, I'm running on. All the thoughts of this week poured out all at once, in a jumble. If I'm clearer in the morning --oh, check the other blog.
I keep being told how courageous I am, and how various people respect me and look up to me for joining the Guard.
I don't really see it that way. If it isn't a matter of gumption but merely seems the next step, the next thing to do --is that courageous? Not that it doesn't scare me. Not that I don't have to push past my doubts. It's just that I don't consider it anything that anyone else might not do. It isn't impossible. I don't really think of it as being unusual except by that strange incident I know very few other girls in the Guard. And neither does anyone else, apparently.
I'm nothing special where I'm going. I guess that matter-of-factness creeps into the way I view the whole thing: I will be ordinary as the ground. Others will prove the exception, and shine as stars. I only want to be a good soldier.
I went sailing in a canoe rig on Friday and hiked up to a waterfall with Priscilla and Elnat after we made it across the lake. And then rowed/sailed back.
Afterwards I wrote out the waterfall so I would remember it when life gets hot and sticky in BT.
Water falls, exploding on the rough ridges of the stone in a fury of sparkling white froth. Droplets dancing in the air form transparent rainbows hovering over the foaming surface of the pool, shimmering mid-space in delicate bands of color and appearing or disappearing in a wavering glance. Like a voice, wind amplifies the crash or tumble of the liquid in this amphitheater of the falls, constantly pushing the heavy murmur against our ears, our legs, shaking the ground. Moisture rolls down my face, and into my socks, beading from the spray in icy coolness though the sun beats down around us. The cupped ground catches the light; the verdant mass of greenery rising high on the rocky cliffs in shocking brilliancy. Where the rock appears is a rich earthy color, baked pale and bright or carved by the rushing water into deep wet tones, shining darkly. Trees climb the slope of thick grasses and moss, stretching high above us to tower grandly some eighty feet, taller even than the fall. Yet the pouring length of water reaches to the blue sky, tempestuously flinging itself from an immense height only to break in to a million motes in downward flight. Among the wet rocks surrounding the pool, sticks lie caught in a thick pattern of lines, and beside the white flurry of the fall, a lone monarch butterfly flutters serenely, a spot of orange against the darker stone.
I asked my mother yesterday why it was I got irritated when there was no call for irritation, but when there was, I could rise to the occasion and be very sweet and patient. She said it is because I am contrary.
I think juvenility comes with going home. My will to rise and conquer fades, and the self-motivation isn't too high. In which case, I like being at college because then I'm more mature.
I have found out that my little sister plays soccer very sturdily, much to my satisfaction. I like seeing her stand up to some guy twice her size and kick the ball straight and hard, out of the way. Fearless is being eleven and taking on a highschool senior like Daniel Cannone.
And I dislike being extremely conscious that if I break anything, down to my little finger, I'll put off Basic until it heals.
This is a past entry on my other blog I've been thinking about again lately. It was originally written October 5th, 2003.
"I was thinking about hands today; about how very beautiful they are in their differing forms. Many girls I know have the loveliest, small and rounded hands, with shapely fingers and little wrists. Guys tend to be larger, more square and functional, oddly awkward on a young man and surprising in the old, because they are strong-looking and capable. Occasionally, a young man will have smaller hands, or in the case of my brother, long, narrow fingers. Mine are neither rounded nor square; they are simply functional, clever, sensative, thin and strong. I would not have them any other way, for they do what I wish and have trained them to do. But I was wondering about God; that is, what characteristic of His being that is reflected in our hands. What aspect of His personality, when translated into breathing matter, takes on these lithe, sturdy organs; the sight of the blind, the outreaching of the mind physically, the molders of our world? If we are made in His image there must be a reason beyond what I can see. I don't typically think about this facet of creation, but perhaps they are ours precisely because they are beautiful, in utility and in shape. God needs no other reason besides His glory."
At home I begin to lead a double life: one online, one off. I spend my days in communication with those around me, but I talk of past events for the most part, catching up to the present slowly. I have no future to speak of, except the next few weeks. I know I harp on it. It's on my mind.
I have emailed Josiah regarding the comment bars, but have recieved no answer. My dad has volunteered to assist with the architecture of this site, however. Perhaps he will know what to do.
I am enjoying my brothers' company very much. I always do. After months of nothing but girls' perspectives on the majority of life, the cutups of Noah, Ike and Zach are hilarious to behold. They come out with things no girl would contemplate, and they are funny purposefully. I had forgotten that the reason I tickle is because everyone in my family does. It's a sign of affection, just as punning is a sign of intelligence. It delights me to be hugged and growled at, and have wild hyenna whoops echoing around the kitchen as my brothers clean up supper. I can expect to be pummelled if I tease; and have insults thrown as merrily as threats of disembowelment, mutilation, and death. Wittily, of course. My family does not view my boxes of books as anything but a good investment, and our love affair with words and language continues. Who am I to be born of such stock? To care fervently about music and be inextricably intertwined with its making. To live by the shaping of thoughts into words, words, words scattered through the library of our house, with books in almost every room by the dozen, papers and magazines and stories on the floor in the air in our minds and on our tongues. I know other families are like this; they must be. But I love our fascination with language and the culture of words. I love finding dictionaries and thesauruses and encyclopedias all around, in several languages.
And pictures. My mother is refining her skill, and I'm in awe. Simple projects for a class, perhaps, but the inventiveness and sheer technique evident is amazing. I don't think she needs to go to school, but for the sake of her continuing production of work, I want her there. She never did so many when she was stuck at home with us, but she's capable of so very very much.
This is silly, perhaps. The first evening home I stood, disheveled from the wind and travelling, in my brothers' doorway, and much to my surprise Noah looked at me and said, "You're cute." For once, it seemed entirely authentic rather than fraternally inspired, which is why I make a note of it. I don't know why he said it, but that's not the point. I have come to the conclusion that looks are for others' benefit so it doesn't matter what I think.
I need to go to bed, I suppose. It being almost tomorrow.
Drat it, if I'm restless for lack of communication with friends now---
Well, I'm home. Back in the hectic bosom of my family, where food disappears at a truly alarming rate, cats, dogs, and gerbils are liberally scattered throughout the house and yard, and there's always something going on. If not several somethings at once.
Last night we drove home in the rain and I fell asleep several times, being packed in the middle seat of the van with my bedding next to me and a warm engine cover under my feet. When we got into NC the storm turned electrical and the lightening was incredible to see on the mountains ahead, yet in Fairview it hadn't rained yet. And of course I was up late talking to brothers, particularly Noah since he's coming next year.
The common question extended to returned college students at this time of year is "What are you doing this summer?" To which I must give a complicated reply, involving much incredulity, questions of intention and motivation, and surprise. I am tired of saying I'm a soldier. I want to go prove it. The waiting is already onerous; I think I get more tense thinking about how long I have till I can go get this over with.
It is my adventure. Not easy --terribly difficult-- but good. I trust God to do much through Basic Training, and I'm impatient to see what precisely. The overwhelming confidence has returned, even though the brief periods of stark terror still occur: God is going to use this magnificently in my life. He is going to change me, He will watch over me and protect me even though He break me.
It's just the loneliness I fear. I've said it before. Last summer was extremely lonely; this will be worse. This will be longer. This will be the hardest thing I've ever done-- but I will do it. I will succeed in conquering myself, not only the trials placed before me, because it's a matter of running the race well. I'm not doing this for the immediate result, mentally or physically. I honestly see this as a part of sanctification. What my Lord requires of me I will do for Him.
I suppose my business now is to wait, so I should do that also with a mind to please. I can be very useful to my family in the next three weeks.
My life is becoming encapsulated in cardboard boxes: clothing, books, whatnot. I think I have the most boxes of books and notebooks and papers --nine thus far. It hints of an addiction to the written word, and a packrat mentality. Obviously I need to keep all those things because they could be useful some day. Some day. Like when I'm grown up.
I seem to become morose at irregular but not unexpected intervals. Every beginning is the end of something else. And all the excitement in the world cannot outweigh the bittersweet passing of time.
I got to see my cousin Marianne for far too short a time this afternoon, but I enjoyed it. Saying goodbye isn't so hard because I know that in half a year I will be in closer proximity with her than ever before --felicitous idea.
Does there ever come a time you know you are mature, or is maturity one of those things that never comes visibly? so that as long as you believe you are, you aren't, but once you stop paying attention it happens? I have a theory that personality is another one of those; that if you are so self-conscious of who you are, you aren't really, yet. And perhaps personality is linked to maturity, so that you aren't who you were meant to be until you forget yourself enough to become mature and fully yourself.
I feel as bland and innocuous as dishwater lately; as if nothing I am innately could ever be considered interesting. What I do, perhaps. But not who I am.
I know what I will be naturally like in Boot Camp: quiet and a little weird. The one who makes strange comments and laughs at everyone else's brilliant jokes and louder goofiness. I wondered last year when I became the watcher instead of interacting, but I think I've always watched. I just thought that it was lack of chance to enter in the fun. Now, I've been given the chance, and my jokes fall flat; my conversation is lacking something. Always that nameless something. As Keri would say, this is my chance for glory. New place, new people, new situation. It worked in Mexico. Maybe I can alter myself again.
One can but try. But is this not the same thing I usually get depressed about; the missing thing? I hope not. Otherwise I'm chasing the wind.
Odd thought. I need to pack some summer clothes for the three weeks I'll be at home, and then the other clothes I need to be available (instead of in the attic) will be winterest clothes, for when I come back in December. In Texas, it will not be cold for a long time. When I went to drill in Chattanooga in February, Staff Sgt. Vineyard was talking about another soldier who had just returned from his medical training in Fort Sam Houston, and said it was around a pleasant seventy degrees there. I will need a sweater at most, for the weekends I'm not in uniform.
How strange to know so far ahead of time.
I think of my return most often rather than the period of testing itself, possibly because I do know what to expect when I return, and I do not know what training will be like.
But what a pleasure to know a continuity of homes, and activities. I just hope my brain doesn't rust, and I do not become rough.
That's the thing that has been bothering me most recently: the language, the manners and conversation topics of other soldiers. I've heard it already, and it's not all bad. I enjoy them for other people, I can be amused and interested in them easily. But even avoiding swearing doesn't eliminate hearing it from others, and the presence of those words at the top of my mind. Not to mention the desire to succeed in what has been for centuries a strictly male business typically results in a brash sort of confidence; a kind of "in your face" feminity. It's not that the girls are unconscious of such differences --they're more than willing to prove they're women, but not exactly in a delicate manner. And there's always the need to be tougher than the next guy, as if it were a proof of equality.
I bought my first formal the same day I got my first uniform, and I was pleased with the contrast. Just as I must be both citizen and soldier, I am to be both a lady and a private. The difficulty comes from being both at once. I'm afraid of losing track of the first while learning the latter. Just as there's a certain ashamed fear that being strong and muscular somehow detracts from a womanly appearance. (I blush and hide my face; yes, though I love feeling powerful I can't help wondering. It's not as though it matters to anyone I know of, however.)
I should be studying for Microcomputer; honestly I don't much care about the class. Excepting my GPA.