Looking back on the last two years in the Greywolf Brigade, I am incredibly proud of my time here. They say that once Cav, always Cav. For me, that will be true, but I will always be Greywolf. Something changed in me this last two years and tonight, in wishing the brigade commander farewell, I can only hope that I will be a better officer for having served in his command.
Higher Rewards For Lower Performance
April 23, 2010
WHILE I WAS STILL in Iraq, I had an interesting conversation with one of the leaders in my chain of command. I asked why some females were allowed to get away with murder and why others were held to the same standard as the males.
The response was nothing short of shocking. I was told that they were easier on me as a female. This completely turned my world upside-down, because I’d been wire brushed in front of the entire brigade leadership and pushed to make the mission happen. I truly believed I was being held to the same standard.
This response caused me to do a significant amount of soul searching. Was I truly performing on a par with my peers or was it simply because I was a girl that my performance stood out among mediocre females? I asked trusted confidants if they thought this was the case: was I being let off the hook because I was a female?
My mentors said no. They said I busted my ass and it was visible to everyone. There was a reason the brigade commander came to me when there were coms issues at National Training Center. There were reasons why people on the staff sought me out when they needed something done. No, I was not simply a girl who got things done: I got things done and that, at the end of it all, was what mattered.
Despite these reassurances, the remark still stings to this day. I’m conscious of the fact that my gender does make me stand out among a room full of males and I am always worried that when I’m given a huge pat on the back, it’s because I’m simply doing my job.
Here’s the ultimate problem with mandating that women be allowed to serve in the combat arms: affirmative action plans such as gender norming physical requirements would lead to disproportionate reward for doing the same tasks with lower results. So a female would only have to ruck eight miles instead of ten.
Affirmative action plans that were meant to correct historical wrongs have created a significant problem for people like me: the lowered expectations means that I stand out against my female peers but I am seen as still not performing at a level of my male peers. My friends and mentors tell me this is not the case, but that single comment has left a mark on me and on the way I see things.
Another problem I have is the perception that certain ranks require certain levels of award. The argument I heard in Iraq when I had kittens about some people receiving Bronze Stars (and I still maintain that I did nothing to warrant the award I received) is the scope of influence. A warrant officer on the brigade staff is going to have significantly more influence over the ability of the brigade to accomplish its mission than a sergeant out pounding the streets. Granted, one is significantly more dangerous but the other has significantly more impact.
But what about the perception that awards are supposed to be for doing above and beyond your job? So if that sergeant who travels the roads in Iraq is responsible for returning 15 COPs to fully operational communications while that officer advances the next PowerPoint slide, is that truly fair? The perception of rank equaling greater influence is only accurate if the person at that rank truly exceeds the expectations for that rank. Just because someone filled a slot does not mean they earned an equivalent award.
I find myself being highly disgruntled by the fact that my male counterparts continually shy away from correcting female soldiers. When we expect the bare minimum from female soldiers versus challenging them to the same standards as male soldiers, we run the risk of creating a cadre of mid-level female NCOs, warrant officers, and officers who lack the skills to enable our Army to succeed at what we do: win wars.
My challenge to my peers: hold me to the same standard that you hold male lieutenants to. Hold these young female lieutenants and warrant officer ones and specialists to the same standard. Don’t shy away because you’re afraid of EO complaints.
And damn it, stop rewarding us for showing up when you expect men to perform.
A Brief, Shining Moment
April 25, 2010
SOMEHOW THIS WEEKEND, I was roped into throwing a birthday party for Jerry. You know, as in Tom and Jerry. Tom wasn’t invited.
Anyway, the mystery of how I ended up doing this was soon solved when my dearest husband came home with yellow cake mix and chocolate frosting in a can. I have to admit, while those things are good, I was planning on making everything from scratch. I enjoy baking with my girls and somehow, it seems wrong for me to pour things out of a box, add a few eggs and presto, instant desert. Part of this comes from remembering baking with my own mom when I was a kid and it’s a memory I want my kids to share.
Anyway, we made the cake out of the box. Originally, it was going to be cupcakes, except that I realized I had no cupcake liners. So, a double-layer yellow cake was poured into two pans. After much negotiation and laying out of the plan, it was agreed that we would frost the cake after room clean-up the next morning.
Room clean-up was accomplished with only marginally smaller amounts of berating and nagging. We rearranged and actually came out with more space.
Then, I could no longer avoid my fate. It was time to frost the dreaded cake. I thought I’d seen somewhere where you trim the cake so that its all the same size. This was my first mistake. As I sawed through the edges, I revealed a crumbly moist inside that was very much not in the mood to have frosting stick to it. So I figured I’d layer it on a little thicker and it wouldn’t crumble all around me.
Half the tub went in the middle of the cake. Then I got the brilliant idea to nuke the frosting to make it just a smackerel easier to spread. Except of course, my domestically-challenged self made it too thin. So I kind of smeared it around the sides, hoping the thin frosting would act like glue for the rest of the new tub of frosting I had to run to Walmart and buy.
Sadly, my little cake was more of a fiasco. My dearest husband, who put me in the whole predicament in the first place proceeded to harangue me mercilessly in the cat’s voice and then could not actually believe how much frosting I managed to put on the darn thing. I actually got upset and both girls immediately started saying stuff like, “It’s okay mommy, Jerry will still eat it.” This from the three year old.
So we’re standing in the kitchen and both girls have mashed two pink candles into the cake. We light the disaster and the four of us sing happy birthday to a cartoon mouse.
It was one of those moments that hurt my heart because it was so achingly normal. I just stood there for a second and watched my kids and couldn’t believe that we’ve been together for five months now. At that moment, I loved my kids and all the fighting and the crying and the yelling was gone. For one moment, we were a normal family, with parents who weren’t tired and stressed out and partially crazy.
My family doesn’t have a normal baseline. One or both of us has been deployed or across the country for the last five years. You read about those dual military couples that have only gone through one or two deployments? We’ve gone through three in five years and I know there are families out there that have even more under their belts. Granted, I haven’t been gone the whole time but I can’t help but wonder what the cumulative effect of all this upheaval in my kids’ lives will be.
I can’t dwell on it. I have to just take the moments like the one yesterday and hang on to them. And at the end of it all, I think that’s all any of us can do, whether or not you’re in the military.
So happy birthday, Jerry. Thanks for giving me one of those bright, shining moments that has been all too rare since redeployment and for liking the cake even though it looked like crap.
The Blind Spot: Writing and Real Life
April 29, 2010
THE VERY BEST RESOURCE I’ve found since beco
ming a writer is Psychology Today. Not only does this magazine help with fictional characterizations, but I’ve also taken a good hard look at some issues and been able to apply lessons to real life in the Army.
This month, there was an article in there about a book called The Invisible Gorilla. The premise of the book revolves around expectations and when people are directed to look for one thing in a room, in over half the cases they completely miss the fact that there’s a gorilla there.
This has huge implications, both for fiction and for real life. When have you read a book with a major plot element plain to see to everyone but the characters? When they finally do figure out that what they needed was right in front of them, don’t you feel cheated as a reader? Or when a story arc builds around a miscommunication? Have you ever been involved in a massive fight that could have been avoided had one party simply been able to say, “Wait, we’re miscommunicating here”?
Exactly. It’s easy to spot these problems in other people’s fiction but damn near impossible to see in our own. When it comes to real life, we’re just as blind-sided by these illusions. But the blind spot isn’t just when dealing with an inability to really see.
I read a quote somewhere that most people aren’t ever actively engaged in listening, because they’re planning what they’re going to say next. How much do we miss by not tuning in to what people are truly saying? When we aren’t actively listening, we miss key body language cues, voice inflection, and all these other elements that tune us in to what others truly mean.
The blind spot also comes into play in the military in a huge way. We base most of our assumptions about individuals on three things: rank, race, and gender. A male major is assumed to have base of knowledge that a male lieutenant is not. A female private is going to be stereotyped first, assessed on performance second. This is in part due to stereotypes and biases that we all carry within us, but is also based on our expectations, like the expectation that a major is a person of authority and a private isn’t.
Why else would Nidal Hasan have been able to walk right up to a gathering of soldiers and start shooting? We never expected a field grade officer to do something like that. In our military, our expectations are that young gang bangers cause the problems and these individuals are almost always in the lower enlisted ranks. Before anyone accuses me of using a race-based term, I’m not. There is growing evidence to suggest that white power gangs are sending young members in to learn military training.
But it is our expectations most days that prevent us from seeing the truth that walks among us. If there is a staff sergeant who walks around hugging all the E4 and below, but he does so with a smile on his face, does that make him a potential sexual harassment offender? But he’s so nice, the argument may go. What about the quiet guy in the corner? Is he just quiet or is he hiding some dark secret in his basement? What about the weirdo who believes he has a cloak of invisibility that keeps him from being shot on guard duty?
In describing all of these people, my expectations of them have colored how I describe them. As you read this, your expectations are colored by my words so that if you ever met them, you would be looking for the weirdo or the creepy guy. You might never see the true person because of these expectations.
In the end of it all, it is very hard to see what we most times don’t know we can’t see. It’s critical, both as a writer and a leader, to seek a trusted second opinion. Almost always, they will see something that you did not. Once they mention it, it may seem glaringly obvious.
But you’d never have seen it—whatever “it” is—without asking for a second opinion and actively looking for the gorilla in the room.
It’s the Suspense
May 3, 2010
WELL, ITS BEEN TWO weeks since I got an agent based on my nonfiction proposal. What has that last two weeks looked like from the POV of the newly agented?
Nothing.
I’m waiting. I’ve written two chapters of the book and revised them and now I’m still. Just. Waiting.
Waiting on the brigade JAG to review my proposal to see if it’s within the ethical limits for me to write this book. I couldn’t go to her before I had an agent because I didn’t have a product and would have been discussing purely hypotheticals. And she’s incredibly busy, so I’m by no means complaining about the wait.
It’s the suspense that’s killing me.
I’ve read the slides available for book deals and government employees. I’m reasonably certain that if MG Bolger can write a book about infantrymen, I can write a book about military moms. I mean, it’s not official policy; it’s about women in the military. About working moms in the military.
And yet, I sit here, biting my nails because the answer may come back as no. The JAG might paint it as having to do with “official duties.” She might say it has to do with policy. There’s a whole raft of things that might get my proposal deemed not in compliance with ethics rules.
I don’t think it violates it. The limited writing that has occurred has only taken place at home, off duty. I’m using my Google-fu to gather my research. It doesn’t deal specifically with Iraq or Afghanistan, but rather with how military moms manage to do it all.
The bottom line is that I’m terrified she’s going to say no. You know that feeling when you’re certain you’ve won the lottery only to discover you had the wrong number? That’s what it feels like. I wouldn’t have put the proposal together and written two chapters if I didn’t think I could ethically sell this book. And I damn sure wouldn’t have sent it out to agents if I didn’t think I could do this. I mean, talk about wasting people’s time.
I really, really feel like this book is within the ethics constraints. But it’s that tiny whisper of doubt that says maybe, just maybe. It’s not that is going to absolutely destroy me if I can’t write it. Or worse, if she says I can write it but can’t accept any compensation for it. I did the PBS blog foregoing the honorarium because it was good exposure and a great experience and a chance to speak for my sisters-in-arms, rather than continue to allow the media to define the discussion about women in the military.
I don’t think I can write an entire book and all that goes into that without compensation. I mean, I’m not doing this for giggles. I want this to be my second career after I get out of the Army. I’m hoping to be able to build a career so that when I retire in seven years, I can write full time. This is a long haul for me and it’s something I love to do.
So to be sitting so close to the edge of victory, dangling over the side and seeing defeat is nerve-wracking to say the least. I’m scared witless right now because I’ve got hope, I’ve got an agent, and I’ve got a book I know I can write.
All I need now is a yes.
Two New Versions of the Three Little Pigs
May 4, 2010
MY KIDS BOTH KNOW that I’m a writer as well as a soldier. While I was gone to Iraq, my oldest always talked about how she wanted to be a writer like Mommy (which made tears come to my eyes and still does). Anyway, we were sitting at dinner the other night and my oldest gave us her version of the three little pigs. Then the youngest chimed in with the remix.
I thought I’d share.
As told by my oldest (5 1/2):
One morning, the three little pigs said we can play tag but the big bad wolf ate the three pigs. Then all the other animals packed their suitcases and moved to a country where there were no wolves.
As told by my youngest (3 1/2):
The wolf ate the three little pigs. Then a squirrel got his gun and shot the big bad wolf and put him on the barbecue grill.
And Mommy is now going into therapy.
Ghosts Of Mother’s Day Past
May 9, 2010
LAST YEAR FOR MOTHER’S Day, I was in Iraq. I remember it being a day of everyone saying “Happy Mother’s Day” when all I wanted to do was ignore the fact that I was even a mom. See, I’m an avoider. I avoid things that choke me up when I talk about them and the card my mom had sent me from my then fou
r year old just about killed me. Being reminded all day that I was away from the one thing I needed to be near was simply brutal.
Last year, all I wanted was to be able to wrap my arms around my kids and hear their little voices say “I wuv oo.” The longing in me to go home was intense, so much so that I had to shut it down, or else I would simply cease to function.
This year, becoming Mommy again has had its own challenges. There has been much crying and screaming and gnashing of the teeth. There have been lots of “you’re not my friend anymore,” as well as “I want Grammy,” and there have been days when I seriously considered walking away from the military because reuniting was too damn difficult on all counts.
This year, I’m taking it one day at a time, just like last year. This year, I’m trying to smile when my kids drive me nuts, to be more patient, and to be a better mom because the struggles with coming home have been so intense.
This year, work has been a refuge. It has been the place I go to so that I can still feel like a productive member of society rather than a freaked out version of Freddy Krueger’s mom.
But between last year and this year, one thing has not changed. I still have the best mom. Last year, she went through Mother’s Day taking care of my kids. Of having to listen to not only her grandkids cry but her daughter as well. This year, she’s gotten to listen to both again, but this time, she’s in Maine and we’re in Texas and just like me last year, all she wants to do is wrap her arms around my girls and make the hurt stop.
Reuniting has not been easy on anyone, but the fact that I’ve got a great mom behind me made last year easier. This year, just knowing that talking to her gives my kids a sense of security helps.
So I’m reposting last year’s Mother’s Day post. Just because it’s still true today.
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