Letters March 16, 2010

Twenty-seven days down. Seventy-three to go. Memory 28/100:

I decided to stay home for Spring Break this year. Many of my friends left for cruises to warm places, but I wanted to relax by myself. Also, I haven’t finished IFS yet, so hopefully I’ll have my solo flight this week! One of my goals for the break was to clean my room. It was filled with high school things (including a “Congratulations!” bag from graduation day) and Naval Academy stuff I took home for the summers but didn’t need at school.

Inside a clear, shoe box-sized container, I found my letters from Plebe Summer. I didn’t have much time to write during Plebe Summer, but I received many letters. The box is completely full. I remember feeling guilty for not writing back to all of the people. All sorts of friends wrote to me, some I wouldn’t have expected to write. I loved getting letters from family, too. My mom put all sorts of fun things in the letters. I especially liked photographs and comics.

The detailers handed out letters every night. I generally had a letter each time. The letters were a big highlight—even better than letters were care packages, filled with cookies, Pop Tarts, candy, and other sweets; but there was a problem. I received the letters just before bedtime, after our thirty minutes of personal time. As soon as the detailers dismissed us, we had to get in bed—lights out.

I didn’t do many things to rebel during Plebe Summer, but my love of letters pushed me beyond the line of blind obedience. Each night, as I jumped into bed, I threw a package of Pop Tarts and my letters inside my pillowcase. Once the detailers had stopped patrolling the rooms, I brought the goods out one by one. I carefully opened the letters as silently as possible (the Pop Tart wrappers were difficult.) Even though we didn’t have our lights on, I used the light from the hallway to read each letter carefully (we weren’t allowed to have our doors shut unless we were changing, even while sleeping.) Any time I heard footsteps, I quickly rolled on top of everything. I crushed a few Pop Tarts over the six weeks.

I read each letter twice before putting it away. I then reread my letters for the week on Sundays. They were my connection outside of Plebe Summer. I remember feeling like I had jumped in a time machine; my friends wrote about their summer vacations, city-league sports, and barbecues. All of their lives continued normally, but mine had changed drastically. Most of them didn’t leave for college until I had finished Plebe Summer. It was the beginning of the separation between my past and my future.