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rmMy ex- grew up, quite literally, in the shadow of West Point. He lived not in the town considered to be its home but rather in the town adjacent to its back gate. In the course of our relationship, I spent a lot of time there, because his parents still lived there, and as many of you know, they were both quite ill at the end of our relationship.
Mostly, Michael didn't talk about West Point in any context other than to say where he lived and to make it a place other than a small town where old men drank all day because they had nothing better to do. His mother was a school teacher and died of cancer. A lot of people in the town died of cancer, there was a cluster there, and many of them talked about how it must have something to do with secret things going on at West Point.
Sometimes, he said, you can hear guns and cannons. I wasn't really sure anyone at West Point would have any damn reason to shoot a cannon anymore, but it was the type of thing he'd tell me as we stood on a bridge and looked at the view. They stored ammunition there, during the Civil War he said, pointing to a small island in the middle of the Hudson.
One summer, it was all one summer which is odd in seven years, he took me to West Point a lot. The first time we drove around, parked at some forlorn abandoned gate down a hill and sat there in the middle of the day while he talked about drinking out there with his friends in high school and getting chased by MPs and how they'd speed back to town with their headlights off and eyes closed. Another time, we walked along the edge of the sports field and I watched girls play soccer; they seemed happy. He took me to the library, and other times we hiked behind the houses of the lower ranking staff. The last time, we walked around the parade grounds and he pointed to the houses where the important staff lived, and told me all the random trivia he'd acquired over the years of living near there, of growing up with kids whose parents taught there and of invariably knowing people who attended as well.
That day, he talked about how he regretted constantly not realizing when he needed to realize it that it was something he should have pursued. Guidance counsellors he said talked to him about it a lot in school. He wished he had been more athletic and said it appealed to his sense of honour, and I feel dishonest not commenting on that, but also know enough that my thoughts on that are worthless if you don't know the man, which most of you don't. It was, the way he presented it that day at any rate, something he dwelled on all the time, which I think it was, as much as he was capable of any consistancy of thought.
The last death in the first Iraq war was his hated, dreaded, feared high school rival and Michael always worried about symmetry imcomplete, which is why he hated my own similar tendencies.
I used to live three blocks from the Vietnam Wall in Washington DC and I spent a lot of time there, because it was quiet or interesting. Because I was close to Vietnam vets for really the first and only time in my life then, and because it was a place I could cry in public, which I sometimes felt the need to then, even if it was over different things. Also, it was near my home, and DC had places to pray in the dark at night in the way New York doesn't, and that is a gift to anyone who lives there.
People would stop me and ask the way to the Wall all the time when my arms were so full of groceries I had to stop and put them down every twenty feet. People live here, but they didn't understand, and that bothered me, their inability to see the memorial as a common part of our lives, as well as extraordinary.
Tonight I watched a National Georgraphic program on Arlington Cemetary, and learned all sorts of facts about it I never knew. It was very interesting and affecting. Section 60 is where the dead from this Iraq war go, and there are, according the program, approximately 100 buried there.
If you take the DC Metro past Arlington Cemetary at night, the doors do not open at that station. But the trains always slow down and sometimes stop. It's an eerie thing, but just one of the many things you get used to in a city that was built for ideals rather than people. I thought of that today for the first time in years. It reminds me of how the trains were here after 9/11, but this isn't about that.
I've never told this to anyone, but when I was a young teen, I used to read British music magazines, and one had a penpal section in it. I wrote letters to some of the listings, because they liked the same bands as me. And I got letters back from these boys, who were in fact 18-year-olds in the Navy. My mother found the letters and ripped them up. My father spoke to me about how I must never write to these men again, they only wanted to sully me, I would have to live with the rudeness of not even being allowed to write them back to tell them I could not write to them any longer. But they are so alone, I wailed and they like the Cure and how could they have been any danger to me when their letters were as jejune as my own? I still remember their handwriting.
Growing up, I learnt many odd things as absolutes. Strange entreaties about health, language and manners. I learnt that for a woman to marry before thirty in New York was considered ignorant, and that only those who are poor or not smart enough for college join the military.
As I've gotten older, I've learned that almost everything learnt in that childhood is untrue, and that the few things that were true (French as a diplomatic and necessary language for all educated souls) no longer are. Sometimes this makes me sad, but mostly, it quietly confounds me, this constant discovery that I grew up in a world that was such an odd mix of one that no longer exists and another than never did at all.
In that childhood, military men were strange, unwholesome creatures, not because their profession was inclined to require them to kill, but because they were presented to me as men so ignorant as to allow themselves to be taken from the company of ladies, and then so greedy as to wish to ruin any they could find.
Obviously, these fictive souls have given way to the realities of friends, lovers and well... lj'ers. But it is strange, there is a thirteen-year-old girl in me who will always be unsure on this topic, confounded, lost and lonely, which truthfully is as it should be. But I've had to struggle with her to find the nerve even to send something to someone on www.booksforsoldiers.com, tenacious and peculiar child that she is.
All of it makes me think of Michael and his dead classmate, and growing up in the shadow of West Point and what strange aches, peculiar honour and childhood admonitions haunted him into a different set of choices (or at least a particular narrative) which never seemed to serve him very well.
Mostly, Michael didn't talk about West Point in any context other than to say where he lived and to make it a place other than a small town where old men drank all day because they had nothing better to do. His mother was a school teacher and died of cancer. A lot of people in the town died of cancer, there was a cluster there, and many of them talked about how it must have something to do with secret things going on at West Point.
Sometimes, he said, you can hear guns and cannons. I wasn't really sure anyone at West Point would have any damn reason to shoot a cannon anymore, but it was the type of thing he'd tell me as we stood on a bridge and looked at the view. They stored ammunition there, during the Civil War he said, pointing to a small island in the middle of the Hudson.
One summer, it was all one summer which is odd in seven years, he took me to West Point a lot. The first time we drove around, parked at some forlorn abandoned gate down a hill and sat there in the middle of the day while he talked about drinking out there with his friends in high school and getting chased by MPs and how they'd speed back to town with their headlights off and eyes closed. Another time, we walked along the edge of the sports field and I watched girls play soccer; they seemed happy. He took me to the library, and other times we hiked behind the houses of the lower ranking staff. The last time, we walked around the parade grounds and he pointed to the houses where the important staff lived, and told me all the random trivia he'd acquired over the years of living near there, of growing up with kids whose parents taught there and of invariably knowing people who attended as well.
That day, he talked about how he regretted constantly not realizing when he needed to realize it that it was something he should have pursued. Guidance counsellors he said talked to him about it a lot in school. He wished he had been more athletic and said it appealed to his sense of honour, and I feel dishonest not commenting on that, but also know enough that my thoughts on that are worthless if you don't know the man, which most of you don't. It was, the way he presented it that day at any rate, something he dwelled on all the time, which I think it was, as much as he was capable of any consistancy of thought.
The last death in the first Iraq war was his hated, dreaded, feared high school rival and Michael always worried about symmetry imcomplete, which is why he hated my own similar tendencies.
I used to live three blocks from the Vietnam Wall in Washington DC and I spent a lot of time there, because it was quiet or interesting. Because I was close to Vietnam vets for really the first and only time in my life then, and because it was a place I could cry in public, which I sometimes felt the need to then, even if it was over different things. Also, it was near my home, and DC had places to pray in the dark at night in the way New York doesn't, and that is a gift to anyone who lives there.
People would stop me and ask the way to the Wall all the time when my arms were so full of groceries I had to stop and put them down every twenty feet. People live here, but they didn't understand, and that bothered me, their inability to see the memorial as a common part of our lives, as well as extraordinary.
Tonight I watched a National Georgraphic program on Arlington Cemetary, and learned all sorts of facts about it I never knew. It was very interesting and affecting. Section 60 is where the dead from this Iraq war go, and there are, according the program, approximately 100 buried there.
If you take the DC Metro past Arlington Cemetary at night, the doors do not open at that station. But the trains always slow down and sometimes stop. It's an eerie thing, but just one of the many things you get used to in a city that was built for ideals rather than people. I thought of that today for the first time in years. It reminds me of how the trains were here after 9/11, but this isn't about that.
I've never told this to anyone, but when I was a young teen, I used to read British music magazines, and one had a penpal section in it. I wrote letters to some of the listings, because they liked the same bands as me. And I got letters back from these boys, who were in fact 18-year-olds in the Navy. My mother found the letters and ripped them up. My father spoke to me about how I must never write to these men again, they only wanted to sully me, I would have to live with the rudeness of not even being allowed to write them back to tell them I could not write to them any longer. But they are so alone, I wailed and they like the Cure and how could they have been any danger to me when their letters were as jejune as my own? I still remember their handwriting.
Growing up, I learnt many odd things as absolutes. Strange entreaties about health, language and manners. I learnt that for a woman to marry before thirty in New York was considered ignorant, and that only those who are poor or not smart enough for college join the military.
As I've gotten older, I've learned that almost everything learnt in that childhood is untrue, and that the few things that were true (French as a diplomatic and necessary language for all educated souls) no longer are. Sometimes this makes me sad, but mostly, it quietly confounds me, this constant discovery that I grew up in a world that was such an odd mix of one that no longer exists and another than never did at all.
In that childhood, military men were strange, unwholesome creatures, not because their profession was inclined to require them to kill, but because they were presented to me as men so ignorant as to allow themselves to be taken from the company of ladies, and then so greedy as to wish to ruin any they could find.
Obviously, these fictive souls have given way to the realities of friends, lovers and well... lj'ers. But it is strange, there is a thirteen-year-old girl in me who will always be unsure on this topic, confounded, lost and lonely, which truthfully is as it should be. But I've had to struggle with her to find the nerve even to send something to someone on www.booksforsoldiers.com, tenacious and peculiar child that she is.
All of it makes me think of Michael and his dead classmate, and growing up in the shadow of West Point and what strange aches, peculiar honour and childhood admonitions haunted him into a different set of choices (or at least a particular narrative) which never seemed to serve him very well.
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Date: 2004-11-10 09:15 pm (UTC)Washington note -- I totally agree with how there are so many places to cry in public in DC. During some of my rougher years while I was still living there, I used to make frequent trips to the Jefferson Memorial and just sob my eyes out late at night. I also used to go to the senate or house gallery after six and just watch proceedings.
And the tourists never understood that we live there and that DC isn't just there for tour groups bringing hundreds of fourth graders to stare at something that has little or no meaning to them.