-Angela
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Friday, May 27, 2011
AKO
So there's not much to post until I ship, which is funny, because once I ship, I won't be able to post. It's a vicious circle.
But! I can tell you what's been going on since I signed my contracts:
The Army has this little website-thing called "Army Knowledge Online" which is essentially like, a website where you can.... view your pay stubs or... upcoming training or ... honestly I don't really know what else there is to do on this website. All I know is that I have to be registered on it before I arrived down at Ft. Benning at the end of next month.
Of course, knowing me, this isn't going to be a smooth process.
Two weeks ago I was told by my new recruiter, Sgt. OK that he was going to take care of registering me for the site. He said my info "should" be in the system within 48-72 hours from when I signed my paperwork.
Two weeks went by and nothing.
We'd been in email contact throughout the period, and eventually Sgt. OK delegated me to the task of getting registered. He gave me the website, the Help Desk phone number if I got stuck, and wished me luck.
Apparently he kept getting stonewalled at a certain point. Something to do with entering my DOB and my ship date.
So I gave it a go, and soon came across similar problems, prompting me to call the provided Help Desk number. After a short hold, I was speaking to a rep.
I explained what I, and my recruiter had been trying to do, and the tech support guy was more than willing to help... that is, until he found out I was running a Mac.
"Oh, oh no," he said. "Yeah, DoD computers are all Windows-based ... our web programs won't even talk to a Mac.... that's your problem."
Since I entered the Coast Guard I always wondered why our entire Department of Defense would use the most hacker-friendly computer operating systems.
But I knew there had to be more to this than what kind of computer I was on, since I imagine that my recruiters were using their Panasonic Toughbooks which have Windows-based operating systems.
I passed this along to Sgt. OK and asked if it was within OPSEC to try to log into this account via a public access terminal, like at the library. He said that should be fine, and wished me luck.
So the next day I went down to the local library and signed in for an hour session. I tried logging back in, but then ran into the same stonewalling problem. I stepped outside to make the phone call to the Help Desk.
What the guy NOW told me was that someone at MEPS probably entered in a wrong digit somewhere when they built my account.... between my DOB or ship date numbers; somewhere along the line, a 6 became a 7, a 0 a 1, and so on. I relayed this back to Sgt. OK who had a "long weekend" ahead of him.
"Ohh," it seemed to sort of dawn on him that this all could have been rectified with a simple phone call to MEPS weeks ago. He informed me that he'd be "right on it" first thing on Tuesday morning.
So, we'll see.
But! I can tell you what's been going on since I signed my contracts:
The Army has this little website-thing called "Army Knowledge Online" which is essentially like, a website where you can.... view your pay stubs or... upcoming training or ... honestly I don't really know what else there is to do on this website. All I know is that I have to be registered on it before I arrived down at Ft. Benning at the end of next month.
Of course, knowing me, this isn't going to be a smooth process.
Two weeks ago I was told by my new recruiter, Sgt. OK that he was going to take care of registering me for the site. He said my info "should" be in the system within 48-72 hours from when I signed my paperwork.
Two weeks went by and nothing.
We'd been in email contact throughout the period, and eventually Sgt. OK delegated me to the task of getting registered. He gave me the website, the Help Desk phone number if I got stuck, and wished me luck.
Apparently he kept getting stonewalled at a certain point. Something to do with entering my DOB and my ship date.
So I gave it a go, and soon came across similar problems, prompting me to call the provided Help Desk number. After a short hold, I was speaking to a rep.
I explained what I, and my recruiter had been trying to do, and the tech support guy was more than willing to help... that is, until he found out I was running a Mac.
"Oh, oh no," he said. "Yeah, DoD computers are all Windows-based ... our web programs won't even talk to a Mac.... that's your problem."
Since I entered the Coast Guard I always wondered why our entire Department of Defense would use the most hacker-friendly computer operating systems.
But I knew there had to be more to this than what kind of computer I was on, since I imagine that my recruiters were using their Panasonic Toughbooks which have Windows-based operating systems.
I passed this along to Sgt. OK and asked if it was within OPSEC to try to log into this account via a public access terminal, like at the library. He said that should be fine, and wished me luck.
So the next day I went down to the local library and signed in for an hour session. I tried logging back in, but then ran into the same stonewalling problem. I stepped outside to make the phone call to the Help Desk.
What the guy NOW told me was that someone at MEPS probably entered in a wrong digit somewhere when they built my account.... between my DOB or ship date numbers; somewhere along the line, a 6 became a 7, a 0 a 1, and so on. I relayed this back to Sgt. OK who had a "long weekend" ahead of him.
"Ohh," it seemed to sort of dawn on him that this all could have been rectified with a simple phone call to MEPS weeks ago. He informed me that he'd be "right on it" first thing on Tuesday morning.
So, we'll see.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Signed, Sealed, Delivered
I was asked just a few days ago if any of this has sunk in yet. After the long road of all the waiting, the push-backs, the lineage of disappointments, was it finally settling in, this thought that I had finally reached the summit?
At the time, I had been wondering the same thing: I didn't yet feel the elation, the sense of accomplishment, because there was one thing missing from the puzzle: my name on the dotted line.
"Jack's Paperwork Curse" was still very much alive inside of me. Those unfamiliar with this line of thinking, briefly, I believe I (and my family) have a "curse" regarding important paperwork. No matter what, it seems, that if something big is happening in our lives, and a piece of paper is involved in facilitating this big thing, it will undoubtedly get lost. Maybe it'll get sucked into the turbine engine of a passing jet? Maybe it'll be eaten by a monkey. None of this would surprise me after nearly 30 years of being subjected to this curse.
So, my name not on a piece of paper, .... that was my hang up. Nothing, as far as I was concerned, was "a go" until I signed some paperwork. Until then, all bets were off.
When I received the phone call from the Lt. Col. stating that I had been accepted, there was a "but" involved. The "but" was, in order to complete the process, I had to sign my new contract BEFORE 20MAY, or it would negate everything and back to square one I'd go. So in effect, I had two weeks.
I made the necessary appointments, etc, and finally got up to MEPS (again) on Thursday.
I found out here too, from my new recruiter, Sgt. M, that the National Board only took 43% of applicants that made the cut from their regional BN Boards. From my BN Board, only 50% made the cut. I was in very exclusive company.
However, I was fully anticipating the worst: like getting up to MEPS and them not having a clue as to who I was or what I was doing there, or even worse than that, them not having my paperwork. I did this thing I do when I'm really stressed and can't go for a run someplace and just clear my mind. It's like my conscience mind sort of steps out of the building that is my brain and goes for a walk, leaving the rest of me to be this, semi-conscience body that can answer simple questions and do simple things, like pee in a cup or walk from one room to another.
Luckily, however, everyone at MEPS knows I've been there before and I'm pretty much front-loaded thru an accelerated process. I simply have my height and weight taken and sit down with the doctor again for two minutes. We have a very idle conversation while I sit in nothing but my underwear and I'm allowed to get dressed and sent to go wait in the "tv room."
Everyone else on this day, a motley collection of 17-22 year olds in terrible duds is going thru the motions; wait in line here, piss in this, give me your right arm, sign this, watch this. All while I'm sitting by myself in this break room-looking place with a big screen tv straight out of 1994.
After about twenty minutes, a civilian contractor comes in and looks at me. He smiles and I smile back (again, non-cognitive, brain's still down the street getting a coffee and newspaper) and he asks if I'd like the tv turned on.
The tv has this big sign on it that says "Authorized Personnel Only", meaning that only the folks at MEPS can touch it, turn it on, etc. I smile and nod my head, sure that each eyeball is probably going in a different direction.
He snaps on the tv and races thru the channels, right past ESPN and stops at FOX News. He then cranks the volume up to a level that would make anyone's ears bleed.
He smiles at me, turns and leaves. I'm left with FOX and Friends taking an ice pick to my ear canals.
Shortly after this, my brain returns. He sets his coffee and newspaper down, looks thru my eyes and listens thru my ears and starts screaming.
"What the fuck is all of this?!" My body, dumbly tries to explain the raping that took place a few moments earlier.
FOX News is like bad mash liquor for my brain. I just get dumber from watching the overtly biased lies. The first, and biggest lie, is that FOX News likes to tout it's journalistic objectivity. "We report, you decide," when really, it works in reverse for FOX News. They're pretty much deciding on what angle they're going to be reporting from and present it to the viewer as truth.
I'm stuck watching three or four... just, overtly conservative-leaning stories, that paint democrats as the type of people who would poison your drinking well before shoving you down it.
Soon, I'm called for and I head back to my liaison branch's office.
I sit down with a civilian contractor who is going to be my "guidance counselor" and he shows me my contract. There it is, all in black and white. I'm appointed to Basic Combat Training as an E4 (first promotion since I left CG Basic Training so many years ago), with immediate appointment to Officer Candidate School upon completion of BCT. There's some other doo-dads in there that we skim over, such as family benefit stuff, sexual harassment, homosexuality stuff, etc.
Of the gay stuff, the contractor's like: "do you want to review the policy?" And pulls out a laminated sheet of paper from under his desk.
"Um, no, I'm good, thanks," I say.
We press on. I e-sign all the pertinent blocks and he prints off a copy for me. He then smiles and reaches back for his phone. He's going to call up to the Dept of the Army and get me a ship date.
I'm so close, no hiccups, no snags, my brain is singing.
We're on hold for a few minutes and the contractor uses this time to small talk me. He's going to a Portland Sea Dogs game that night, bringing his kids, it's their first semi-pro baseball game. Someone from the DA picks up and he starts to jabbering.
But instantly, I can tell there's a problem. The contractor's face goes slack and he starts to say something like:
"Oh no, no no, no we're promoting him to E4. Yes, I know, but he has a waiver for that. ....He's already been approved for OCS by the National Board.... no, no.... ok... ok, I'll get it up to you ASAP..."
He hangs up the phone. My brain is no longer singing. I'm just sort of sitting in my chair, looking at him.... as Jill would call it, my shelf on my forehead is tipped forward over my eyes.
"What was all that about?" I ask, my voice dripping in contained rage. The contractor sighs and goes back to his computer and starts looking for something.
"Since you still belong to the Coast Guard," he starts. But I stop him.
"I was released, I had to jump thru a lot of hoops to get that release...." I say to him, referencing the four day scramble I undertook with phone calls to CG HQ last fall, the endless emails, etc. I wasn't about to do all of that again.
"No, I know," he starts, shutting me up. "But that release was only conditional. Technically, they still own you, and if they wanted to, they could re-activate you out of Inactive Ready Reserve if they wanted to.... unless you ship."
"But.... I want to ship," panic starting to grip my voice.
"And we want you to, too! But, the CG has the final say until you ship. The problem we have right now is that you're prior service, and the DA sees you right now as an E3 still. E3s can't go to OCS, that's why we're promoting you here, to E4. They just need a piece of paperwork that says that, that's all."
I pause for a second.
"But you can do that right, like, I'm not going to have to come back another day, right?"
"Oh yeah, yeah, I have the form somewhere around here, I just fill it out and put it into your packet electronically and there we go," he smiles. "It should only take half an hour, why don't you go back out and watch some tv....."
I get up and go collect my phone from my coat, and go to the one area I'm allowed to play on my phone (last time I was at MEPS I received contradictory information about where I could diddle my phone and where I couldn't). There's another tv in this lobby area, that someone's left on SportsCenter and I just wait.
Roughly an hour later, after becoming exceedingly nervous, I'm called back in and we start the process with calling up to the DA over again. This time we get someone who's more cooperative. After a bunch of going back and forth, they settle on a date.
Since my OCS has to run nearly seamlessly with my BCT, they had to find an OCS class first, and backtrack to a BCT class that matched closest to it. Ideally, we'll want to go to Benning in Georgia, since they train both BCT and OCS there, but really, I could wind up at any one of 5 locations around the US that does BCT, due to needs of the service, class sizes and scheduling.
A print off comes thru the fax and the contractor gets up to get it. He comes back, and looks at me.
"How does 27 June sound?" It sounds perfect. I tell him so.
It is perfect since it gives me about 6 weeks to get my shit together. Finances, odds and ends, loose ends, all that shit, I have time to get squared away before shipping and leaving my wife behind, by herself for nearly half the year. At the same time, I won't be waiting around all summer to ship either. It's the perfect fit.
"Good," he starts. "I processed this kid for OCS last week, and he turned the date down."
"Why?"
"Said he had something to do, he had plans... I told him, 'you know if you turn down this date, you're essentially turning down OCS, right? And they probably won't let you apply again, right?' and he was fine with that,"
Wow, what a prick.
He, the contractor, couldn't guarantee me an exact date for OCS because they "shift slightly" he said. But tentatively it's scheduled for 18SEP. BCT takes 9 weeks to complete, OCS is 14 weeks. If I'm doing my math right, I SHOULD be graduating by the end of Nov, early Dec. I know too, that the whole Army usually is off during the month of Dec around the holidays, and it's not likely that they'll have much training happening during that time.
So in short, I SHOULD be home for the holidays, maybe.
But it's official. Has it started to sink in yet? A little. We're starting to get busy around here, getting things lined up and squared away. Money seems to be the topic du jour, as there's likely going to be a gap in pay for the month of July. Hopefully not a very big gap, but a gap none the less. We have savings, luckily.
We'll keep you posted.
At the time, I had been wondering the same thing: I didn't yet feel the elation, the sense of accomplishment, because there was one thing missing from the puzzle: my name on the dotted line.
"Jack's Paperwork Curse" was still very much alive inside of me. Those unfamiliar with this line of thinking, briefly, I believe I (and my family) have a "curse" regarding important paperwork. No matter what, it seems, that if something big is happening in our lives, and a piece of paper is involved in facilitating this big thing, it will undoubtedly get lost. Maybe it'll get sucked into the turbine engine of a passing jet? Maybe it'll be eaten by a monkey. None of this would surprise me after nearly 30 years of being subjected to this curse.
So, my name not on a piece of paper, .... that was my hang up. Nothing, as far as I was concerned, was "a go" until I signed some paperwork. Until then, all bets were off.
When I received the phone call from the Lt. Col. stating that I had been accepted, there was a "but" involved. The "but" was, in order to complete the process, I had to sign my new contract BEFORE 20MAY, or it would negate everything and back to square one I'd go. So in effect, I had two weeks.
I made the necessary appointments, etc, and finally got up to MEPS (again) on Thursday.
I found out here too, from my new recruiter, Sgt. M, that the National Board only took 43% of applicants that made the cut from their regional BN Boards. From my BN Board, only 50% made the cut. I was in very exclusive company.
However, I was fully anticipating the worst: like getting up to MEPS and them not having a clue as to who I was or what I was doing there, or even worse than that, them not having my paperwork. I did this thing I do when I'm really stressed and can't go for a run someplace and just clear my mind. It's like my conscience mind sort of steps out of the building that is my brain and goes for a walk, leaving the rest of me to be this, semi-conscience body that can answer simple questions and do simple things, like pee in a cup or walk from one room to another.
Luckily, however, everyone at MEPS knows I've been there before and I'm pretty much front-loaded thru an accelerated process. I simply have my height and weight taken and sit down with the doctor again for two minutes. We have a very idle conversation while I sit in nothing but my underwear and I'm allowed to get dressed and sent to go wait in the "tv room."
Everyone else on this day, a motley collection of 17-22 year olds in terrible duds is going thru the motions; wait in line here, piss in this, give me your right arm, sign this, watch this. All while I'm sitting by myself in this break room-looking place with a big screen tv straight out of 1994.
After about twenty minutes, a civilian contractor comes in and looks at me. He smiles and I smile back (again, non-cognitive, brain's still down the street getting a coffee and newspaper) and he asks if I'd like the tv turned on.
The tv has this big sign on it that says "Authorized Personnel Only", meaning that only the folks at MEPS can touch it, turn it on, etc. I smile and nod my head, sure that each eyeball is probably going in a different direction.
He snaps on the tv and races thru the channels, right past ESPN and stops at FOX News. He then cranks the volume up to a level that would make anyone's ears bleed.
He smiles at me, turns and leaves. I'm left with FOX and Friends taking an ice pick to my ear canals.
Shortly after this, my brain returns. He sets his coffee and newspaper down, looks thru my eyes and listens thru my ears and starts screaming.
"What the fuck is all of this?!" My body, dumbly tries to explain the raping that took place a few moments earlier.
FOX News is like bad mash liquor for my brain. I just get dumber from watching the overtly biased lies. The first, and biggest lie, is that FOX News likes to tout it's journalistic objectivity. "We report, you decide," when really, it works in reverse for FOX News. They're pretty much deciding on what angle they're going to be reporting from and present it to the viewer as truth.
I'm stuck watching three or four... just, overtly conservative-leaning stories, that paint democrats as the type of people who would poison your drinking well before shoving you down it.
Soon, I'm called for and I head back to my liaison branch's office.
I sit down with a civilian contractor who is going to be my "guidance counselor" and he shows me my contract. There it is, all in black and white. I'm appointed to Basic Combat Training as an E4 (first promotion since I left CG Basic Training so many years ago), with immediate appointment to Officer Candidate School upon completion of BCT. There's some other doo-dads in there that we skim over, such as family benefit stuff, sexual harassment, homosexuality stuff, etc.
Of the gay stuff, the contractor's like: "do you want to review the policy?" And pulls out a laminated sheet of paper from under his desk.
"Um, no, I'm good, thanks," I say.
We press on. I e-sign all the pertinent blocks and he prints off a copy for me. He then smiles and reaches back for his phone. He's going to call up to the Dept of the Army and get me a ship date.
I'm so close, no hiccups, no snags, my brain is singing.
We're on hold for a few minutes and the contractor uses this time to small talk me. He's going to a Portland Sea Dogs game that night, bringing his kids, it's their first semi-pro baseball game. Someone from the DA picks up and he starts to jabbering.
But instantly, I can tell there's a problem. The contractor's face goes slack and he starts to say something like:
"Oh no, no no, no we're promoting him to E4. Yes, I know, but he has a waiver for that. ....He's already been approved for OCS by the National Board.... no, no.... ok... ok, I'll get it up to you ASAP..."
He hangs up the phone. My brain is no longer singing. I'm just sort of sitting in my chair, looking at him.... as Jill would call it, my shelf on my forehead is tipped forward over my eyes.
"What was all that about?" I ask, my voice dripping in contained rage. The contractor sighs and goes back to his computer and starts looking for something.
"Since you still belong to the Coast Guard," he starts. But I stop him.
"I was released, I had to jump thru a lot of hoops to get that release...." I say to him, referencing the four day scramble I undertook with phone calls to CG HQ last fall, the endless emails, etc. I wasn't about to do all of that again.
"No, I know," he starts, shutting me up. "But that release was only conditional. Technically, they still own you, and if they wanted to, they could re-activate you out of Inactive Ready Reserve if they wanted to.... unless you ship."
"But.... I want to ship," panic starting to grip my voice.
"And we want you to, too! But, the CG has the final say until you ship. The problem we have right now is that you're prior service, and the DA sees you right now as an E3 still. E3s can't go to OCS, that's why we're promoting you here, to E4. They just need a piece of paperwork that says that, that's all."
I pause for a second.
"But you can do that right, like, I'm not going to have to come back another day, right?"
"Oh yeah, yeah, I have the form somewhere around here, I just fill it out and put it into your packet electronically and there we go," he smiles. "It should only take half an hour, why don't you go back out and watch some tv....."
I get up and go collect my phone from my coat, and go to the one area I'm allowed to play on my phone (last time I was at MEPS I received contradictory information about where I could diddle my phone and where I couldn't). There's another tv in this lobby area, that someone's left on SportsCenter and I just wait.
Roughly an hour later, after becoming exceedingly nervous, I'm called back in and we start the process with calling up to the DA over again. This time we get someone who's more cooperative. After a bunch of going back and forth, they settle on a date.
Since my OCS has to run nearly seamlessly with my BCT, they had to find an OCS class first, and backtrack to a BCT class that matched closest to it. Ideally, we'll want to go to Benning in Georgia, since they train both BCT and OCS there, but really, I could wind up at any one of 5 locations around the US that does BCT, due to needs of the service, class sizes and scheduling.
A print off comes thru the fax and the contractor gets up to get it. He comes back, and looks at me.
"How does 27 June sound?" It sounds perfect. I tell him so.
It is perfect since it gives me about 6 weeks to get my shit together. Finances, odds and ends, loose ends, all that shit, I have time to get squared away before shipping and leaving my wife behind, by herself for nearly half the year. At the same time, I won't be waiting around all summer to ship either. It's the perfect fit.
"Good," he starts. "I processed this kid for OCS last week, and he turned the date down."
"Why?"
"Said he had something to do, he had plans... I told him, 'you know if you turn down this date, you're essentially turning down OCS, right? And they probably won't let you apply again, right?' and he was fine with that,"
Wow, what a prick.
He, the contractor, couldn't guarantee me an exact date for OCS because they "shift slightly" he said. But tentatively it's scheduled for 18SEP. BCT takes 9 weeks to complete, OCS is 14 weeks. If I'm doing my math right, I SHOULD be graduating by the end of Nov, early Dec. I know too, that the whole Army usually is off during the month of Dec around the holidays, and it's not likely that they'll have much training happening during that time.
So in short, I SHOULD be home for the holidays, maybe.
But it's official. Has it started to sink in yet? A little. We're starting to get busy around here, getting things lined up and squared away. Money seems to be the topic du jour, as there's likely going to be a gap in pay for the month of July. Hopefully not a very big gap, but a gap none the less. We have savings, luckily.
We'll keep you posted.
Friday, May 6, 2011
I'm in.
We got word yesterday morning from USAREC (United States Army Recruiting) that I've been selected to attend OCS.
Obviously, it goes a little without saying, that this is a big whopper of a deal.
I have a lot of people to thank, and lots to be thankful for. I've been sending emails out all morning, and trying to set up times and dates to see people. So, if I'm a little slow getting back to you, or .... lacking in detail in this post, please be patient.
But seriously, I couldn't have done any of this, without all of your support. From well wishes, to letters of recommendations, to prayers, .... I've felt everything to my heart. I owe you all so very much. We both do, actually.
Briefly, this is how yesterday went down, and some speculation on the next few weeks based off of limited intel:
I received the call around 1045, just as I was about to go into my first class of the day. A very official sounding man asked me if I was ... who I am, I guess. And after a round-about, and thinking that I might have been talking to a cop about some shenanigans my father got involved in, I was told I was speaking to a Lt. Col with the US Army.
What seemed like a million and a half years went by before the words "congratulations" and "OCS" came out of his mouth. I nearly fell over.
He stressed that I get up to Maine before 20May or my packet goes "invalid" and I have to start this whole process over. I have to swear an oath of office and sign contracts. And that's it.
I immediately started making phone calls, as I'm prone to do. Sgt. Steve has taken off for the west coast so I have been handed off to his supervisor, Sgt. M. Sgt M. told me that they were not taking very many applicants, and that for the first time in a long time, USAREC rejected more applicants than accepted.
The Lt. Col. and Sgt. M both pointed to my beyond average PT scores as likely being the tipping point. The Lt. Col actually read the score aloud with a tinge of disbelief in his voice.
What I'm being told, so far, is that all my training will take place down at Benning in GA. When this will be taking place I do not know yet. I should be given dates next week after I sign my paperwork.
I'll have more details to follow, I'm sure.
Obviously, it goes a little without saying, that this is a big whopper of a deal.
I have a lot of people to thank, and lots to be thankful for. I've been sending emails out all morning, and trying to set up times and dates to see people. So, if I'm a little slow getting back to you, or .... lacking in detail in this post, please be patient.
But seriously, I couldn't have done any of this, without all of your support. From well wishes, to letters of recommendations, to prayers, .... I've felt everything to my heart. I owe you all so very much. We both do, actually.
Briefly, this is how yesterday went down, and some speculation on the next few weeks based off of limited intel:
I received the call around 1045, just as I was about to go into my first class of the day. A very official sounding man asked me if I was ... who I am, I guess. And after a round-about, and thinking that I might have been talking to a cop about some shenanigans my father got involved in, I was told I was speaking to a Lt. Col with the US Army.
What seemed like a million and a half years went by before the words "congratulations" and "OCS" came out of his mouth. I nearly fell over.
He stressed that I get up to Maine before 20May or my packet goes "invalid" and I have to start this whole process over. I have to swear an oath of office and sign contracts. And that's it.
I immediately started making phone calls, as I'm prone to do. Sgt. Steve has taken off for the west coast so I have been handed off to his supervisor, Sgt. M. Sgt M. told me that they were not taking very many applicants, and that for the first time in a long time, USAREC rejected more applicants than accepted.
The Lt. Col. and Sgt. M both pointed to my beyond average PT scores as likely being the tipping point. The Lt. Col actually read the score aloud with a tinge of disbelief in his voice.
What I'm being told, so far, is that all my training will take place down at Benning in GA. When this will be taking place I do not know yet. I should be given dates next week after I sign my paperwork.
I'll have more details to follow, I'm sure.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
The Board
I didn't want to post another "it got pushed back" post, but that's what happened last week. The board was originally scheduled for this past Monday, but last Friday I got the call that it was (again, for the last time) pushed back to yesterday, Wednesday.
So, saving everyone the aggravation and me the tedium of saying "hey folks, it's been pushed back again," I just decided to wait and actually get to the board before posting again.
I'm not going to sit here and make you read thru 1000 or 1500 flowery words before telling you the outcome. I'm not a monster. I passed, and my packet is now scheduled to go forward to the National-level board for review. And hopefully, in roughly a month, I'll find out for definite, if I'm in or out.
So, with that being said, here's 1000 or 1500 flowery words on what happened:
I got to Maine the day before. I was going to stay with my mother, whom I had yet to tell the full extent of what I was doing. She knew I was applying for OCS, I just hadn't told her with what branch. She knew I was out of the Coast Guard, so it was anyone's guess on to what I was doing in her eyes.
She wasn't home yet, I had rolled in around 3 and decided to head down to my old high school to do some laps around the old track. Running has been my crutch through this whole ordeal: every push-back, every missed date, every phone call requiring me to scramble around and dig up some dusty piece of DoD - ### form.... running had been there for me. Being at zero-hour, I needed to run.
The high school has fallen into such disrepair over the years, the building looked like it had been shelled by some insurgency. They were remodeling a portion on the North wing, and fencing and craters and dust hung over everything. The track was in worse condition; cracks and chunks missing. I ran a solid 5 miles, setting a new 5K PR (18 minutes and change). I was the only one out there.
Then I went home, showered, waited for mom. We went out to dinner, she caught me up on her job, all that gossip. I ordered a steak and caught her up on all my drama without tipping too much of my hand. We went home, watched some Red Sox baseball and called it a night.
I didn't sleep; usually, in high-stress situations like the one I was facing, I'm pretty cool. But I kept reminding myself exactly what was riding on all of this. I kept thinking of my wife, Jill, and the life I could give her if the next day went according to plan. I kept thinking of the things I didn't know, the guess work, the potential last minute bullshit that could crop up, leading me to be putting ass-to-chair and being sent away over some sort of technicality. The Paperwork Curse, the questions, the answers, the expectations.
I slept maybe three hours after watching some cable tv. I woke up around 230 and did some push ups and sit ups. I sat on the edge of the bed and did what any other shitty Catholic would do, and pray. "Pray" isn't the right word - beg. I sat on the edge of the bed and spoke to my grandparent's spirits, which I found fitting since I was in their home.
"Memere, Pepere, give me the strength tomorrow to not sound like an idiot, to not stutter, to not slouch, to not say 'uh' or 'um' between my words, to make the right amount of eye contact without looking like I'm trying to hard, to not get a thought-freeze, etc."
I watched like, three hours of SportsCenter, three times I watched Josh Hamilton of the Texas Rangers make the same boneheaded play from third to home and break his arm and rib or whatever. Soon, it was 530 and I could hear the rain pattering on the bedroom window.
So much for that early morning run. So much for that early morning crutch.
I got up when I heard my mom bustling about, making coffee, feeding her bi-polar cat. I went thru my typical morning routine, putting on my mask that said everything was good, I was well rested, etc. Mom set about to pressing my shirt and pants and I did my best not to hyperventilate into a paper bag.
I dressed in a slate-gray suit, light blue tie, American flag lapel pin, tie clip, watch. I left my Gerber and Livestrong bracelet behind. I huffed breath on my wedding ring and ran my thumb over it.
The rain let up just enough to make it to the car without getting soaked. I didn't even think of checking the weather before leaving the Cape to see if I would need a rain jacket or umbrella. Mom let me borrow one of hers.
I arrived at the recruiting office at the same time as Sgt. Steve. We shook hands as he keyed us in and I joked that he was sure today was the day. Good naturedly he went along with it and said something to the effect of "I promised I'd get you there and that's what today's all about."
We had to wait for another Sgt, a new guy who was going to in-process up at battalion that morning. While we waited, we talked strategy.
"If they bump you on anything," Sgt. Steve started, "it'll be your low-ish GPA," from my undergrad. I graduated with a cum. 2.8... not stellar but by no means a "D" student. My strategy around that was to mention my recent induction to the Dean's List and Phi Theta Kappa, a national honors society for community colleges (yay me!).
"It'll probably be Capt. J who brings that shit up... he probably graduated with a 2.5..." Sgt. Steve goes on. Capt J is the company's commander. I met and chatted with him once. Young guy, looks like Ross from "Friends," didn't leave me with a warm-and-fuzzy feeling nearly a year ago. He was going to be sitting on my board. Awesome.
The other Sgt. arrives and we take off for the 45 minute haul up to battalion. The two Sgts mostly chit-chat amongst themselves and I keep to myself in the back of the government vehicle (GV for short). I do chip in a few jokes and ask a few questions, but mostly it's all gameface time for me.
I start getting the excited, nervous pulses of energy, like before a race. Before a race, of course you fear that you're going to trip and get trampled by everyone, but you realize that's an irrational, dumb fear. You try to focus on victory, on finishing, and finishing strong. I focused all my energy on what potentially I could be asked, and what I'd respond with.
We get to the battalion. The building is in terrible condition and it seems no one gives a shit. They - the staff - are all moving to a new facility in Portsmouth. This could possibly explain why Xmas decorations are all over the place, still out. Halloween stickers are still stuck to windows in random, uneven order. I stare at a mummy half faded, half ripped away.
We meet with the civilian coordinator who takes us thru a dry run of the board. Where I stand, how I walk, etc. I'm told that I'm to enter the room only when called on and to stand before being seated, state my name and purpose, tell a little bit about myself ("just the Clif Notes, no longer than a minute," Sgt. Steve says), then wait to be asked to sit.
"Don't stand at POA (position of attention)," Sgt. Steve goes on. "You'll look like you're trying too hard."
"Parade rest?" I ask.
"No, no, like... a modified.. POA.... like, not a full one," and he shows me.
We go back to a waiting area, and another applicant shows up. She's tiny, grad student working on her Masters in something or other. Pixie haircut, built like a brick shithouse.
"Where I'm from, people don't go into the Army," she says at some point, her voice dripping with Connecticut Blue Blood. I excuse myself to find a head.
I find the bathroom halfway down the hall and as I push open the door, I hear:
"My god, that's a big pecker...."
Naturally, I freeze. I half-peek around the door and see a civilian standing by the window. He looks back over his shoulder at me and smiles. My heart turns to a hunk of ice.
"You gotta see this thing,"
"Uhh..."
"it's the biggest wood pecker I've ever seen..." and just then, the rat-atat-tat of a wood pecker fills the space. I walk over, and sure enough, just outside the bathroom window, there's a fat, black and red capped wood pecker doing his thing into a utility pole. My heart defrosts and I'm able to take a leak without the thoughts of "brutal man-on-man rape" in the back of my mind.
My board was scheduled for 9am, but I knew this wouldn't happen. At 920, I was informed to move to the staging area. My recruiter was going to be allowed to sit in with me to take notes. I thought this was a good thing.
My nerves were heightened, my shoulders tensed. I breathed in and out slowly, gradually. The civilian, a tiny woman who looked like anyone's mom, asks to me:
"Are you nervous?"
Jesus Christ woman! What do YOU think! I might not be sweating bullets, but... god! I could feel the heat running down my arm pits, my chest and back. I flexed my thighs and my butt.
"A little, more excited tho," I replied. She smiled.
"Good, the one's who aren't nervous, tend to do poorly," and she left me standing, facing a door a few inches from my nose. "When you're ready, knock," she said.
I took one last look over my shoulder at Sgt. Steve and he gave me a firm nod. Let's do this.
I knocked three times, trying not to sound timid, but not like I was about to serve a warrant. I waited, holding my breath. My eyes went in and out of focus.
"Fuck, don't pass out you asshole," I thought to myself. "Don't fart, don't fart, don't fart," and I waited some more.
Nothing.
I raised my fist to knock again, as if I was trying to see if someone was home or not, but Sgt. Steve touched my shoulder and said in a low voice "wait."
"Come in, please," came a female's voice.
I took the knob and pushed in, taking a deep breath, I smiled and made direct eye contact with the president of the board, Maj. B. She smiled back. Ok, I can do this.
I stood next to the chair that was in the middle of the room. Back straight, smiling like a goddamn idiot. I looked from each board member to the other. Three total, two guys including Capt J, and the one female, Maj. B.
Then there was this sickening dead silence as the door clicked behind me. I looked from each member to the other, waiting to be prompted to speak. Everyone was just looking at me.
After about an eternity passed, I started to say my introduction, when I say the Major's lips beginning to move. I shut my mouth and she shut hers. We just stared at each other.
"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," my mind raced. I cleared my throat.
"Good morning ma'am, good morning gentleman. My name is Jack, and I'm here today to be considered for appointment to Officer Candidate School with the United States Army" came this voice of authority from somewhere deep down inside of myself. Thank god!
Everyone smiled and I was asked to sit, and tell them a little bit about myself. I kept it short, just about where I grew up, went to college, and what I've done since. I mentioned when I was married.
Then the questioning started. The following is the questioning to the best of my recollection. It was kind of a blur.
Q: What's your definition of 'responsibility.' This came from Capt. J, who started.
A: Responsibility, to me, is part accountability and part respect. Accountability in regards to being accountable for your actions, whether right or wrong and owning up to your decisions. Respect, regarding respecting not only those superior to you, but those under you as well.
He was fairly satisfied with that answer.
Q: How are 'chaos' and 'conflict' different? This came from the other captain, Capt. B.
A: Conflict is controlled chaos. Chaos is completely random, with no order to anything, no authority. Conflict has control; a goal, a plan to reach that goal and an implementation of that plan. There is set order within conflict.
I was then asked a series of questions about my home life, particularly my wife Jill. Was she comfortable with my decision to join the Army?
A: Yes, my wife is very familiar with the military lifestyle.
And I went on to describe what my schedule was like with the Coast Guard. I also mentioned her desire to get off of Cape.
Q: Why did you leave the Coast Guard? Why not pursue OCS thru them? This came from Maj B.
A: The Coast Guard is a fantastic organization, don't get me wrong. But they do all the things they do on a shoe string budget. They're also not doing a mission I think I'm best suited for. I, unfortunately, was sent out of Basic to a small station that didn't see a whole lot of action. I made the best of it tho. The Coast Guard is also very small in size, which means there's not a whole lot of room for someone with the will and potential as myself to grow. I believe the US Army Officer Corps will provide me with unlimited growth potential.
Q: Where were you stationed in the Coast Guard? Maj. B's follow up.
A: ______, Ma? Are you familiar with that area? ... (All the board members nod.). It's a ... colorful community.
This produced some laughs. During my last few answers, out of the corner of my eye, I could see Capt. J nodding along. I felt as tho I had my hooks in him at last. I relaxed a little bit.
Q: Can you tell us a time when you were in a leadership position, and made a decision that affected those under you? Another from Maj. B.
I started this answer explaining my decision to leave the comfort and benefits of the Coast Guard to take a "blind leap" with the US Army's Officer Corp. My wife's ailments played a huge roll in many sleepless nights while I considered the options. My decision has put me in this chair today, but it's cost us a lot; a lot of money from personal savings, a lot of time a lot of stress.
Maj. B said that wasn't exactly what she was looking for, and I explained that I knew, and that I wish I could tell the board I was the leader of my household, but clearly, it's my wife. This produced some more chuckles. I went on with....
A: When I was in college, I was a co-captain of the marksmanship team (the same team that Gen Colin Powell was a part of, I added). We had a really gifted shooter, who wouldn't show up to team meetings or practices. So my coaches came to me one day and asked, right before regionals - where our school hadn't reached in nearly a decade - if we should bench this shooter. I voted that yes, we should. If he didn't want to be a full member of the team, meaning, showing up to practices, etc, then why should he be allowed to compete with the team? And he was benched and we placed poorly at regionals.
Another time, while in Basic for the Coast Guard, I was appointed Squad Leader with some other outstanding recruits. Late in the training, during an on-base liberty outing, one of our training company members was very rude to the wife of one of the company commanders working at the facility. When news of this reached our company commanders, myself and another respected squad leader were pulled into the company commander's office and we were asked to pass judgment on our fellow shipmate. Should he be reverted back to a lower company for his lack of respect towards the civilian wife? I voted yes, that he violated the Coast Guard's core value of Respect (honor and duty are the others). And he was sent packing.
Neither were popular decisions, but they had to be implemented to ensure the quality of both my team and company.
They were impressed with the answers.
Q: Can you tell me the difference between Afghanistan in 1977 and Afghanistan today? This came from Capt. B.
What the fuck?! I thought this was an OCS board, not a geo-political summit-slash-round of Jeopardy?!
What pissed me off with this question was the ambiguity, like, why not compare the differences between a barrel of apples and a fucking car wash? And further, this question should have been a slam dunk, since this is an area of history that I'm currently sort of studying.
A: Well, the communist forces were essentially systematically executing innocent Afghanis, and we're .... not?
Capt. B: Well, no, what I'm getting at is, .... what's the POV of the Afghani civilian on the ground.... between now and 30 years ago.
A: Well, my history might be a little fuzzy, Capt, but.... I mean, we were supplying the Mujaheddin with shoulder-fired SAM rockets to fight off the Soviet air offensive. We weren't directly involved with the fighting as we are today. Today, we're supplying the Afghanis with roads, medical supplies, etc... We're trying to broaden their horizons, show them that there's more to the world than their own valley, most of which have never left. You can grind meat all day, Capt, but you'll only win this war with hearts and minds...
Capt B: No no... no, from the view point of the civilian, what's different....
I was getting frustrated. What did he want me to say?!
A: I'm afraid I don't know, sir.
Capt B (he smiles, frustrated) What I was looking for was, in 1977, the whole country stood up against the Soviet Russians to repel them. Today, it's just the 1% of the population, the Taliban that we're trying to rid the country of. But to the civilian on the ground, when one of our drones drops a 500lb Hellfire missile on his family, doesn't see it that way.
Oh. Well, shit.
The board wrapped shortly there after. I thanked them all for their time, citing how long of a road it's been for me, and what this chance meant to me and my family. I stood, shook hands with everyone and stepped out of the room with Sgt. Steve.
"You killed it!" he exclaimed after we closed the door. He shook my hand with the strength of a bear, pride oozing out of him. We went back to the waiting room and debriefed the young lady and her recruiter.
Now, as always, I had to wait for my results.
Half an hour later, the last kid to be boarded showed up. He's Air National Guard, dimwitted, in his Class As. I think this was a bad idea. I think it ratchets things up for the board members. He's going to have a heavier yoke to bear, since he's showing up in uniform.
I think too, that he's leaning on his uniform to do the board for him. Like "see, I look good in a uniform, you should totally pass me," sorta thing.
He didn't impress me. Didn't seem very mature.
Sgt. Steve left me alone for a few minutes and I texted everyone I knew that I was out. I received a short email from my mentor, T. He's super busy and a world away, but he still took the time to send me a quick encouraging note. It was exactly what I needed:
"I know your board is today. Good luck. Kick some ass." -T.
When I received that email, the emotions washed over me. I was more nervous now that I was done with the board and awaiting my results, than I was before I even went in to the room.
Sgt. Steve came back, and shot me the double thumbs up like the Fonz. They were sending my packet forward.
"You got a couple of gigs," he starts. "They want updated Letters of Rec from those who wrote them. They're ten months old, and ... you know, they don't know what you've been doing for ten months, you know? You could've been out, knocking over pharmacies or some shit..." ok, and "you need an updated transcript from your school." Easy-peasy.
I thought I was going to faint. It all hit me. I had done it. I put my best foot forward and it was enough. Now I just had to pass the "paper board." I don't sit for it, it's just my packet and someone looks it over and decides one way or the other.
Sgt. Steve drives me back to my car, 45 minutes away. I start making phone calls, to my school, to the people who wrote my LORs, etc. He starts to pontificate on what it means to be an officer in the US Army in the eyes of an enlisted man.
He tells me stories of junior officers he's worked for, both good and bad. It's a good conversation and I listen and ask questions.
Soon, I'm back in the car, and it's now that I have to tell my mom the news. She knew today was a big day and she was waiting with baited breath on the outcome. I had to tell her everything.
I arrived at her court house and took the elevator up to her floor. I was still high on the adrenaline and endorphins and didn't think taking the stairs was worth the risk of possibly passing out and killing myself. On the second floor a young office drone got on, carrying a stack of papers. He took one look at me, in my suit, and curtly said:
"Councilor,"
I smiled to myself. I didn't correct him.
Mom met me just outside of her office, but just inside enough to give all the 40-something divorcees a peak at her son. We took to a secluded area and sat down. I told her how everything went and seeing the pride in her eyes, mixed in the the pride in my father's voice when I called and told him... everything just overwhelmed me. I had to do that whole, pinch the bridge of my nose, lean forward thing. I shuddered. What this small achievement meant to me and my wife, my family, everyone who's been so supportive of us... it all overcame me at that moment.
Mom was there to pat me on the back.
I straightened. I looked her in the eyes.
"Mom, I'm going into the Army," there, it was out in the air.
She just looked at me, expecting a shoe to drop.
"And?"
"And? And... that's it, I'm... going into the Army, as a -knock on wood- 2LT, probably before the end of summer."
"Ok.. well, I know..."
"You know?"
"Gillis told me, months ago..."
Gillis is my parents mutual friend. I told my dad everything months ago. Clearly, he told Gillis, because my father loves me so much, that he has to tell everything I do to everyone he meets... and Gillis, not knowing "mum was the word" .... told my mum.
I just sat there, mouth open.... all the tip-toeing... all the pins and needles. And she had known, this whole time.
Son of a bitch.
But she's supportive, if not just a little scared. She has every right to be. But she understands the life I want to provide for my family and she's glad that my degree is finally going towards something useful. She hugged me tight and I was on my way.
But, we're not out of the woods yet. Like I said before, there's things that my packet is still missing. Since yesterday, I have 3 out of the 4 LORs back with updated dates (everyone has been super accommodating, thank you!) and I should be getting the 4th by the end of the weekend. I've already gotten copies of my "unofficial transcript" from my school and was called earlier today that my official copies were in the mail, which I should get probably Saturday. I've been emailing and scanning shit like crazy to Sgt. Steve, who's been collecting everything, getting it ready for the National Board at the end of next week.
The National Board takes about two weeks to render a decision on possible applicants. I figure I have a 50-50 shot, at least. From there, if the packet passes, I take an Oath of Office and I'll be receiving a ship date for a full basic course (the Army doesn't really think I got enough training thru the Coast Guard's 8 week basic course). My basic training will seamlessly transition into OCS, and from there, Branch Training. So, we're still in the thick of things.
I've been using a metaphor lately, that I think is apt for this situation: I'm in a steeple chase, but I had to run a marathon to get to the first hurdle.
So, as the great General Han Solo once said "Don't get too cocky, kid." I need your thoughts and prayers now more than ever, guys.
So, saving everyone the aggravation and me the tedium of saying "hey folks, it's been pushed back again," I just decided to wait and actually get to the board before posting again.
I'm not going to sit here and make you read thru 1000 or 1500 flowery words before telling you the outcome. I'm not a monster. I passed, and my packet is now scheduled to go forward to the National-level board for review. And hopefully, in roughly a month, I'll find out for definite, if I'm in or out.
So, with that being said, here's 1000 or 1500 flowery words on what happened:
I got to Maine the day before. I was going to stay with my mother, whom I had yet to tell the full extent of what I was doing. She knew I was applying for OCS, I just hadn't told her with what branch. She knew I was out of the Coast Guard, so it was anyone's guess on to what I was doing in her eyes.
She wasn't home yet, I had rolled in around 3 and decided to head down to my old high school to do some laps around the old track. Running has been my crutch through this whole ordeal: every push-back, every missed date, every phone call requiring me to scramble around and dig up some dusty piece of DoD - ### form.... running had been there for me. Being at zero-hour, I needed to run.
The high school has fallen into such disrepair over the years, the building looked like it had been shelled by some insurgency. They were remodeling a portion on the North wing, and fencing and craters and dust hung over everything. The track was in worse condition; cracks and chunks missing. I ran a solid 5 miles, setting a new 5K PR (18 minutes and change). I was the only one out there.
Then I went home, showered, waited for mom. We went out to dinner, she caught me up on her job, all that gossip. I ordered a steak and caught her up on all my drama without tipping too much of my hand. We went home, watched some Red Sox baseball and called it a night.
I didn't sleep; usually, in high-stress situations like the one I was facing, I'm pretty cool. But I kept reminding myself exactly what was riding on all of this. I kept thinking of my wife, Jill, and the life I could give her if the next day went according to plan. I kept thinking of the things I didn't know, the guess work, the potential last minute bullshit that could crop up, leading me to be putting ass-to-chair and being sent away over some sort of technicality. The Paperwork Curse, the questions, the answers, the expectations.
I slept maybe three hours after watching some cable tv. I woke up around 230 and did some push ups and sit ups. I sat on the edge of the bed and did what any other shitty Catholic would do, and pray. "Pray" isn't the right word - beg. I sat on the edge of the bed and spoke to my grandparent's spirits, which I found fitting since I was in their home.
"Memere, Pepere, give me the strength tomorrow to not sound like an idiot, to not stutter, to not slouch, to not say 'uh' or 'um' between my words, to make the right amount of eye contact without looking like I'm trying to hard, to not get a thought-freeze, etc."
I watched like, three hours of SportsCenter, three times I watched Josh Hamilton of the Texas Rangers make the same boneheaded play from third to home and break his arm and rib or whatever. Soon, it was 530 and I could hear the rain pattering on the bedroom window.
So much for that early morning run. So much for that early morning crutch.
I got up when I heard my mom bustling about, making coffee, feeding her bi-polar cat. I went thru my typical morning routine, putting on my mask that said everything was good, I was well rested, etc. Mom set about to pressing my shirt and pants and I did my best not to hyperventilate into a paper bag.
I dressed in a slate-gray suit, light blue tie, American flag lapel pin, tie clip, watch. I left my Gerber and Livestrong bracelet behind. I huffed breath on my wedding ring and ran my thumb over it.
The rain let up just enough to make it to the car without getting soaked. I didn't even think of checking the weather before leaving the Cape to see if I would need a rain jacket or umbrella. Mom let me borrow one of hers.
I arrived at the recruiting office at the same time as Sgt. Steve. We shook hands as he keyed us in and I joked that he was sure today was the day. Good naturedly he went along with it and said something to the effect of "I promised I'd get you there and that's what today's all about."
We had to wait for another Sgt, a new guy who was going to in-process up at battalion that morning. While we waited, we talked strategy.
"If they bump you on anything," Sgt. Steve started, "it'll be your low-ish GPA," from my undergrad. I graduated with a cum. 2.8... not stellar but by no means a "D" student. My strategy around that was to mention my recent induction to the Dean's List and Phi Theta Kappa, a national honors society for community colleges (yay me!).
"It'll probably be Capt. J who brings that shit up... he probably graduated with a 2.5..." Sgt. Steve goes on. Capt J is the company's commander. I met and chatted with him once. Young guy, looks like Ross from "Friends," didn't leave me with a warm-and-fuzzy feeling nearly a year ago. He was going to be sitting on my board. Awesome.
The other Sgt. arrives and we take off for the 45 minute haul up to battalion. The two Sgts mostly chit-chat amongst themselves and I keep to myself in the back of the government vehicle (GV for short). I do chip in a few jokes and ask a few questions, but mostly it's all gameface time for me.
I start getting the excited, nervous pulses of energy, like before a race. Before a race, of course you fear that you're going to trip and get trampled by everyone, but you realize that's an irrational, dumb fear. You try to focus on victory, on finishing, and finishing strong. I focused all my energy on what potentially I could be asked, and what I'd respond with.
We get to the battalion. The building is in terrible condition and it seems no one gives a shit. They - the staff - are all moving to a new facility in Portsmouth. This could possibly explain why Xmas decorations are all over the place, still out. Halloween stickers are still stuck to windows in random, uneven order. I stare at a mummy half faded, half ripped away.
We meet with the civilian coordinator who takes us thru a dry run of the board. Where I stand, how I walk, etc. I'm told that I'm to enter the room only when called on and to stand before being seated, state my name and purpose, tell a little bit about myself ("just the Clif Notes, no longer than a minute," Sgt. Steve says), then wait to be asked to sit.
"Don't stand at POA (position of attention)," Sgt. Steve goes on. "You'll look like you're trying too hard."
"Parade rest?" I ask.
"No, no, like... a modified.. POA.... like, not a full one," and he shows me.
We go back to a waiting area, and another applicant shows up. She's tiny, grad student working on her Masters in something or other. Pixie haircut, built like a brick shithouse.
"Where I'm from, people don't go into the Army," she says at some point, her voice dripping with Connecticut Blue Blood. I excuse myself to find a head.
I find the bathroom halfway down the hall and as I push open the door, I hear:
"My god, that's a big pecker...."
Naturally, I freeze. I half-peek around the door and see a civilian standing by the window. He looks back over his shoulder at me and smiles. My heart turns to a hunk of ice.
"You gotta see this thing,"
"Uhh..."
"it's the biggest wood pecker I've ever seen..." and just then, the rat-atat-tat of a wood pecker fills the space. I walk over, and sure enough, just outside the bathroom window, there's a fat, black and red capped wood pecker doing his thing into a utility pole. My heart defrosts and I'm able to take a leak without the thoughts of "brutal man-on-man rape" in the back of my mind.
My board was scheduled for 9am, but I knew this wouldn't happen. At 920, I was informed to move to the staging area. My recruiter was going to be allowed to sit in with me to take notes. I thought this was a good thing.
My nerves were heightened, my shoulders tensed. I breathed in and out slowly, gradually. The civilian, a tiny woman who looked like anyone's mom, asks to me:
"Are you nervous?"
Jesus Christ woman! What do YOU think! I might not be sweating bullets, but... god! I could feel the heat running down my arm pits, my chest and back. I flexed my thighs and my butt.
"A little, more excited tho," I replied. She smiled.
"Good, the one's who aren't nervous, tend to do poorly," and she left me standing, facing a door a few inches from my nose. "When you're ready, knock," she said.
I took one last look over my shoulder at Sgt. Steve and he gave me a firm nod. Let's do this.
I knocked three times, trying not to sound timid, but not like I was about to serve a warrant. I waited, holding my breath. My eyes went in and out of focus.
"Fuck, don't pass out you asshole," I thought to myself. "Don't fart, don't fart, don't fart," and I waited some more.
Nothing.
I raised my fist to knock again, as if I was trying to see if someone was home or not, but Sgt. Steve touched my shoulder and said in a low voice "wait."
"Come in, please," came a female's voice.
I took the knob and pushed in, taking a deep breath, I smiled and made direct eye contact with the president of the board, Maj. B. She smiled back. Ok, I can do this.
I stood next to the chair that was in the middle of the room. Back straight, smiling like a goddamn idiot. I looked from each board member to the other. Three total, two guys including Capt J, and the one female, Maj. B.
Then there was this sickening dead silence as the door clicked behind me. I looked from each member to the other, waiting to be prompted to speak. Everyone was just looking at me.
After about an eternity passed, I started to say my introduction, when I say the Major's lips beginning to move. I shut my mouth and she shut hers. We just stared at each other.
"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," my mind raced. I cleared my throat.
"Good morning ma'am, good morning gentleman. My name is Jack, and I'm here today to be considered for appointment to Officer Candidate School with the United States Army" came this voice of authority from somewhere deep down inside of myself. Thank god!
Everyone smiled and I was asked to sit, and tell them a little bit about myself. I kept it short, just about where I grew up, went to college, and what I've done since. I mentioned when I was married.
Then the questioning started. The following is the questioning to the best of my recollection. It was kind of a blur.
Q: What's your definition of 'responsibility.' This came from Capt. J, who started.
A: Responsibility, to me, is part accountability and part respect. Accountability in regards to being accountable for your actions, whether right or wrong and owning up to your decisions. Respect, regarding respecting not only those superior to you, but those under you as well.
He was fairly satisfied with that answer.
Q: How are 'chaos' and 'conflict' different? This came from the other captain, Capt. B.
A: Conflict is controlled chaos. Chaos is completely random, with no order to anything, no authority. Conflict has control; a goal, a plan to reach that goal and an implementation of that plan. There is set order within conflict.
I was then asked a series of questions about my home life, particularly my wife Jill. Was she comfortable with my decision to join the Army?
A: Yes, my wife is very familiar with the military lifestyle.
And I went on to describe what my schedule was like with the Coast Guard. I also mentioned her desire to get off of Cape.
Q: Why did you leave the Coast Guard? Why not pursue OCS thru them? This came from Maj B.
A: The Coast Guard is a fantastic organization, don't get me wrong. But they do all the things they do on a shoe string budget. They're also not doing a mission I think I'm best suited for. I, unfortunately, was sent out of Basic to a small station that didn't see a whole lot of action. I made the best of it tho. The Coast Guard is also very small in size, which means there's not a whole lot of room for someone with the will and potential as myself to grow. I believe the US Army Officer Corps will provide me with unlimited growth potential.
Q: Where were you stationed in the Coast Guard? Maj. B's follow up.
A: ______, Ma? Are you familiar with that area? ... (All the board members nod.). It's a ... colorful community.
This produced some laughs. During my last few answers, out of the corner of my eye, I could see Capt. J nodding along. I felt as tho I had my hooks in him at last. I relaxed a little bit.
Q: Can you tell us a time when you were in a leadership position, and made a decision that affected those under you? Another from Maj. B.
I started this answer explaining my decision to leave the comfort and benefits of the Coast Guard to take a "blind leap" with the US Army's Officer Corp. My wife's ailments played a huge roll in many sleepless nights while I considered the options. My decision has put me in this chair today, but it's cost us a lot; a lot of money from personal savings, a lot of time a lot of stress.
Maj. B said that wasn't exactly what she was looking for, and I explained that I knew, and that I wish I could tell the board I was the leader of my household, but clearly, it's my wife. This produced some more chuckles. I went on with....
A: When I was in college, I was a co-captain of the marksmanship team (the same team that Gen Colin Powell was a part of, I added). We had a really gifted shooter, who wouldn't show up to team meetings or practices. So my coaches came to me one day and asked, right before regionals - where our school hadn't reached in nearly a decade - if we should bench this shooter. I voted that yes, we should. If he didn't want to be a full member of the team, meaning, showing up to practices, etc, then why should he be allowed to compete with the team? And he was benched and we placed poorly at regionals.
Another time, while in Basic for the Coast Guard, I was appointed Squad Leader with some other outstanding recruits. Late in the training, during an on-base liberty outing, one of our training company members was very rude to the wife of one of the company commanders working at the facility. When news of this reached our company commanders, myself and another respected squad leader were pulled into the company commander's office and we were asked to pass judgment on our fellow shipmate. Should he be reverted back to a lower company for his lack of respect towards the civilian wife? I voted yes, that he violated the Coast Guard's core value of Respect (honor and duty are the others). And he was sent packing.
Neither were popular decisions, but they had to be implemented to ensure the quality of both my team and company.
They were impressed with the answers.
Q: Can you tell me the difference between Afghanistan in 1977 and Afghanistan today? This came from Capt. B.
What the fuck?! I thought this was an OCS board, not a geo-political summit-slash-round of Jeopardy?!
What pissed me off with this question was the ambiguity, like, why not compare the differences between a barrel of apples and a fucking car wash? And further, this question should have been a slam dunk, since this is an area of history that I'm currently sort of studying.
A: Well, the communist forces were essentially systematically executing innocent Afghanis, and we're .... not?
Capt. B: Well, no, what I'm getting at is, .... what's the POV of the Afghani civilian on the ground.... between now and 30 years ago.
A: Well, my history might be a little fuzzy, Capt, but.... I mean, we were supplying the Mujaheddin with shoulder-fired SAM rockets to fight off the Soviet air offensive. We weren't directly involved with the fighting as we are today. Today, we're supplying the Afghanis with roads, medical supplies, etc... We're trying to broaden their horizons, show them that there's more to the world than their own valley, most of which have never left. You can grind meat all day, Capt, but you'll only win this war with hearts and minds...
Capt B: No no... no, from the view point of the civilian, what's different....
I was getting frustrated. What did he want me to say?!
A: I'm afraid I don't know, sir.
Capt B (he smiles, frustrated) What I was looking for was, in 1977, the whole country stood up against the Soviet Russians to repel them. Today, it's just the 1% of the population, the Taliban that we're trying to rid the country of. But to the civilian on the ground, when one of our drones drops a 500lb Hellfire missile on his family, doesn't see it that way.
Oh. Well, shit.
The board wrapped shortly there after. I thanked them all for their time, citing how long of a road it's been for me, and what this chance meant to me and my family. I stood, shook hands with everyone and stepped out of the room with Sgt. Steve.
"You killed it!" he exclaimed after we closed the door. He shook my hand with the strength of a bear, pride oozing out of him. We went back to the waiting room and debriefed the young lady and her recruiter.
Now, as always, I had to wait for my results.
Half an hour later, the last kid to be boarded showed up. He's Air National Guard, dimwitted, in his Class As. I think this was a bad idea. I think it ratchets things up for the board members. He's going to have a heavier yoke to bear, since he's showing up in uniform.
I think too, that he's leaning on his uniform to do the board for him. Like "see, I look good in a uniform, you should totally pass me," sorta thing.
He didn't impress me. Didn't seem very mature.
Sgt. Steve left me alone for a few minutes and I texted everyone I knew that I was out. I received a short email from my mentor, T. He's super busy and a world away, but he still took the time to send me a quick encouraging note. It was exactly what I needed:
"I know your board is today. Good luck. Kick some ass." -T.
When I received that email, the emotions washed over me. I was more nervous now that I was done with the board and awaiting my results, than I was before I even went in to the room.
Sgt. Steve came back, and shot me the double thumbs up like the Fonz. They were sending my packet forward.
"You got a couple of gigs," he starts. "They want updated Letters of Rec from those who wrote them. They're ten months old, and ... you know, they don't know what you've been doing for ten months, you know? You could've been out, knocking over pharmacies or some shit..." ok, and "you need an updated transcript from your school." Easy-peasy.
I thought I was going to faint. It all hit me. I had done it. I put my best foot forward and it was enough. Now I just had to pass the "paper board." I don't sit for it, it's just my packet and someone looks it over and decides one way or the other.
Sgt. Steve drives me back to my car, 45 minutes away. I start making phone calls, to my school, to the people who wrote my LORs, etc. He starts to pontificate on what it means to be an officer in the US Army in the eyes of an enlisted man.
He tells me stories of junior officers he's worked for, both good and bad. It's a good conversation and I listen and ask questions.
Soon, I'm back in the car, and it's now that I have to tell my mom the news. She knew today was a big day and she was waiting with baited breath on the outcome. I had to tell her everything.
I arrived at her court house and took the elevator up to her floor. I was still high on the adrenaline and endorphins and didn't think taking the stairs was worth the risk of possibly passing out and killing myself. On the second floor a young office drone got on, carrying a stack of papers. He took one look at me, in my suit, and curtly said:
"Councilor,"
I smiled to myself. I didn't correct him.
Mom met me just outside of her office, but just inside enough to give all the 40-something divorcees a peak at her son. We took to a secluded area and sat down. I told her how everything went and seeing the pride in her eyes, mixed in the the pride in my father's voice when I called and told him... everything just overwhelmed me. I had to do that whole, pinch the bridge of my nose, lean forward thing. I shuddered. What this small achievement meant to me and my wife, my family, everyone who's been so supportive of us... it all overcame me at that moment.
Mom was there to pat me on the back.
I straightened. I looked her in the eyes.
"Mom, I'm going into the Army," there, it was out in the air.
She just looked at me, expecting a shoe to drop.
"And?"
"And? And... that's it, I'm... going into the Army, as a -knock on wood- 2LT, probably before the end of summer."
"Ok.. well, I know..."
"You know?"
"Gillis told me, months ago..."
Gillis is my parents mutual friend. I told my dad everything months ago. Clearly, he told Gillis, because my father loves me so much, that he has to tell everything I do to everyone he meets... and Gillis, not knowing "mum was the word" .... told my mum.
I just sat there, mouth open.... all the tip-toeing... all the pins and needles. And she had known, this whole time.
Son of a bitch.
But she's supportive, if not just a little scared. She has every right to be. But she understands the life I want to provide for my family and she's glad that my degree is finally going towards something useful. She hugged me tight and I was on my way.
But, we're not out of the woods yet. Like I said before, there's things that my packet is still missing. Since yesterday, I have 3 out of the 4 LORs back with updated dates (everyone has been super accommodating, thank you!) and I should be getting the 4th by the end of the weekend. I've already gotten copies of my "unofficial transcript" from my school and was called earlier today that my official copies were in the mail, which I should get probably Saturday. I've been emailing and scanning shit like crazy to Sgt. Steve, who's been collecting everything, getting it ready for the National Board at the end of next week.
The National Board takes about two weeks to render a decision on possible applicants. I figure I have a 50-50 shot, at least. From there, if the packet passes, I take an Oath of Office and I'll be receiving a ship date for a full basic course (the Army doesn't really think I got enough training thru the Coast Guard's 8 week basic course). My basic training will seamlessly transition into OCS, and from there, Branch Training. So, we're still in the thick of things.
I've been using a metaphor lately, that I think is apt for this situation: I'm in a steeple chase, but I had to run a marathon to get to the first hurdle.
So, as the great General Han Solo once said "Don't get too cocky, kid." I need your thoughts and prayers now more than ever, guys.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
The Scramble
So here we go again: The countdown. Just days before I'm supposed to board. Again.
But something tells me that this will be it. I don't know if it's like, a cosmic feeling (like, it HAS to happen this time) or if it's just intuition based around how this past week has been (which I'll get to here in a second). I'm surprised that my usual lingering doubt that has accompanied me throughout this whole process isn't present today, or at all this week. I feel so strongly that come Monday the 11th, I'll be finally sitting down with a few of the Army's finest and pleading my case.
The same routine has applied all week: Long runs, hard workouts, mental jump-roping possible question scenarios; what will I say when asked this? Remember eye contact, remember posture, smile, but don't be too pleasant. Don't be adversarial, even if pushed in that direction. As Admiral Akbar would say "it's a trap!"
I have this one fear, a truly gripping, ice-cold fist around my heart-sort've fear, that I'll lock up while sitting in the chair at the board. They'll ask me something, and I won't be able to find the answer. I'll KNOW the answer, but I won't be able to dig it out of my brain in time, or when I do, it'll come out as gobbly-goop and I'll look retarded.
That's my number one fear right now.
But what affirms my suspicion that this is "it" is how frantic my recruiter, Sgt. Steve, has been this past week. All week, at least once a day, a guy who would, if ever, seldom contact ME (I was always contacting him) has been sending me texts, emails and the occasional phone call.
I guess my "good to go" packet, hasn't exactly been so.
I've had to furnish extra copies of college transcripts ("they're telling me they're too dark," Sgt. Steve told me) and when I couldn't ("Uh, you have my only copy, unless you want me to call my school and have them ship out another copy, but I don't know how long that will take...") I was told that he'd "make these work" meaning, ... I don't know what that means.
Yesterday tho, yesterday was a trial.
I had been on the road, running, for about 40 minutes when my phone chimed. Sgt. Steve had sent me a text wondering what the exact date of my enlistment with the CG was. When I got home a short while later, I texted him the date. He calls about two minutes later, asking about some sort of paperwork that shows I enlisted as an E3, PLUS! (And that's not all!) I had to re-write my essay on "Why I Want to be a US Army Officer."
"Uh, why?" I ask.
"'They' are telling me the original essay you wrote is 'too old.'" Ahh, huh.
The thing with the essay is that, you need a typed copy and a hand-written one. I'm told that it's because they want to make sure you wrote the essay and didn't get it from online someplace, but... seeing how I could easily just print one off from online and copy it by hand, I see this as a moot point.
More than likely, it's so the Army's Officer Candidate Selection Board can judge you on your handwriting. And my handwriting is embarrassingly bad.
At the same time all of this is unfolding in my sweaty, yet-to-be-showered lap, I get a call from Jill, who needs some important documents scanned and emailed to her for work.
Over fifty pages of documents.
I want to explode, my ears throb as my blood pressure spikes. Suddenly, what was going to be a mundane Wednesday consisting of me running, doing chores and errands, then going to the gym before my evening writing class, was now going to be a scramble to get a bunch of shit done that I hardly felt I had any reason to be doing.
But you know what? When I get into the Army (as an officer, knock on wood), this type of shit is going to happen all the time. I'll have nothing to do, and then suddenly, everyone in my chain of command is going to want something from me, and as fast as possible. It's all about adaptation.
So I set to work looking for, and scanning completely unrelated documents to two totally different people, trying my damndest not to cross cables and send one thing to the wrong person, all while typing out a short essay that I have the unenviable task of having to hand-write as soon as possible, while making it all fit on one piece of notebook paper, and legible, with my crap hand-writing.
The clock starts on this at about 1030... I wouldn't be mission: complete until about just after 3pm.
I finally submit my stuff to Sgt. Steve and tell him, just as a heads up, the hand-written essay is a bucket of awful. I had spent an hour on it alone, trying to make the words small enough so they all fit on one page of paper, and legible enough to read. Also, as soon as you screw something up (say, you meant to write "and" but wrote "the" instead) the whole project gets scrapped, crumpled up, and thrown into the waste basket. Countless times I had gotten halfway down the page, only to do that very same screw up, and have to start all over again.
So I contact Sgt. Steve and let him know not to get his expectations high on the hand-written copy.
"Jack," he starts. "I already wrote it out for you."
I'm sorry, what?
When I sent him a typed "rough draft (and I put that in quotes because it was more along the lines of a final draft, I just wanted him to make sure I had hit all the finer points and didn't sound too much like an asshole)" he took the liberty of hand copying it.
That son of a bitch.
I tell him that, I'm relieved and irritated (good naturedly), that he didn't tell me he was hand-writing out the essay, because it would've saved me some time in the end. He says that I can email him my hand-written essay if I want to, and I initially tell him I'm fine with him using his own work.
But then a thought comes across my mind....
I tell him, I'll send mine along, and I'll "trust [his] judgment" on picking out which one looks best. I can already taste those words, actually.
But with all this scrambling, at the last second, with a packet I've been told countless times was "good to go" I can only surmise that this HAS TO BE IT. We're closing in on the end zone, finally.
The board is scheduled for Monday and is being held at the UNH Dover campus. If all goes according to plan (Government Shutdown be-damned) I'll post one more time the night before, and then again afterwards.
Wish me luck.
Below, while attending my writing class, I drew out how my day was, in line graph form:
But something tells me that this will be it. I don't know if it's like, a cosmic feeling (like, it HAS to happen this time) or if it's just intuition based around how this past week has been (which I'll get to here in a second). I'm surprised that my usual lingering doubt that has accompanied me throughout this whole process isn't present today, or at all this week. I feel so strongly that come Monday the 11th, I'll be finally sitting down with a few of the Army's finest and pleading my case.
The same routine has applied all week: Long runs, hard workouts, mental jump-roping possible question scenarios; what will I say when asked this? Remember eye contact, remember posture, smile, but don't be too pleasant. Don't be adversarial, even if pushed in that direction. As Admiral Akbar would say "it's a trap!"
I have this one fear, a truly gripping, ice-cold fist around my heart-sort've fear, that I'll lock up while sitting in the chair at the board. They'll ask me something, and I won't be able to find the answer. I'll KNOW the answer, but I won't be able to dig it out of my brain in time, or when I do, it'll come out as gobbly-goop and I'll look retarded.
That's my number one fear right now.
But what affirms my suspicion that this is "it" is how frantic my recruiter, Sgt. Steve, has been this past week. All week, at least once a day, a guy who would, if ever, seldom contact ME (I was always contacting him) has been sending me texts, emails and the occasional phone call.
I guess my "good to go" packet, hasn't exactly been so.
I've had to furnish extra copies of college transcripts ("they're telling me they're too dark," Sgt. Steve told me) and when I couldn't ("Uh, you have my only copy, unless you want me to call my school and have them ship out another copy, but I don't know how long that will take...") I was told that he'd "make these work" meaning, ... I don't know what that means.
Yesterday tho, yesterday was a trial.
I had been on the road, running, for about 40 minutes when my phone chimed. Sgt. Steve had sent me a text wondering what the exact date of my enlistment with the CG was. When I got home a short while later, I texted him the date. He calls about two minutes later, asking about some sort of paperwork that shows I enlisted as an E3, PLUS! (And that's not all!) I had to re-write my essay on "Why I Want to be a US Army Officer."
"Uh, why?" I ask.
"'They' are telling me the original essay you wrote is 'too old.'" Ahh, huh.
The thing with the essay is that, you need a typed copy and a hand-written one. I'm told that it's because they want to make sure you wrote the essay and didn't get it from online someplace, but... seeing how I could easily just print one off from online and copy it by hand, I see this as a moot point.
More than likely, it's so the Army's Officer Candidate Selection Board can judge you on your handwriting. And my handwriting is embarrassingly bad.
At the same time all of this is unfolding in my sweaty, yet-to-be-showered lap, I get a call from Jill, who needs some important documents scanned and emailed to her for work.
Over fifty pages of documents.
I want to explode, my ears throb as my blood pressure spikes. Suddenly, what was going to be a mundane Wednesday consisting of me running, doing chores and errands, then going to the gym before my evening writing class, was now going to be a scramble to get a bunch of shit done that I hardly felt I had any reason to be doing.
But you know what? When I get into the Army (as an officer, knock on wood), this type of shit is going to happen all the time. I'll have nothing to do, and then suddenly, everyone in my chain of command is going to want something from me, and as fast as possible. It's all about adaptation.
So I set to work looking for, and scanning completely unrelated documents to two totally different people, trying my damndest not to cross cables and send one thing to the wrong person, all while typing out a short essay that I have the unenviable task of having to hand-write as soon as possible, while making it all fit on one piece of notebook paper, and legible, with my crap hand-writing.
The clock starts on this at about 1030... I wouldn't be mission: complete until about just after 3pm.
I finally submit my stuff to Sgt. Steve and tell him, just as a heads up, the hand-written essay is a bucket of awful. I had spent an hour on it alone, trying to make the words small enough so they all fit on one page of paper, and legible enough to read. Also, as soon as you screw something up (say, you meant to write "and" but wrote "the" instead) the whole project gets scrapped, crumpled up, and thrown into the waste basket. Countless times I had gotten halfway down the page, only to do that very same screw up, and have to start all over again.
So I contact Sgt. Steve and let him know not to get his expectations high on the hand-written copy.
"Jack," he starts. "I already wrote it out for you."
I'm sorry, what?
When I sent him a typed "rough draft (and I put that in quotes because it was more along the lines of a final draft, I just wanted him to make sure I had hit all the finer points and didn't sound too much like an asshole)" he took the liberty of hand copying it.
That son of a bitch.
I tell him that, I'm relieved and irritated (good naturedly), that he didn't tell me he was hand-writing out the essay, because it would've saved me some time in the end. He says that I can email him my hand-written essay if I want to, and I initially tell him I'm fine with him using his own work.
But then a thought comes across my mind....
I tell him, I'll send mine along, and I'll "trust [his] judgment" on picking out which one looks best. I can already taste those words, actually.
But with all this scrambling, at the last second, with a packet I've been told countless times was "good to go" I can only surmise that this HAS TO BE IT. We're closing in on the end zone, finally.
The board is scheduled for Monday and is being held at the UNH Dover campus. If all goes according to plan (Government Shutdown be-damned) I'll post one more time the night before, and then again afterwards.
Wish me luck.
Below, while attending my writing class, I drew out how my day was, in line graph form:
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Push Back
So, here we are, just a few days from the actual, real deal board, right?
Nope. Wrong. Wrong. So, very, very wrong. I wish I could say we were expecting this, but really, I thought this was it.
The board as been "pushed back" to the 30th. My recruiter, Sgt. Steve, claims that the board date has always been the 30th of March (originally he stated it was the 21st). This caused us to argue over the phone, which led me to digging thru archived emails to find the one in particular that said the date was the 21st.
Of course, I couldn't find it. But I know it's there. Why in the hell would I put into my calender the 21st?!
Sgt. Steve claims that he must've told me the date in which he has to submit my packet, again. That date is the 21st. A week or so later, is my board.
The following is the emotional progression I've gone thru with every board date rescheduling/delay:
First three reschedules (October-December): Disappointment.
Second set (Jan-Feb): Laughably unbelievable.
Third set (March): Anger.
I'm emotionally burnt out. I'm planning on calling Sgt. Steve back on Friday to confirm that the date is in fact the 30th, and not some other date. Also, this sickening thought crossed my mind when I got off the phone with him on Tuesday: What if HE'S confused on the dates, and is giving me a bad date to begin with? How would I ever know? I could very well wait til the 30th, go up to Maine, only to be told that "Oops, sorry Jack, the board was YESTERDAY," again.
I can't deal with this right now.
Nope. Wrong. Wrong. So, very, very wrong. I wish I could say we were expecting this, but really, I thought this was it.
The board as been "pushed back" to the 30th. My recruiter, Sgt. Steve, claims that the board date has always been the 30th of March (originally he stated it was the 21st). This caused us to argue over the phone, which led me to digging thru archived emails to find the one in particular that said the date was the 21st.
Of course, I couldn't find it. But I know it's there. Why in the hell would I put into my calender the 21st?!
Sgt. Steve claims that he must've told me the date in which he has to submit my packet, again. That date is the 21st. A week or so later, is my board.
The following is the emotional progression I've gone thru with every board date rescheduling/delay:
First three reschedules (October-December): Disappointment.
Second set (Jan-Feb): Laughably unbelievable.
Third set (March): Anger.
I'm emotionally burnt out. I'm planning on calling Sgt. Steve back on Friday to confirm that the date is in fact the 30th, and not some other date. Also, this sickening thought crossed my mind when I got off the phone with him on Tuesday: What if HE'S confused on the dates, and is giving me a bad date to begin with? How would I ever know? I could very well wait til the 30th, go up to Maine, only to be told that "Oops, sorry Jack, the board was YESTERDAY," again.
I can't deal with this right now.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
A Dry Run
I found myself sitting in the little waiting lobby, surrounded by pamphlets for bicycle and boating safety when a sharp panic struck me in the face like a wet sock:
Jesus! Is my fly down?!
These pants, the dress slacks that come with most suits, will out-maneuver me at the crotch every time. It's something about having to take the extra step of fastening an extra button at the waist that totally makes me forget to zip my fly.
I lifted my London Fog and glanced down; fly was upright.
I was at the local police department, waiting for my interview board. As I stated earlier, for shits and giggles, I decided to follow thru with their application process as they're looking to hire another road cop. After essentially dominating the PT aspect of the process, I was given an interview date and time to sit for a panel.
These panels are designed to look into an applicants suitability as a candidate for the position being offered. Questions about ethics and morals are usually the order of the day. In the very least, this should be an opportunity for me to brush off my interview skills and have a "dry run" at the OCS board now only a week or so away.
Let me tell you, that I feel very fortunate to have had the ability to go in for a practice swing.
I'm not saying the interview panel went badly... I just don't think I did as good. I felt shaky, as I tried to give the best answers possible; somewhere between what was the god's honest truth and what they wanted to hear.
At some points, it felt like I didn't have an answer to give (when was the last time you got really angry.....?). And you can't just sit there and be like "gee, I don't have an answer for that, sir."
I arrived a few minutes early and took a seat and was met by a detective in his formal dress blues who escorted me back to an interview room/bullpen. There I was met by the panel... a Lieutenant whom I had met before, a patrol sergeant, the detective who escorted me in, and two civilians, likely on the town council.
I was dressed in my "new" suit, which Jill had purchased months ago, and I had altered shortly there after. I was happy it fit well, as my weight has fluctuated a bit since September, when we bought the suit. It's not to say I've gained weight, just lost more of it.
But the suit fit fine... I even had forgotten it was gray, because it's been hanging in a bag since we bought it. I wore a blue tie and my corframs... shoes I had in the CG that are always super shiny. I even noticed a member of the panel glance down at them while I was talking.
The interview lasted maybe twenty minutes. As I left I was already taking stock in what to do next time for the OCS board: don't talk too much, make better eye contact (I felt at the time, I looked around the room too much) pause for a few seconds before giving an answer to collect my thoughts and to give the impression that I was thinking about the question. Have better questions to ask the panel when that time comes (my only questions for this panel consisted of benefits and shift differentials).
Afterwards, I was led to a small back room with a computer and a Youtube video queued up. I was to watch the clip (about 45 seconds in length) of a shoplifting and then right a report (spelling and grammar counted) of what I witnessed. This was fairly easy as I was already accustomed to report writing. I think I did ok here.
And then, after all of that, I had a photo taken of me for my "file" and then was sent on my way. I was told I would receive a call-back in a "few weeks" to determine if I was going to go forward in the process or not.
Next step: The OCS Board, March 21st. Wish me luck.
Jesus! Is my fly down?!
These pants, the dress slacks that come with most suits, will out-maneuver me at the crotch every time. It's something about having to take the extra step of fastening an extra button at the waist that totally makes me forget to zip my fly.
I lifted my London Fog and glanced down; fly was upright.
I was at the local police department, waiting for my interview board. As I stated earlier, for shits and giggles, I decided to follow thru with their application process as they're looking to hire another road cop. After essentially dominating the PT aspect of the process, I was given an interview date and time to sit for a panel.
These panels are designed to look into an applicants suitability as a candidate for the position being offered. Questions about ethics and morals are usually the order of the day. In the very least, this should be an opportunity for me to brush off my interview skills and have a "dry run" at the OCS board now only a week or so away.
Let me tell you, that I feel very fortunate to have had the ability to go in for a practice swing.
I'm not saying the interview panel went badly... I just don't think I did as good. I felt shaky, as I tried to give the best answers possible; somewhere between what was the god's honest truth and what they wanted to hear.
At some points, it felt like I didn't have an answer to give (when was the last time you got really angry.....?). And you can't just sit there and be like "gee, I don't have an answer for that, sir."
I arrived a few minutes early and took a seat and was met by a detective in his formal dress blues who escorted me back to an interview room/bullpen. There I was met by the panel... a Lieutenant whom I had met before, a patrol sergeant, the detective who escorted me in, and two civilians, likely on the town council.
I was dressed in my "new" suit, which Jill had purchased months ago, and I had altered shortly there after. I was happy it fit well, as my weight has fluctuated a bit since September, when we bought the suit. It's not to say I've gained weight, just lost more of it.
But the suit fit fine... I even had forgotten it was gray, because it's been hanging in a bag since we bought it. I wore a blue tie and my corframs... shoes I had in the CG that are always super shiny. I even noticed a member of the panel glance down at them while I was talking.
The interview lasted maybe twenty minutes. As I left I was already taking stock in what to do next time for the OCS board: don't talk too much, make better eye contact (I felt at the time, I looked around the room too much) pause for a few seconds before giving an answer to collect my thoughts and to give the impression that I was thinking about the question. Have better questions to ask the panel when that time comes (my only questions for this panel consisted of benefits and shift differentials).
Afterwards, I was led to a small back room with a computer and a Youtube video queued up. I was to watch the clip (about 45 seconds in length) of a shoplifting and then right a report (spelling and grammar counted) of what I witnessed. This was fairly easy as I was already accustomed to report writing. I think I did ok here.
And then, after all of that, I had a photo taken of me for my "file" and then was sent on my way. I was told I would receive a call-back in a "few weeks" to determine if I was going to go forward in the process or not.
Next step: The OCS Board, March 21st. Wish me luck.
Friday, March 4, 2011
K and T
Our dear family, K, T, J, M and K2 are experiencing one of those life-altering points in their everyday lives. T, the dad, is taking off for a one year overseas deployment tomorrow.
Jill and I are keeping T in our hearts, minds and prayers, and wish him a quick safe return. We're also keeping K, J, M and K2 in our thoughts as well.
But more importantly, we're keeping in our hearts, minds, thoughts and prayers all of our fighting men and women away from their families, doing for many what only a few can do.
Stay tough everyone, and be sure to leave me a piece.
Jill and I are keeping T in our hearts, minds and prayers, and wish him a quick safe return. We're also keeping K, J, M and K2 in our thoughts as well.
But more importantly, we're keeping in our hearts, minds, thoughts and prayers all of our fighting men and women away from their families, doing for many what only a few can do.
Stay tough everyone, and be sure to leave me a piece.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
PT - Good for Me
Any good plan is only made better with a good back-up plan. In our case, the back-up plan came a few weeks ago when a local police department down our way sent me a notice saying they were looking to hire a new patrolman and I had been selected to try out for the position.
This isn't to say that the police department randomly dragged it's finger thru the phone book and landed on my name. Months ago, as I was getting out of the CG, I had dropped applications and resumes off with various PDs looking for part time or seasonal work while we waited for the Army to get my shit together.
I tried calling every PD back after a week or so, but was told no one was hiring, and I forgot all about it.
So when this particular PD came a calling, imagine my surprise. I filled out the necessary paperwork and had a doctor sign off on a slip saying I was fit and able to complete a PT test and off I went.
My experience in trying out for police positions is great. Back before the CG I was a cop, and as a cop, I was constantly trying to move from my .... how do I put this politely.... rinky-dink department into a bigger department where I wouldn't literally have to wait for someone to die to get promoted. I interviewed and PT'd for some of the biggest departments in Southern Maine, only to get so far in the process before receiving a rejection letter.
At the time, I was losing out to a lot of veterans who were just coming home from Iraq and A'stan. They got preferential treatment, which they totally deserved. So if I was the best candidate in say... one area, I was already bumped by a vet, no matter what.
And the hiree pool was always limited to maybe five or six guys. You would PT, which would consist of X amount of push-ups and sit-ups you could do in one minute, and a mile and a half run under 13 minutes. Nothing terribly back breaking. But still, even then, of those five or six guys, maybe 2 wouldn't make it past this stage.
Then would come an interview with a panel of higher-ranking officers at the department who would ask you a battery of questions to test your knowledge and moral standing. A lot of this was mind games.
I've been told my answers were "too text book" before. What the hell does that mean? That they're right? I wouldn't think a WRONG answer would be in a text book. ....not that I'm still bitter or anything.
So anyway, yesterday was the PT test for this particular department. Normally, in my experience, the PT test is usually held at the department proper. But this wasn't the case. Instead, the test was being held at the State Police Academy WAAAAY off Cape. Like a three hour drive. The test started at 8am.
So at 330, I was up and getting my things together. As I drove, it began to snow, and snow hard it did. At times I believed that, instead of getting lighter out, it was getting darker due to the snow cover.
I finally reached the academy, after a ten mile trek thru unplowed switch-backs and greasy four-way intersections... I was the second to arrive, of nearly 75 applicants.
And this was the second day of the PT try outs. The first day was held the Friday before when it was sunny and an unseasonably 60 degrees out. For us, there was already a solid two inches of snow and slush in the parking lot.
I had an opportunity to speak with some of the other applicants as we waited. A lot of guys were older, in their mid-30s or early 40s... (one guy was in his 50s). No one I talked to lived on Cape Cod. I was told by more than one person that this current job opening was the only police officer opening in all of the state of Massachusetts right now. There was this odor of desperation that hung over a lot of the other applicants, which made me feel exceptionally guilty for being there.
Let's face facts: I'm the ideal candidate. I'm still young, but I'm married, so that means I'm grounded and have responsibilities that will keep me from fucking anything up, too bad. I'm in incredible shape. I have BOTH police and military service under my belt, both well within the last ten years.
Most of the other men I spoke to were career-something-elses. One guy, who was worried about the body comp test (how fat you are based off of body-fat %) was a liquor distributor. Another was an Athletic Director for a private school. Both desperately wanted this gig, but I had the feeling that they would find themselves low on the list.
I also spoke to one female, 23, who was very pleasant and bubbly and smiled a lot. I've seen a million like her try to get their foot in the door of the male dominated world of professional law enforcement, and be turned into bitter human beings because of it. I wished her luck.
As things got rolling along, they took all the applicants into a waiting area and went thru the paperwork we were supposed to bring along with us. This is when I discovered I had left a crucial document at home: my doctors note.
I was pulled aside and explained that without this document I wouldn't be able to participate in the evolutions and my three hour drive and 100 dollars in gas would be a total waste. I had this inkling then that I should bow out of the competition. I glanced over the shoulder of the LT who was addressing me and looked at the remaining applicants. This bundle of nervous energy, hope, ... it wasn't right that I was competing, knowing I would crush probably 99% of the people trying out, when I didn't really want the job.
"Is there anyone at home that can fax or email us a copy of the note?" The LT said, bringing me back to earth. I then set about waking up Jill, who was non-too-happy to be woken up to have to fiddle with the temperamental scanner, because I forgot to pack something the night before.
"We're going to have a very, very, very, very, very, very long talk when you get home," said an email she sent me after sending me a CC of the document. Just what I needed after a very, very, very, very, long drive home.
The tests began, which lent itself to lots of waiting around. Body fat comp was first, an we all queued and waited for someone to pinch our tits and legs and figure out how much fat we are. A lot of guys got cut from this portion, as the minimum standard is a body fat % of 19.6. One guy, the booze distributor, got by with a 19.5%, he told me with a relieved smile.
I came in at a lean 9.3%, down nearly 2.5% from when my fitness and wellness class instructor took our body fat comps in class two weeks ago.
This was followed by the sit-up and push-up test. We were all instructed on proper form and went in groups of six, as that's how many proctors there were. We were told to exceed the minimum, which for me was 27 push-ups and 38-sit-ups. A lot of guys were huffing and puffing, failing after around their individual minimums. This is likely because a lot of these guys weren't used to working out to a maximum rep count, or to failure.
I consider myself an "endurance athlete" so I know something about setting a good pace and how important breath control is. In the end, I finished strong as the chief of the department looked on, with a solid 70 push-ups. Sit-ups came in at 85 reps.
"I was watching you over there," another applicant would say to me a short while later, "how many push-ups did you do?" I glanced down at my paper and read off the number to his astonished face. I didn't want to be a douchebag and told him that when I PT'd for the Army, I scored 19 more before being TOLD to stop.
For people were sent packing after either failing or only doing the bare minimum. They couldn't be expected to compete further if there were people exceeding their numbers. Our pool of 75 was now down to about 60-something.
Up next was an agility run test. We had to start prone on the deck and sprint to a line about ten yards away, sprint back, weave thru some cones, and sprint back to the start. Maximum time: 18 seconds. Most everyone made it thru this section. My time was "ok'' as I'm not terribly explosive anymore and being weary of my left knee and any super impact lateral movement, such as weaving thru cones. I had a time of just over 15 seconds.
Now came the run, outdoors. By now, the elements had kicked up a bit and the ground was covered in this sheen of wet, cold slush. We were brought to a section of the parking lot that was roughly oval shaped with an incline on the front half and potholes dotting the second half. We were required to run our hardest for four laps and then sprint the last hundred yards or so to the finish. They started the clock and we broke out.
Again, I'm no longer all that explosive, but I figure that the minimum I run in a given session is 5K of incline, so a mile and a half shouldn't have been that big of a deal. I sprinted out ahead of the pack, with only one guy pulling away from me. A younger guy who was all legs. He would beat me by about 15 seconds or so.
Given the elements and how much I had exerted myself throughout the earlier evolutions, pulling a 9.15 1.5m time isn't all that bad... on a flat course on a nice day with full rest, I could've possibly beaten my long standing record of 9-flat, but whatever. I came in second and was handed a card that an a date and time on it for an interview.
Half the field managed to get in under the max-allowable time, which was just under 13 minutes. I don't think the course was a full 1.5 either, but my time seemed to dictate it as so, but still, that leaves half the applicants not making time.
I'll treat the up-coming interview as a dry run for my OCS board which, to my knowledge, is still scheduled for Mar 21. This will at least give me a chance to try on my "new" suit, which I bought back in October.
This isn't to say that the police department randomly dragged it's finger thru the phone book and landed on my name. Months ago, as I was getting out of the CG, I had dropped applications and resumes off with various PDs looking for part time or seasonal work while we waited for the Army to get my shit together.
I tried calling every PD back after a week or so, but was told no one was hiring, and I forgot all about it.
So when this particular PD came a calling, imagine my surprise. I filled out the necessary paperwork and had a doctor sign off on a slip saying I was fit and able to complete a PT test and off I went.
My experience in trying out for police positions is great. Back before the CG I was a cop, and as a cop, I was constantly trying to move from my .... how do I put this politely.... rinky-dink department into a bigger department where I wouldn't literally have to wait for someone to die to get promoted. I interviewed and PT'd for some of the biggest departments in Southern Maine, only to get so far in the process before receiving a rejection letter.
At the time, I was losing out to a lot of veterans who were just coming home from Iraq and A'stan. They got preferential treatment, which they totally deserved. So if I was the best candidate in say... one area, I was already bumped by a vet, no matter what.
And the hiree pool was always limited to maybe five or six guys. You would PT, which would consist of X amount of push-ups and sit-ups you could do in one minute, and a mile and a half run under 13 minutes. Nothing terribly back breaking. But still, even then, of those five or six guys, maybe 2 wouldn't make it past this stage.
Then would come an interview with a panel of higher-ranking officers at the department who would ask you a battery of questions to test your knowledge and moral standing. A lot of this was mind games.
I've been told my answers were "too text book" before. What the hell does that mean? That they're right? I wouldn't think a WRONG answer would be in a text book. ....not that I'm still bitter or anything.
So anyway, yesterday was the PT test for this particular department. Normally, in my experience, the PT test is usually held at the department proper. But this wasn't the case. Instead, the test was being held at the State Police Academy WAAAAY off Cape. Like a three hour drive. The test started at 8am.
So at 330, I was up and getting my things together. As I drove, it began to snow, and snow hard it did. At times I believed that, instead of getting lighter out, it was getting darker due to the snow cover.
I finally reached the academy, after a ten mile trek thru unplowed switch-backs and greasy four-way intersections... I was the second to arrive, of nearly 75 applicants.
And this was the second day of the PT try outs. The first day was held the Friday before when it was sunny and an unseasonably 60 degrees out. For us, there was already a solid two inches of snow and slush in the parking lot.
I had an opportunity to speak with some of the other applicants as we waited. A lot of guys were older, in their mid-30s or early 40s... (one guy was in his 50s). No one I talked to lived on Cape Cod. I was told by more than one person that this current job opening was the only police officer opening in all of the state of Massachusetts right now. There was this odor of desperation that hung over a lot of the other applicants, which made me feel exceptionally guilty for being there.
Let's face facts: I'm the ideal candidate. I'm still young, but I'm married, so that means I'm grounded and have responsibilities that will keep me from fucking anything up, too bad. I'm in incredible shape. I have BOTH police and military service under my belt, both well within the last ten years.
Most of the other men I spoke to were career-something-elses. One guy, who was worried about the body comp test (how fat you are based off of body-fat %) was a liquor distributor. Another was an Athletic Director for a private school. Both desperately wanted this gig, but I had the feeling that they would find themselves low on the list.
I also spoke to one female, 23, who was very pleasant and bubbly and smiled a lot. I've seen a million like her try to get their foot in the door of the male dominated world of professional law enforcement, and be turned into bitter human beings because of it. I wished her luck.
As things got rolling along, they took all the applicants into a waiting area and went thru the paperwork we were supposed to bring along with us. This is when I discovered I had left a crucial document at home: my doctors note.
I was pulled aside and explained that without this document I wouldn't be able to participate in the evolutions and my three hour drive and 100 dollars in gas would be a total waste. I had this inkling then that I should bow out of the competition. I glanced over the shoulder of the LT who was addressing me and looked at the remaining applicants. This bundle of nervous energy, hope, ... it wasn't right that I was competing, knowing I would crush probably 99% of the people trying out, when I didn't really want the job.
"Is there anyone at home that can fax or email us a copy of the note?" The LT said, bringing me back to earth. I then set about waking up Jill, who was non-too-happy to be woken up to have to fiddle with the temperamental scanner, because I forgot to pack something the night before.
"We're going to have a very, very, very, very, very, very long talk when you get home," said an email she sent me after sending me a CC of the document. Just what I needed after a very, very, very, very, long drive home.
The tests began, which lent itself to lots of waiting around. Body fat comp was first, an we all queued and waited for someone to pinch our tits and legs and figure out how much fat we are. A lot of guys got cut from this portion, as the minimum standard is a body fat % of 19.6. One guy, the booze distributor, got by with a 19.5%, he told me with a relieved smile.
I came in at a lean 9.3%, down nearly 2.5% from when my fitness and wellness class instructor took our body fat comps in class two weeks ago.
This was followed by the sit-up and push-up test. We were all instructed on proper form and went in groups of six, as that's how many proctors there were. We were told to exceed the minimum, which for me was 27 push-ups and 38-sit-ups. A lot of guys were huffing and puffing, failing after around their individual minimums. This is likely because a lot of these guys weren't used to working out to a maximum rep count, or to failure.
I consider myself an "endurance athlete" so I know something about setting a good pace and how important breath control is. In the end, I finished strong as the chief of the department looked on, with a solid 70 push-ups. Sit-ups came in at 85 reps.
"I was watching you over there," another applicant would say to me a short while later, "how many push-ups did you do?" I glanced down at my paper and read off the number to his astonished face. I didn't want to be a douchebag and told him that when I PT'd for the Army, I scored 19 more before being TOLD to stop.
For people were sent packing after either failing or only doing the bare minimum. They couldn't be expected to compete further if there were people exceeding their numbers. Our pool of 75 was now down to about 60-something.
Up next was an agility run test. We had to start prone on the deck and sprint to a line about ten yards away, sprint back, weave thru some cones, and sprint back to the start. Maximum time: 18 seconds. Most everyone made it thru this section. My time was "ok'' as I'm not terribly explosive anymore and being weary of my left knee and any super impact lateral movement, such as weaving thru cones. I had a time of just over 15 seconds.
Now came the run, outdoors. By now, the elements had kicked up a bit and the ground was covered in this sheen of wet, cold slush. We were brought to a section of the parking lot that was roughly oval shaped with an incline on the front half and potholes dotting the second half. We were required to run our hardest for four laps and then sprint the last hundred yards or so to the finish. They started the clock and we broke out.
Again, I'm no longer all that explosive, but I figure that the minimum I run in a given session is 5K of incline, so a mile and a half shouldn't have been that big of a deal. I sprinted out ahead of the pack, with only one guy pulling away from me. A younger guy who was all legs. He would beat me by about 15 seconds or so.
Given the elements and how much I had exerted myself throughout the earlier evolutions, pulling a 9.15 1.5m time isn't all that bad... on a flat course on a nice day with full rest, I could've possibly beaten my long standing record of 9-flat, but whatever. I came in second and was handed a card that an a date and time on it for an interview.
Half the field managed to get in under the max-allowable time, which was just under 13 minutes. I don't think the course was a full 1.5 either, but my time seemed to dictate it as so, but still, that leaves half the applicants not making time.
I'll treat the up-coming interview as a dry run for my OCS board which, to my knowledge, is still scheduled for Mar 21. This will at least give me a chance to try on my "new" suit, which I bought back in October.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
A Date to the Dance
I'm not talking about March Madness. Well, maybe I am in the loosest way possible, but I'm certainly not talking about college basketball.
My name is now on the actual, real deal, ink-and-paper roster to go to the OCS Board, scheduled on March 21st.
Now, my more astute readers will have noticed that "March 21st" is not in the month of "February." This is because, it's in fucking March.
Last we left off, Sgt. Steve had told me that I was a "go" for the very next board, which was going to be held "definitely in February," regardless if I was the only candidate in the entire region or not. "They" knew how long I had been waiting.
So imagine my surprise when I found out, yesterday, that the Feb OCS Board was held on Monday. Monday, February 7th.
"They never told us anything, Jack," Sgt. Steve lamented to me over the phone as my jaw swung unhinged. "No phone calls, no emails, no faxes, no nuthin'" And he sounded genuinely pissed. "So I calls up there to complain and they tell me that the notice was up on the battalion's website's homepage. They've never done that before."
I swallowed all of this with effort and cleared my head. Sgt. Steve went on to tell me that I was in ("in" as in, my name was on the roster for the March board), and that he was going to get me into OCS if it was the last thing he did. I told him that this was largely unacceptable, that he knew from over two weeks ago that February was "the omega line" and that we might now have to start thinking of a Plan B (ie, enlisting) due to personal finances becoming deplete. We agreed that we'd be in touch within the next week or so.
I talked it over with Jill that night and she's (naturally) 100% supportive of me waiting it out til March. But if you look at the timeline, the Board is at the end of March. I've been told that the BN needs like, two-to-three weeks to make it's decision (oh, side note: I'm no longer the only candidate. There are two others now slated for this March Board, plus a "maybe" from the same office I'm recruiting out of. If this "maybe" actually gets to this board, after I've been waiting so long, I'm going to tear someone's fucking head off.), and then another eight weeks for the National Board to make it's decision. From there, it might be even a few more weeks before I get orders cut to show up at either Basic Training or WOT (The accelerated Warrior Orientation Training, what prior service guys get instead of the full basic course). So in sum, it might end up being a FULL YEAR since I started this (August) before I start drawing a pay check from the Army.
Can we hold the line that long?
I don't want to have to give up my dream, or at least postpone it when I'm so close, when I can literally see the light at the end of the tunnel. I don't want my wife to have had made the sacrifices she's made for me to give up so close as well. But there's reality here too.
I'm going to this board in March, one way or another. I just hope they get a fire lit under their asses and move faster than they have been recently.
My name is now on the actual, real deal, ink-and-paper roster to go to the OCS Board, scheduled on March 21st.
Now, my more astute readers will have noticed that "March 21st" is not in the month of "February." This is because, it's in fucking March.
Last we left off, Sgt. Steve had told me that I was a "go" for the very next board, which was going to be held "definitely in February," regardless if I was the only candidate in the entire region or not. "They" knew how long I had been waiting.
So imagine my surprise when I found out, yesterday, that the Feb OCS Board was held on Monday. Monday, February 7th.
"They never told us anything, Jack," Sgt. Steve lamented to me over the phone as my jaw swung unhinged. "No phone calls, no emails, no faxes, no nuthin'" And he sounded genuinely pissed. "So I calls up there to complain and they tell me that the notice was up on the battalion's website's homepage. They've never done that before."
I swallowed all of this with effort and cleared my head. Sgt. Steve went on to tell me that I was in ("in" as in, my name was on the roster for the March board), and that he was going to get me into OCS if it was the last thing he did. I told him that this was largely unacceptable, that he knew from over two weeks ago that February was "the omega line" and that we might now have to start thinking of a Plan B (ie, enlisting) due to personal finances becoming deplete. We agreed that we'd be in touch within the next week or so.
I talked it over with Jill that night and she's (naturally) 100% supportive of me waiting it out til March. But if you look at the timeline, the Board is at the end of March. I've been told that the BN needs like, two-to-three weeks to make it's decision (oh, side note: I'm no longer the only candidate. There are two others now slated for this March Board, plus a "maybe" from the same office I'm recruiting out of. If this "maybe" actually gets to this board, after I've been waiting so long, I'm going to tear someone's fucking head off.), and then another eight weeks for the National Board to make it's decision. From there, it might be even a few more weeks before I get orders cut to show up at either Basic Training or WOT (The accelerated Warrior Orientation Training, what prior service guys get instead of the full basic course). So in sum, it might end up being a FULL YEAR since I started this (August) before I start drawing a pay check from the Army.
Can we hold the line that long?
I don't want to have to give up my dream, or at least postpone it when I'm so close, when I can literally see the light at the end of the tunnel. I don't want my wife to have had made the sacrifices she's made for me to give up so close as well. But there's reality here too.
I'm going to this board in March, one way or another. I just hope they get a fire lit under their asses and move faster than they have been recently.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Gun Range
This might be a shock to some of you, but I really enjoy shooting down at the gun range.
I don't get to do it often, not since I joined the Coast Guard and moved to MA so many years ago. In Massachusetts, you have to pretty much be Jesus-Walking-on-Water to even own a firearm, let alone pop it off all willy-nilly into a giant mound of dirt on a Sunday (no sacrilege intended). I have a totally legal permit to own and carry concealed firearms in this state, but since moving here, I've never (thankfully in some case) had an opportunity to use it.
That changed a few weeks ago, when a friend of mine (who's deathly afraid of firearms) told me she had met a guy who was taking her out shooting once a week. She was slowly becoming more comfortable with guns as a result. She wanted to know if I'd like to come out and shoot with them on a Sunday (as well as tell her what I thought of her new boyfriend, a sort of .... meet the parents in minor... thing.)
I was thrilled at the chance to shoot my guns. Two years ago I bought a Glock 19 9mm (the model that now has the terrible distinction of forever being linked to the tragic events in Arizona nearly a month ago....) and a Remington 870 12 gauge shotgun. Since purchasing these weapons (legally, at a gun show in Maine) they've been pretty much sitting in our gun safe (shotgun) or in my "drawer of death" in my bedside table on my side of the bed (pistol).
Before moving to MA, I shot all the time, as a civilian and as a Law Enforcement Officer. My father and I would routinely go to the little local outdoor shooting range we belonged to and spend an afternoon shooting shit: paper targets, bottles, cans, jugs.... it wasn't a very fancy range, so people typically took garbage and threw out out into the field and shot at it.
As a cop, we would shoot usually every four to six weeks, depending on people's availability. We also had quarterly firearms-related training (Urban Rifle, shoot/no shoot scenarios, simmunitions, etc). In the Coast Guard, because I wasn't stationed in South Florida, we shot twice a year, and dragged ourselves thru a wholly outdated DVD-converted-from-VHS video which we watched individually as we crouched behind an old couch in our crew lounge. Our reactions to what we saw on the screen (which would be holstering or unholstering our deactivated service weapon, giving verbal commands to on-screen actors who couldn't hear us anyway, or making "bang" noises with our mouths to simulate shooting someone) were scored by a proctor and we were given a "pass/fail" grade on whether we could be trusted to carry a gun for the US Coast Guard.
On top of that, shooting in the CG isn't as much fun (or relaxed) as I experienced with civilian law enforcement. As a cop, we would head out to the local range, and shoot thru our courses of fire, scoring was based off of two turns, firing 50 rounds at a man-shaped target set to 25 yards. You needed a total score of 80/100 to be considered qualified. Shooting the M4 was a similar experience, but conducted outside and set to 50 and 100 yards (the tri-city SWAT team trained differently). Your qualifying took less than an hour.
With the CG, it was a whole day long. With a lot of sitting around and waiting to shoot, because they tried to cram as many shooters from the surrounding area's stations or units to the shoot as possible. This would lead to a lot of boredom, loss of interest/situational awareness, fatigue, and bad attitudes.
People who are made to wait all day with no food get cranky, it seems. Who knew?
So my last few shooting experiences have been less than home runs, needless to say. Qualifying for the CG, for me, as been hit or miss (pun intended) as well. I qualified as a Sharp Shooter with the service pistol (the terribly design Sig Sauer 229DAK in .40 cal... yuck) in basic training, but then once in the field, only qualified three out of the 6 times I went out to shoot. Shotgun and rifle were also all over the board.
Not once, ever as a cop, did I not qualify to carry. But then again, we were shooting with Glock 22s and 23s (.40 cal, full and compact, depending on your preference... I carried the model 22) with it's sweet, sweet smooth trigger pull.
Anyway, I had my friend snap some pictures of the Sunday we went shooting. It was a lot of fun, and I found out that a year-long membership to the range we were shooting at is only 50 bucks. Far cheaper than the $250 for two years they would like to charge me at the range closer to my house.
Here are the pics:
I don't get to do it often, not since I joined the Coast Guard and moved to MA so many years ago. In Massachusetts, you have to pretty much be Jesus-Walking-on-Water to even own a firearm, let alone pop it off all willy-nilly into a giant mound of dirt on a Sunday (no sacrilege intended). I have a totally legal permit to own and carry concealed firearms in this state, but since moving here, I've never (thankfully in some case) had an opportunity to use it.
That changed a few weeks ago, when a friend of mine (who's deathly afraid of firearms) told me she had met a guy who was taking her out shooting once a week. She was slowly becoming more comfortable with guns as a result. She wanted to know if I'd like to come out and shoot with them on a Sunday (as well as tell her what I thought of her new boyfriend, a sort of .... meet the parents in minor... thing.)
I was thrilled at the chance to shoot my guns. Two years ago I bought a Glock 19 9mm (the model that now has the terrible distinction of forever being linked to the tragic events in Arizona nearly a month ago....) and a Remington 870 12 gauge shotgun. Since purchasing these weapons (legally, at a gun show in Maine) they've been pretty much sitting in our gun safe (shotgun) or in my "drawer of death" in my bedside table on my side of the bed (pistol).
Before moving to MA, I shot all the time, as a civilian and as a Law Enforcement Officer. My father and I would routinely go to the little local outdoor shooting range we belonged to and spend an afternoon shooting shit: paper targets, bottles, cans, jugs.... it wasn't a very fancy range, so people typically took garbage and threw out out into the field and shot at it.
As a cop, we would shoot usually every four to six weeks, depending on people's availability. We also had quarterly firearms-related training (Urban Rifle, shoot/no shoot scenarios, simmunitions, etc). In the Coast Guard, because I wasn't stationed in South Florida, we shot twice a year, and dragged ourselves thru a wholly outdated DVD-converted-from-VHS video which we watched individually as we crouched behind an old couch in our crew lounge. Our reactions to what we saw on the screen (which would be holstering or unholstering our deactivated service weapon, giving verbal commands to on-screen actors who couldn't hear us anyway, or making "bang" noises with our mouths to simulate shooting someone) were scored by a proctor and we were given a "pass/fail" grade on whether we could be trusted to carry a gun for the US Coast Guard.
On top of that, shooting in the CG isn't as much fun (or relaxed) as I experienced with civilian law enforcement. As a cop, we would head out to the local range, and shoot thru our courses of fire, scoring was based off of two turns, firing 50 rounds at a man-shaped target set to 25 yards. You needed a total score of 80/100 to be considered qualified. Shooting the M4 was a similar experience, but conducted outside and set to 50 and 100 yards (the tri-city SWAT team trained differently). Your qualifying took less than an hour.
With the CG, it was a whole day long. With a lot of sitting around and waiting to shoot, because they tried to cram as many shooters from the surrounding area's stations or units to the shoot as possible. This would lead to a lot of boredom, loss of interest/situational awareness, fatigue, and bad attitudes.
People who are made to wait all day with no food get cranky, it seems. Who knew?
So my last few shooting experiences have been less than home runs, needless to say. Qualifying for the CG, for me, as been hit or miss (pun intended) as well. I qualified as a Sharp Shooter with the service pistol (the terribly design Sig Sauer 229DAK in .40 cal... yuck) in basic training, but then once in the field, only qualified three out of the 6 times I went out to shoot. Shotgun and rifle were also all over the board.
Not once, ever as a cop, did I not qualify to carry. But then again, we were shooting with Glock 22s and 23s (.40 cal, full and compact, depending on your preference... I carried the model 22) with it's sweet, sweet smooth trigger pull.
Anyway, I had my friend snap some pictures of the Sunday we went shooting. It was a lot of fun, and I found out that a year-long membership to the range we were shooting at is only 50 bucks. Far cheaper than the $250 for two years they would like to charge me at the range closer to my house.
Here are the pics:
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
The Only One
Sorry for the lack of posts, but there's just been a lack of information lately. And without any real news to share, there's no real point in posting.
Dig?
But last week I spoke with my recruiter, Sgt. Steve, and he gave me a very tentative board date of Jan 25th... but advised that this date was "penciled in" and was not confirmed. He'd get back to me by the end of the week with some concrete news, he assured me.
So the week went by and no news came forth. Monday was a holiday, so no point in trying him then, and then on Tuesday, I gave him a call.
At the time he was on his way to his Battalion HQ and was looking for an answer from someone directly. He informed me he had sent off a bunch of emails ("one a day") and made a few phone calls, but couldn't get anyone at the BN level to commit. He had other business at the BN that he needed to take care of, so he figured, while there he'd see someone in person.
We agreed that he'd call back within an hour with any news. I went back to doing my laundry.
Roughly forty minutes went by and my phone barked in my pocket. Sgt. Steve stated that since I'm the only candidate in the entire region (which stretches from all of Maine to down to Providence, RI) that's ready for an OCS board, the BN command want to wait another month to see if more candidates shuffle out of the mix.
Sensing the disappointment in my voice, he assured me, again, that we were going to get thru this process together. I thanked him and we said our goodbyes.
I'm somewhat split on this whole information on being the only candidate. On the one side, I think it's slightly advantageous, because there's no one to compare me too, and I'm sure there's not an infinite amount of positions they're looking to fill. With nearly zero competition and as strong of a packet as I have, (knock on wood) things look good for me. Couple that with the Recruiting Office staff having repeatedly told me that candidates out of the Northeast tend to always get selected for OCS, due to higher-than-national-average test scores, I feel confident.
Also, the number of applicants they're taking to OCS is bound to be dropping in the coming year anyway: With a Reduction in Force (RIF) looming as we start our planned stand down in Iraq, and DoD-wide budget cuts, the last thing any of the armed services is looking to do is hire on more officers, who I imagine are more expensive to train than enlisted guys straight out of high school.
At the same time, waiting another month makes Jill and I understandably antsy. We're really getting down to a wire as far as time and finances are concerned. Given that the plan was for me to be enrolled in OCS in say... November at the latest... waiting til February for a board has certainly put the screws to us. This is really the Alamo.. the Omega line. Another delay from the Army and we'll be looking at alternative measures, I'm sure.
As always, we'll keep you posted as the situation develops.
Dig?
But last week I spoke with my recruiter, Sgt. Steve, and he gave me a very tentative board date of Jan 25th... but advised that this date was "penciled in" and was not confirmed. He'd get back to me by the end of the week with some concrete news, he assured me.
So the week went by and no news came forth. Monday was a holiday, so no point in trying him then, and then on Tuesday, I gave him a call.
At the time he was on his way to his Battalion HQ and was looking for an answer from someone directly. He informed me he had sent off a bunch of emails ("one a day") and made a few phone calls, but couldn't get anyone at the BN level to commit. He had other business at the BN that he needed to take care of, so he figured, while there he'd see someone in person.
We agreed that he'd call back within an hour with any news. I went back to doing my laundry.
Roughly forty minutes went by and my phone barked in my pocket. Sgt. Steve stated that since I'm the only candidate in the entire region (which stretches from all of Maine to down to Providence, RI) that's ready for an OCS board, the BN command want to wait another month to see if more candidates shuffle out of the mix.
Sensing the disappointment in my voice, he assured me, again, that we were going to get thru this process together. I thanked him and we said our goodbyes.
I'm somewhat split on this whole information on being the only candidate. On the one side, I think it's slightly advantageous, because there's no one to compare me too, and I'm sure there's not an infinite amount of positions they're looking to fill. With nearly zero competition and as strong of a packet as I have, (knock on wood) things look good for me. Couple that with the Recruiting Office staff having repeatedly told me that candidates out of the Northeast tend to always get selected for OCS, due to higher-than-national-average test scores, I feel confident.
Also, the number of applicants they're taking to OCS is bound to be dropping in the coming year anyway: With a Reduction in Force (RIF) looming as we start our planned stand down in Iraq, and DoD-wide budget cuts, the last thing any of the armed services is looking to do is hire on more officers, who I imagine are more expensive to train than enlisted guys straight out of high school.
At the same time, waiting another month makes Jill and I understandably antsy. We're really getting down to a wire as far as time and finances are concerned. Given that the plan was for me to be enrolled in OCS in say... November at the latest... waiting til February for a board has certainly put the screws to us. This is really the Alamo.. the Omega line. Another delay from the Army and we'll be looking at alternative measures, I'm sure.
As always, we'll keep you posted as the situation develops.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Nine Smarter Ways to Run Smarter
On my Twitter feed, someone posted this link to active.com (a website I've never heard of, but it's ablaze in giant side banner ads for Powerade... the official sports drink of Coca-Cola) about ways to run smarter. I was intrigued by the link, so I clicked and what I found was just vague (see also: terrible) advice for runners.
My guess is that anyone who travels over to active.com isn't the most active person on the planet. They're likely people trying to get or stay active. So I was a little pissed that this site would put out such out-of-touch running advice for people who don't know better. That said, I'm going to do YOU (yes you) a service and list of my Nine Smarter Ways to Run Smarter.
No bullshit.
Road Running:
1. The site's first rule is for runners to "hit the sidewalk." This is a good and bad idea, depending on your geography. If you live in say, New York City or along a highway, then yes, running on the sidewalk is probably your best if only option. But then again, this is also a problem because sidewalks in major cities tend to be cluttered with everything from overflowing trash bins, hot dog vendors, and PEOPLE, homeless or otherwise. Sidewalks are used for exactly that, walking along the side of a road. So unless you're an artful dodger and have super sturdy ACLs, stay clear of the pedestrian walk way. If you live in a city, find a park that's nearby and walk to it as a warm up. If you live along a highway, maybe take up trail running or drive to a local high school track. Running on sidewalks is just as dangerous as running in the road.
2. That said, if you live in a suburban or less built up area, running on the road is perfectly fine. Just stick to the sides, usually well within the painted breakdown area. And run against traffic so that you can see on-coming cars and be able to make the necessary actions to avoid becoming an oversized dead squirrel in day-glo yellow.
3. Avoid running during peak traffic hours. Less cars is good. Usually between 8am and 11am is the best time, as most people who work are at their place of employment by then, and it's before the noon lunch break. In the afternoons, usually between 2pm and 4pm are ideal. If you like to run at night (you're braver than I), anytime after 6 or 7 will probably be ok. Just understand that it's night, and not a lot of people will be watching for a runner on the sides of the road.
Track Running:
4. If you're running on a local high school or college track, just be aware of the rules and times posted. The article mentions how some tracks have alternating directions of travel based on the day (this is to minimize track wear and tear) so just adhere. If there's a practice going on for the home athletes, come back later. As a former high school track kid, I disliked the group of old ladies who just showed up at 3pm twice a week to walk around the outside edges of the track. Just don't do it.
5. Don't run on the inside lanes. They take the most abuse on any day and are a bitch to fix. The track is measured by the inside lanes, so think of it like this: If you run the middle to outside lanes, you're adding a little extra distance to your work outs, which has two benefits: one, you can either quit earlier, being that you made your predetermined distance, or you can get maybe an extra mile or two in the same amount of laps you'd normally run.
Trail Running:
6. I don't have much experience with running trails, but I seem to know more than the active.com article. In the article, they suggest following the established direction of the path marked at the trail head. Don't bother, because half of the people you encounter running on the path will be coming from the opposite way, making this bit of advice as moot. Just don't do anything crazy, like run off of the trail and damage the nearby vegetation. It's boorish and makes you look like a dick.
7. The article also suggests waiting 30 seconds to pass someone if the trail is too narrow. Are you really going to count half a minute in your head before you politely ask to pass? Ok, and while you're at it, what's it like to get spit on everyday? The reality is, if the trail is too narrow, just wait for it to open up to make your move. It's trail running, you're supposed to be enjoying the outdoors. If you're in a rush, stick to short road running loops in your neighborhood.
8. If you're in a head-on situation with another runner, and the path is too narrow for both of you, just come to a walk and let the other person squeeze by. They'll probably do the same. Remember, the idea of trail running isn't to go out and run six miles as fast as you can, it's to enjoy the trail and the surrounding area. If you come to a walk a few times to let people go, so what?
9. Last but not least, if you run with a dog the article suggests keeping him or her close by on a tight leash. This sounds like a terrible time. If you think the trails are going to be packed (weekends, summer time, etc) just leave Fido at home. Mid-day, mid-week trail running will see less people, and allow for letting puppy-wups off the leash, which is more enjoyable for everyone, as long as your dog is trained in running and not a total spaz like ours is.
So these are my "smarter" tips for running, but this is really just the tip of the iceberg. If you want more in-depth training tips, consult an expert you may know personally, or buy a book. Websites are hit-or-miss.
And I'm always available to answer your running-related questions.
My guess is that anyone who travels over to active.com isn't the most active person on the planet. They're likely people trying to get or stay active. So I was a little pissed that this site would put out such out-of-touch running advice for people who don't know better. That said, I'm going to do YOU (yes you) a service and list of my Nine Smarter Ways to Run Smarter.
No bullshit.
Road Running:
1. The site's first rule is for runners to "hit the sidewalk." This is a good and bad idea, depending on your geography. If you live in say, New York City or along a highway, then yes, running on the sidewalk is probably your best if only option. But then again, this is also a problem because sidewalks in major cities tend to be cluttered with everything from overflowing trash bins, hot dog vendors, and PEOPLE, homeless or otherwise. Sidewalks are used for exactly that, walking along the side of a road. So unless you're an artful dodger and have super sturdy ACLs, stay clear of the pedestrian walk way. If you live in a city, find a park that's nearby and walk to it as a warm up. If you live along a highway, maybe take up trail running or drive to a local high school track. Running on sidewalks is just as dangerous as running in the road.
2. That said, if you live in a suburban or less built up area, running on the road is perfectly fine. Just stick to the sides, usually well within the painted breakdown area. And run against traffic so that you can see on-coming cars and be able to make the necessary actions to avoid becoming an oversized dead squirrel in day-glo yellow.
3. Avoid running during peak traffic hours. Less cars is good. Usually between 8am and 11am is the best time, as most people who work are at their place of employment by then, and it's before the noon lunch break. In the afternoons, usually between 2pm and 4pm are ideal. If you like to run at night (you're braver than I), anytime after 6 or 7 will probably be ok. Just understand that it's night, and not a lot of people will be watching for a runner on the sides of the road.
Track Running:
4. If you're running on a local high school or college track, just be aware of the rules and times posted. The article mentions how some tracks have alternating directions of travel based on the day (this is to minimize track wear and tear) so just adhere. If there's a practice going on for the home athletes, come back later. As a former high school track kid, I disliked the group of old ladies who just showed up at 3pm twice a week to walk around the outside edges of the track. Just don't do it.
5. Don't run on the inside lanes. They take the most abuse on any day and are a bitch to fix. The track is measured by the inside lanes, so think of it like this: If you run the middle to outside lanes, you're adding a little extra distance to your work outs, which has two benefits: one, you can either quit earlier, being that you made your predetermined distance, or you can get maybe an extra mile or two in the same amount of laps you'd normally run.
Trail Running:
6. I don't have much experience with running trails, but I seem to know more than the active.com article. In the article, they suggest following the established direction of the path marked at the trail head. Don't bother, because half of the people you encounter running on the path will be coming from the opposite way, making this bit of advice as moot. Just don't do anything crazy, like run off of the trail and damage the nearby vegetation. It's boorish and makes you look like a dick.
7. The article also suggests waiting 30 seconds to pass someone if the trail is too narrow. Are you really going to count half a minute in your head before you politely ask to pass? Ok, and while you're at it, what's it like to get spit on everyday? The reality is, if the trail is too narrow, just wait for it to open up to make your move. It's trail running, you're supposed to be enjoying the outdoors. If you're in a rush, stick to short road running loops in your neighborhood.
8. If you're in a head-on situation with another runner, and the path is too narrow for both of you, just come to a walk and let the other person squeeze by. They'll probably do the same. Remember, the idea of trail running isn't to go out and run six miles as fast as you can, it's to enjoy the trail and the surrounding area. If you come to a walk a few times to let people go, so what?
9. Last but not least, if you run with a dog the article suggests keeping him or her close by on a tight leash. This sounds like a terrible time. If you think the trails are going to be packed (weekends, summer time, etc) just leave Fido at home. Mid-day, mid-week trail running will see less people, and allow for letting puppy-wups off the leash, which is more enjoyable for everyone, as long as your dog is trained in running and not a total spaz like ours is.
So these are my "smarter" tips for running, but this is really just the tip of the iceberg. If you want more in-depth training tips, consult an expert you may know personally, or buy a book. Websites are hit-or-miss.
And I'm always available to answer your running-related questions.
Friday, December 10, 2010
MEPS
So finally, after all this waiting, some progress.
I woke up this morning in what I remember was once a rather nice Double Tree hotel in Portland (it's now called something else... a "Clarion" which I believe might be a word from the Latin root "Clarito" which roughly translates into "low thread count sheets.") sharing a room with an 18 year old behemoth prone to tantrums.
MEPS, or the Military Entrance Processing Station, is to the military as is the TSA is to your upcoming holiday travel plans: before you can get to where you want to go, someone needs to grope you.
But in all seriousness, it's just another hoop one has to jump through. If you're not familiar with how the military (as a whole) processes its people, the day at MEPS works like this:
The night before you get put up in a hotel near the processing station (usually an office in a downtown area... mine is over a CVS on Congress St in Portland, ME) as so you're ready to go early in the morning for this whole shin-dig to start. At the hotel there's not a whole lot to do other than sit around and watch tv and talk on your cell phone. Knowing this, I brought with me the current issue of "Runner's World" magazine, my iPad and comfy warm up pants. Leaching off of the hotel's free wifi, I was able to watch a few episodes of whatever I happened to have saved to my Netflix queue via my iPad.
Sometimes you split the room with another ... MEP-ee? I guess? I was fortunate enough that the first two times I went to MEPS, I had a room to myself. I found this phenomenal considering the bulk of people I would find going thru MEPS the next day. This time around, I wasn't so lucky.
After arriving around 630, I had the room to myself. I kicked back, changed into comfy clothes, tore apart the bed and took a shit with the bathroom door open, like a man does when he's staying in a hotel room alone for a night. I told myself not to get my hopes up on having the room to myself, and I gave myself until 8pm as a deadline to be prepared for anything or anyone showing up.
At 8 on the dot, I hear my door click open. Damnit.
In walks this hulk of a boy, throwing his shit down on his bed, bitching to me (at least I think it was to me) about how long it took to take his ASVAB (Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery... a fancy bunch of words that equate to "what jobs you're qualified for in the military" test). He then realizes he's not alone, as I'm looking up at him from over the top of my iPad.
"Oh hey, I'm ____" he says. I don't remember his name. It was rather pedestrian, I recall. "Tim" or something.
I stand up off the bed and shake his hand. "Jack," I say. He had a good grip and looked me square in the eye. Not many 18 year olds do that anymore. Also, get off my lawn.
He leaves shortly there after to find food, after missing the complimentary chow downstairs (if I recall, you get the choice between a burger and fries or a plate of pasta and bread... I opted to stop at a Wendy's for a less-than-satisfying grilled chicken sandwich and baked potato). I go back to watching tv shows and the Bruins game on NESN at the same time. A few hours later, we call it a night.
The next morning's wake up was at 445, but I missed it because I was in the shower, because I was up at 430. I didn't sleep much, because Tim snores and the sheets I was laying on were akin to burlap. I put on a fresh shave, brushed my fangs and we rolled out together to get some hot breakfast that's provided to the guys going into MEPS that morning.
The spread's not bad. Scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, fruit salad, cottage cheese, coffee, tea, juices, water ... and it's good. It's not soggy, like some "hot breakfast buffets" you'll encounter in the world. What the best part was, I got to actually ENJOY breakfast this morning. The last time I went thru MEPS, I was incredibly close to being "overweight" at 196 lbs. I didn't dare eat anything, as I had been on a "water diet" the weekend before heading in that time around. This time, I weighed in at a trim 167lbs, on a full stomach (21 lbs under my Max Allowable).
Yeah, I had two plate-loads of food.
From there, we pile onto a cold-as-hell school bus and head downtown five minutes away to the MEPS office. This morning there was only five of us MEP-ing, which was shocking by itself. I ate breakfast with my roommate, and two other 18 year olds, fresh out of high school, going into the Marines. One of which maybe weighed 120 lbs with a full kit.
"Do you guys know what you want to do in the Marines?" I ask over breakfast. The first of the two (not the flyweight) answers with that confidence one only can appreciate from someone who's just gotten out of high school.
"I just want to be a trigger-puller," he says. I nod, then glance at his friend.
"And you?"
He nods, a little bashful, mouth stuffed with pancake and homefries at the same time - he's probably still enjoying his childhood metabolism - "me too," he muffles.
I'm then subjected to a round table of questions on what they can expect from MEPS, as it's discovered that this isn't my first time thru. I tell them what I know, and what to expect. I say that because there's so few of us, we're probably going to shoot right thru.
"I was told to expect to be there all day," one says.
"You can expect that, since we're dealing mostly with civilian contractors," I explain. "But it should be pretty painless and quick. When I went thru, there were at least 30 guys just in my group alone...."
So back to the bus.... it's freezing out... according to the clock on the bank we pass by it's 9 degrees out. Right before we got on the bus, I passed the fifth member of our group who instead of breakfast opted for the last-ditch cigarette. He's dumpy, oddly shaped. I go to pass judgment, but then remind myself that, aside from the cig, that's probably a lot like what I looked like on my first go.
I bite my tongue.
When we arrive, there's a young man in street clothes holding the door for us into the building, thanking us for our service. It's unclear if he's actually affiliated with MEPS or if he's just a local and especially patriotic drug dealer. We walk down a hallway and I come face to face with something I wasn't expecting at all:
There's a huge crowd of uniformed service members staring back at we five. Granted, there's usually a recruiter or two hanging out to make sure their recruit makes it to MEPS that morning, but not two dozen.
I dusted off my Parade Rest and came to a halt in front of the contractor with his hands full of paperwork.
We're given instructions at this point about how to conduct ourselves while in the MEPS center (no chewing gum, no loud swearing, no putting feet on furniture, no diddling cell phones - I would get caught doing this, leading to an awkward confrontation between me and a civilian, more on that later), our bags are searched for weps and contraband. We're ... rather.... they're given nametags with serial numbers and branches of service printed on them, and we're led up a few flights of stairs, with this mob of service members behind us.
We're given a brief tour and sent to our respective branch of service offices to pick up paperwork. Because I'm prior service and essentially "walking on" to this processing, I get my name tag here. I'll be referred to as the 'walk on' for the rest of the morning.
By now it's about 630 and we've reconvened for a briefing in a little classroom. Death By Powerpoint ensues, which is just one big scary campfire tale about the dangers of FRAUDULENT ENLISTMENT. Essentially, if you lie on your paperwork (for instance, mark down "I've never done drugs" and pop pos for pot or whatever....) you can get nailed for fraudulent enlistment and possibly go to prison for two years, plus other zany things, like docked pay, etc. All this is presented to us by a rather handsome Army captain.
We then fill out oodles of paperwork, all set to a tedius "please follow along" pace. I mark down everything I'm supposed to and we're all whisked away to various parts of the medical lab, for vision, hearing, urinalysis and blood tests. Once that's done, we have a little sit down with a doctor who just talks to you about every day shit. It's a thinly veiled psych exam. As long as you don't come across as... I dunno, exceedingly nervous, crazy... you're sent on your way.
Now comes the part everyone's heard of and only half believe. All the men are brought into a little room in the back and told to get "buck naked."
Just kidding, we keep our skivs on.
We're weighed and measured and then asked to do a series of silly movements to test our range of motion and to check for any abnormalities, particularly in our feet and spine. If I was worried about any stage of this whole circus, it was this. My left knee has been bothering me as of late (likely from the marathon), and I was worried that I'd be forced to move it in a way to give away that fact. Nothing like that happened, and all went well.
Next, the same doctor we sat with earlier takes us out back to a room separately. Here's the physical aspect of MEPS. Tattoos and scars are documented, groins are grabbed and squeezed, abs are pushed on and buttholes are looked at.
... If you at all believe in the whole Buddhist teaching of Karma... how terrible/great was your last life, where you spend mostly all of this one looking up young men's asses? .... depending on who you are, you know?
I place that part of the exam with just a little more indignity than being forced to take off my belt and shoes before shuffling thru a metal detector at the airport.
Afterwards you dress, sign a few documents and you're on your way. We wrapped by 830... the doctor looking up my butt said that this was a new record.
Oh, all those service members I was talking about earlier? They're all training to be recruiters. I should've mentioned that. That's why they were all standing around and watching us. That was a bit unsettling.
Also, what else is new is that MEPS is using biometrics to track everything now. Not just fingerprints either... retinal scans, facial recognition software, the whole bit. Every station I went to I had to stand in front of a camera and put my index finger on a little pad. At one point, I had to do it just to cross the hall from one exam room to another.
"This is bluddy ridiculous," I wanted to tell the kindly, motherly contractor on the opposite side of the camera, checking to make sure I was 100% meat popsicle. But I held back, after being scolded by a fat prick about being on my cell phone.
....they were very unclear about that... the cell phone thing. One person told us we could use them where ever we wanted, as long as we weren't talking on them (there was a designated area to talk on phones, which was called "outside" apparently) and other instructions received said we could only use cell phones in the designated area (see last side note). So when I was confronted about updating my Twitter feed... I thought the contractor was asking for my phone... as if to confiscate it... which I wasn't about to let him do.... but he kept motioning for something I was holding, but wasn't saying words... so... I kept reluctantly trying to give him my phone.... but he wouldn't take it... eventually he got the words "medical record" out of his fat face, and I understood that he wanted to hold my medrec while I went back to my bag to put my phone away. Gotcha.
So from here, according to my recruiter Sgt. Steve, I should be "good to go" for the next board, which they're projecting to be in January.
More details to follow, I'm sure. When, I don't know.
I woke up this morning in what I remember was once a rather nice Double Tree hotel in Portland (it's now called something else... a "Clarion" which I believe might be a word from the Latin root "Clarito" which roughly translates into "low thread count sheets.") sharing a room with an 18 year old behemoth prone to tantrums.
MEPS, or the Military Entrance Processing Station, is to the military as is the TSA is to your upcoming holiday travel plans: before you can get to where you want to go, someone needs to grope you.
But in all seriousness, it's just another hoop one has to jump through. If you're not familiar with how the military (as a whole) processes its people, the day at MEPS works like this:
The night before you get put up in a hotel near the processing station (usually an office in a downtown area... mine is over a CVS on Congress St in Portland, ME) as so you're ready to go early in the morning for this whole shin-dig to start. At the hotel there's not a whole lot to do other than sit around and watch tv and talk on your cell phone. Knowing this, I brought with me the current issue of "Runner's World" magazine, my iPad and comfy warm up pants. Leaching off of the hotel's free wifi, I was able to watch a few episodes of whatever I happened to have saved to my Netflix queue via my iPad.
Sometimes you split the room with another ... MEP-ee? I guess? I was fortunate enough that the first two times I went to MEPS, I had a room to myself. I found this phenomenal considering the bulk of people I would find going thru MEPS the next day. This time around, I wasn't so lucky.
After arriving around 630, I had the room to myself. I kicked back, changed into comfy clothes, tore apart the bed and took a shit with the bathroom door open, like a man does when he's staying in a hotel room alone for a night. I told myself not to get my hopes up on having the room to myself, and I gave myself until 8pm as a deadline to be prepared for anything or anyone showing up.
At 8 on the dot, I hear my door click open. Damnit.
In walks this hulk of a boy, throwing his shit down on his bed, bitching to me (at least I think it was to me) about how long it took to take his ASVAB (Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery... a fancy bunch of words that equate to "what jobs you're qualified for in the military" test). He then realizes he's not alone, as I'm looking up at him from over the top of my iPad.
"Oh hey, I'm ____" he says. I don't remember his name. It was rather pedestrian, I recall. "Tim" or something.
I stand up off the bed and shake his hand. "Jack," I say. He had a good grip and looked me square in the eye. Not many 18 year olds do that anymore. Also, get off my lawn.
He leaves shortly there after to find food, after missing the complimentary chow downstairs (if I recall, you get the choice between a burger and fries or a plate of pasta and bread... I opted to stop at a Wendy's for a less-than-satisfying grilled chicken sandwich and baked potato). I go back to watching tv shows and the Bruins game on NESN at the same time. A few hours later, we call it a night.
The next morning's wake up was at 445, but I missed it because I was in the shower, because I was up at 430. I didn't sleep much, because Tim snores and the sheets I was laying on were akin to burlap. I put on a fresh shave, brushed my fangs and we rolled out together to get some hot breakfast that's provided to the guys going into MEPS that morning.
The spread's not bad. Scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, fruit salad, cottage cheese, coffee, tea, juices, water ... and it's good. It's not soggy, like some "hot breakfast buffets" you'll encounter in the world. What the best part was, I got to actually ENJOY breakfast this morning. The last time I went thru MEPS, I was incredibly close to being "overweight" at 196 lbs. I didn't dare eat anything, as I had been on a "water diet" the weekend before heading in that time around. This time, I weighed in at a trim 167lbs, on a full stomach (21 lbs under my Max Allowable).
Yeah, I had two plate-loads of food.
From there, we pile onto a cold-as-hell school bus and head downtown five minutes away to the MEPS office. This morning there was only five of us MEP-ing, which was shocking by itself. I ate breakfast with my roommate, and two other 18 year olds, fresh out of high school, going into the Marines. One of which maybe weighed 120 lbs with a full kit.
"Do you guys know what you want to do in the Marines?" I ask over breakfast. The first of the two (not the flyweight) answers with that confidence one only can appreciate from someone who's just gotten out of high school.
"I just want to be a trigger-puller," he says. I nod, then glance at his friend.
"And you?"
He nods, a little bashful, mouth stuffed with pancake and homefries at the same time - he's probably still enjoying his childhood metabolism - "me too," he muffles.
I'm then subjected to a round table of questions on what they can expect from MEPS, as it's discovered that this isn't my first time thru. I tell them what I know, and what to expect. I say that because there's so few of us, we're probably going to shoot right thru.
"I was told to expect to be there all day," one says.
"You can expect that, since we're dealing mostly with civilian contractors," I explain. "But it should be pretty painless and quick. When I went thru, there were at least 30 guys just in my group alone...."
So back to the bus.... it's freezing out... according to the clock on the bank we pass by it's 9 degrees out. Right before we got on the bus, I passed the fifth member of our group who instead of breakfast opted for the last-ditch cigarette. He's dumpy, oddly shaped. I go to pass judgment, but then remind myself that, aside from the cig, that's probably a lot like what I looked like on my first go.
I bite my tongue.
When we arrive, there's a young man in street clothes holding the door for us into the building, thanking us for our service. It's unclear if he's actually affiliated with MEPS or if he's just a local and especially patriotic drug dealer. We walk down a hallway and I come face to face with something I wasn't expecting at all:
There's a huge crowd of uniformed service members staring back at we five. Granted, there's usually a recruiter or two hanging out to make sure their recruit makes it to MEPS that morning, but not two dozen.
I dusted off my Parade Rest and came to a halt in front of the contractor with his hands full of paperwork.
We're given instructions at this point about how to conduct ourselves while in the MEPS center (no chewing gum, no loud swearing, no putting feet on furniture, no diddling cell phones - I would get caught doing this, leading to an awkward confrontation between me and a civilian, more on that later), our bags are searched for weps and contraband. We're ... rather.... they're given nametags with serial numbers and branches of service printed on them, and we're led up a few flights of stairs, with this mob of service members behind us.
We're given a brief tour and sent to our respective branch of service offices to pick up paperwork. Because I'm prior service and essentially "walking on" to this processing, I get my name tag here. I'll be referred to as the 'walk on' for the rest of the morning.
By now it's about 630 and we've reconvened for a briefing in a little classroom. Death By Powerpoint ensues, which is just one big scary campfire tale about the dangers of FRAUDULENT ENLISTMENT. Essentially, if you lie on your paperwork (for instance, mark down "I've never done drugs" and pop pos for pot or whatever....) you can get nailed for fraudulent enlistment and possibly go to prison for two years, plus other zany things, like docked pay, etc. All this is presented to us by a rather handsome Army captain.
We then fill out oodles of paperwork, all set to a tedius "please follow along" pace. I mark down everything I'm supposed to and we're all whisked away to various parts of the medical lab, for vision, hearing, urinalysis and blood tests. Once that's done, we have a little sit down with a doctor who just talks to you about every day shit. It's a thinly veiled psych exam. As long as you don't come across as... I dunno, exceedingly nervous, crazy... you're sent on your way.
Now comes the part everyone's heard of and only half believe. All the men are brought into a little room in the back and told to get "buck naked."
Just kidding, we keep our skivs on.
We're weighed and measured and then asked to do a series of silly movements to test our range of motion and to check for any abnormalities, particularly in our feet and spine. If I was worried about any stage of this whole circus, it was this. My left knee has been bothering me as of late (likely from the marathon), and I was worried that I'd be forced to move it in a way to give away that fact. Nothing like that happened, and all went well.
Next, the same doctor we sat with earlier takes us out back to a room separately. Here's the physical aspect of MEPS. Tattoos and scars are documented, groins are grabbed and squeezed, abs are pushed on and buttholes are looked at.
... If you at all believe in the whole Buddhist teaching of Karma... how terrible/great was your last life, where you spend mostly all of this one looking up young men's asses? .... depending on who you are, you know?
I place that part of the exam with just a little more indignity than being forced to take off my belt and shoes before shuffling thru a metal detector at the airport.
Afterwards you dress, sign a few documents and you're on your way. We wrapped by 830... the doctor looking up my butt said that this was a new record.
Oh, all those service members I was talking about earlier? They're all training to be recruiters. I should've mentioned that. That's why they were all standing around and watching us. That was a bit unsettling.
Also, what else is new is that MEPS is using biometrics to track everything now. Not just fingerprints either... retinal scans, facial recognition software, the whole bit. Every station I went to I had to stand in front of a camera and put my index finger on a little pad. At one point, I had to do it just to cross the hall from one exam room to another.
"This is bluddy ridiculous," I wanted to tell the kindly, motherly contractor on the opposite side of the camera, checking to make sure I was 100% meat popsicle. But I held back, after being scolded by a fat prick about being on my cell phone.
....they were very unclear about that... the cell phone thing. One person told us we could use them where ever we wanted, as long as we weren't talking on them (there was a designated area to talk on phones, which was called "outside" apparently) and other instructions received said we could only use cell phones in the designated area (see last side note). So when I was confronted about updating my Twitter feed... I thought the contractor was asking for my phone... as if to confiscate it... which I wasn't about to let him do.... but he kept motioning for something I was holding, but wasn't saying words... so... I kept reluctantly trying to give him my phone.... but he wouldn't take it... eventually he got the words "medical record" out of his fat face, and I understood that he wanted to hold my medrec while I went back to my bag to put my phone away. Gotcha.
So from here, according to my recruiter Sgt. Steve, I should be "good to go" for the next board, which they're projecting to be in January.
More details to follow, I'm sure. When, I don't know.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Some Simple Rules for the Gym
I'm sorry that I (we) haven't posted in a while. There simply hasn't been anything to write about. I'm still in a holding pattern. The last contact I had with my recruiter, Sgt. Steve, was Monday, when he told me that MEPS was finally (almost) done with my package and I should be expecting to get word for a Phys. soon, possibly by the end of the week. Since, I haven't heard anything. And as a long holiday break comes down the line here, I'm sure things are going to slow up tenfold.
But in lieu of that, I'm writing this as I'm just coming back from the local gym. So this post will be about the gym.
I hate our gym, let me start with that. It's not a gym in the conventional sense, it's more like a community center. It's part retirement home, day care, sports rehab center, and high school kid hang out. There's probably only a handful of people that take their time at this gym seriously, aside from my wife and I.
The following is from a paper I recently wrote for a class I'm taking in Ancient World History, about the Greek Aesthetic:
Real talk.
So the following is a list of complaints I have with my gym. Yes, this is bitching. Yes, this is filler. But you know what? You're already here, so fucking read it.
-First, the following will be prohibited from the locker room: discussions of religion, politics, or economics, especially if those partaking in the conversation have no clue what they're talking about, only regurgitating what they heard on Fox News. Also prohibited: unattended children, eye contact amongst men, and loud cell phone conversations.
-If your high school uses the gym for some sort of athletic purpose (for instance, your swim team uses the pool) this is cool. Just please be respectful of the other patrons. It is a public gym after all. Please don't run around like a goddamn fool.
-If you're an elderly person and you're spending an hour slowly pedaling a stationary bike and someone else changes the tv channel on you, and it's not the tv set directly in front of you, and you complain, be prepared to get kicked in the stomach. It's a gym, not your living room.
-I'm not your grandson. My wife does not remind you of your wife when you were first married. Even if she does, I don't care. Don't tell me.
-Pee in the pool, I'll track you down, break into your house in the middle of the night, and pee on your pillow. While you're sleeping on it. Test me.
-And AS IF! I don't know you peed in the pool! "Suddenly" there's a warm cloud of murky water in my lane and you JUST came from there!? Please.
-If someone's wearing ear buds it means they're not open to conversation. Please adhere to this. Second to this, DO NOT attempt to get a stranger's attention by touching them in anyway. If I have my back to you, and I bend down to pick up my water bottle, and you're an old, overweight, effeminate bear of a man, DO NOT caress my back and then ask me questions about my workout gear.
-Don't stare at other patrons. It's rude and I'm not gay. Sorry.
-PLEASE wipe down the equipment after you're done using it. I don't care if you did ONE rep, just wipe it down. It takes two seconds. I see more people using the equipment, getting up and walking away. If everyone wipes down the equipment when they're done using it, I don't have to wipe everything down BEFORE I start using it, as well as after. Help me out here.
-Ask yourself this: If you're not going to take working out seriously, why are you in the gym in the first place? There are plenty of other hang outs around here: bars, clubs, other people's houses. You and your Affliction t-shirt wearing, meathead friends who lounge around on all the benches and equipment, hogging all the space while you have yelling matches amongst yourselves and whomever you're on the phone with, need to cut it the fuck out, and go someplace else. Or I will drop a 45lb plate weight on your faces. Collectively.
Thank you, that is all.
But in lieu of that, I'm writing this as I'm just coming back from the local gym. So this post will be about the gym.
I hate our gym, let me start with that. It's not a gym in the conventional sense, it's more like a community center. It's part retirement home, day care, sports rehab center, and high school kid hang out. There's probably only a handful of people that take their time at this gym seriously, aside from my wife and I.
The following is from a paper I recently wrote for a class I'm taking in Ancient World History, about the Greek Aesthetic:
The Greeks not only believed in perfect art and development of the mind, but of the body as well. From them, we get Gymnasium, or as we call it today, simply “the gym,” which is technically an open area where athletes and scholars would gather to train themselves, usually in the nude. This was called “gymnos,” and was designed not only as a tribute to the beauty of the human body, but as sign of respect to the gods.
The athletes in particular would train for a collection of competitive sports, held in the city-state Olympia, called “The Olympics.” ... Only the very best athletes were invited to attend and compete in events such as boxing, running races and tests of strength, hunting and warfare prowess. One such game involved a hundred meter sprint in full battle armor.
By today’s standards, we no longer hold on to this athletic ideal. We run races in air-weight shoes, flimsy track shorts and jerseys. We no longer throw a javelin made of wood and bronze, but a carbon-fiber stick. Our athletes suck down protein-infused energy drinks and rig themselves up with GPS-tracking heart rate monitors just to jog around the neighborhood. The people of 2010 are soft, in comparison.
They do not go to a gym to appease anyone but themselves, and maybe their (potential) mate. A gym today is a loud, cramped, disgusting series of rooms populated with blaring television sets, cushioned benches and sweating housewives. So unfit is today’s gymnasium, a Roman wouldn’t dare be caught vomiting in it.
The athletes in particular would train for a collection of competitive sports, held in the city-state Olympia, called “The Olympics.” ... Only the very best athletes were invited to attend and compete in events such as boxing, running races and tests of strength, hunting and warfare prowess. One such game involved a hundred meter sprint in full battle armor.
By today’s standards, we no longer hold on to this athletic ideal. We run races in air-weight shoes, flimsy track shorts and jerseys. We no longer throw a javelin made of wood and bronze, but a carbon-fiber stick. Our athletes suck down protein-infused energy drinks and rig themselves up with GPS-tracking heart rate monitors just to jog around the neighborhood. The people of 2010 are soft, in comparison.
They do not go to a gym to appease anyone but themselves, and maybe their (potential) mate. A gym today is a loud, cramped, disgusting series of rooms populated with blaring television sets, cushioned benches and sweating housewives. So unfit is today’s gymnasium, a Roman wouldn’t dare be caught vomiting in it.
Real talk.
So the following is a list of complaints I have with my gym. Yes, this is bitching. Yes, this is filler. But you know what? You're already here, so fucking read it.
-First, the following will be prohibited from the locker room: discussions of religion, politics, or economics, especially if those partaking in the conversation have no clue what they're talking about, only regurgitating what they heard on Fox News. Also prohibited: unattended children, eye contact amongst men, and loud cell phone conversations.
-If your high school uses the gym for some sort of athletic purpose (for instance, your swim team uses the pool) this is cool. Just please be respectful of the other patrons. It is a public gym after all. Please don't run around like a goddamn fool.
-If you're an elderly person and you're spending an hour slowly pedaling a stationary bike and someone else changes the tv channel on you, and it's not the tv set directly in front of you, and you complain, be prepared to get kicked in the stomach. It's a gym, not your living room.
-I'm not your grandson. My wife does not remind you of your wife when you were first married. Even if she does, I don't care. Don't tell me.
-Pee in the pool, I'll track you down, break into your house in the middle of the night, and pee on your pillow. While you're sleeping on it. Test me.
-And AS IF! I don't know you peed in the pool! "Suddenly" there's a warm cloud of murky water in my lane and you JUST came from there!? Please.
-If someone's wearing ear buds it means they're not open to conversation. Please adhere to this. Second to this, DO NOT attempt to get a stranger's attention by touching them in anyway. If I have my back to you, and I bend down to pick up my water bottle, and you're an old, overweight, effeminate bear of a man, DO NOT caress my back and then ask me questions about my workout gear.
-Don't stare at other patrons. It's rude and I'm not gay. Sorry.
-PLEASE wipe down the equipment after you're done using it. I don't care if you did ONE rep, just wipe it down. It takes two seconds. I see more people using the equipment, getting up and walking away. If everyone wipes down the equipment when they're done using it, I don't have to wipe everything down BEFORE I start using it, as well as after. Help me out here.
-Ask yourself this: If you're not going to take working out seriously, why are you in the gym in the first place? There are plenty of other hang outs around here: bars, clubs, other people's houses. You and your Affliction t-shirt wearing, meathead friends who lounge around on all the benches and equipment, hogging all the space while you have yelling matches amongst yourselves and whomever you're on the phone with, need to cut it the fuck out, and go someplace else. Or I will drop a 45lb plate weight on your faces. Collectively.
Thank you, that is all.
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