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If the Old is Out, I’m Gone! Only to Become New Again April 20, 2010

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Sixty-one days down. Thirty-nine to go. Memory 62/100:

The process of writing a memory is much less involved than you might think. I open up a new post screen usually around 10:30 or 11 pm and simply stare, waiting. I don’t really ever have a memory in mind before I write. I can only think of a few times where I had a memory rearing to go.

There’s a dilemma. I’d love to sit and stare at the screen all night, distracting myself with youtube clips of Disney movies and Failblog’s best moments. But I need to get to bed eventually, and/or finish homework. It’s almost out of necessity that I end up throwing a memory on the page. I enjoy the writing once I actually figure out what the memory will be about. But the sitting and staring is tough, tough work.

All of the firsties are getting a bit sentimental. Today was our class picture. Remember my post last year about it? (Click here.) It’s hard to believe that it is already our turn.

I was talking with Bill and KC about how when we were plebes our firsties seemed really old, big, and capable. I thought they could do anything. “Are we like that now?” KC asked.

Rene and I once had a conversation as we were laying in our beds one night plebe year (we’ve had these talks often, like slumber parties—“you still awake?”) where we discussed if we’d want to graduate after just one year, instead of going all four years. I remember telling him that I didn’t feel ready after plebe year. I didn’t know what four years would do, but I thought the firsties seemed to know everything—I figured that after four years I would, too.

Well, I don’t, but I do feel ready to move on.

It has seemed like one big crescendo leading to graduation, since Induction Day. Almost everything I have been taught has been in preparation to becoming an officer. Just as I looked at my firsties as the ones who had truly made it, midshipmen look at officers as the end-goal, what we want to be.

So, when I throw my cover at graduation, I think it will be much like when I became a firstie. I won’t be any different, but I’ll be prepared for new challenges. I will assume the new role. The cycle continues.

Chapel and The Midshipman’s Prayer March 21, 2010

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Thirty-two days down. Sixty-eight to go. Memory 33/100:

I went to the Naval Academy chapel service today with my parents and our family friend, Melinda, who has been visiting since the middle of last week. I hadn’t been to a chapel service for a while—I usually go to a more contemporary church service in Annapolis. Despite my preference for the service in town, the Naval Academy chapel has a special reverence that I appreciate.

I remember going to the chapel service during Plebe Summer and spying a glimpse at my parents sitting in a non-conspicuous spot within glancing range.

I especially like the emphasis the chaplains place on prayer for service members across the world. Most, if not all, of the chaplains have been deployed with Marines or sailors to Iraq or Afghanistan. Today, we had the honor of welcoming a chaplain back from a tour in Iraq.

I also like the applicability that the chapel service has for midshipmen. During the service, a Naval Academy alum walks to the front and invites “all midshipmen, past and present,” to join in the reading of The Midshipman’s Prayer:

“Almighty Father, whose way is in the sea, whose paths are in the great waters, whose command is over all and whose love never faileth; let me be aware of Thy presence and obedient to Thy will. Keep me true to my best self, guarding me against dishonesty in purpose and in deed, and helping me so to live that I can stand unashamed and unafraid before my shipmates, my loved ones, and thee. Protect those in whose love I live. Give me the will to do my best and accept my share of responsibilities with a strong heart and cheerful mind. Make me considerate of those entrusted to my leadership and faithful to the duties my country has entrusted in me. Let my uniform remind me daily of the traditions of the service of which I am a part. If I am inclined to doubt, steady my faith; if I am tempted, make me strong to resist; if I should miss the mark, give me courage to try again. Guide me with the light of truth and keep before me the life of Him by whose example and help I trust to obtain the answer to my prayer, Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

Got Butterflies? March 17, 2010

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Twenty-eight days down. Seventy-two to go. Memory 29/100:

I get the butterflies when I’m nervous. I don’t think that is anything extraordinary or unique. But I’d wager my butterflies are a bit more pronounced than most. I think they suckled on steroid nectar as young caterpillars.

In the summer after fifth grade, I played on a competitive baseball team. The kids were a bit rough on me, as I was the youngest on the team, and the coach didn’t give me any slack. I had stomach aches before each game and even some practices. Being young, I didn’t handle the stress well.

I remember the moments before my performance at the state solo contest for the horn my sophomore year of high school. All of the saliva in my body vanished. I think the butterflies ate it. Despite my anxiety, I pulled myself together and performed well.

During Plebe Summer, we often ran out of the rooms in groups. We had safety that way. But someone had to go first—he or she would be the first to greet the upperclass by name. Since I didn’t know names well, I never wanted to go first. My friends still make fun of me today for my infamous pleas throughout the summer, “You go first! Please!”

I hated standing Main Office watch. During that duty, I had to sit in the Naval Academy’s Main Office and answer phones. Since I was a plebe, I never knew the answers to the constant questioning. I should have taken solace in knowing that I could always ask the firstie in the office for the answer, but I still worried every time the phone rang. I remember always leaving that watch completely exhausted from the constant worrying and battle with the brutal butterflies. Looking back, it’s a little comical to think about because I have now stood the firstie position in Main Office multiple times, and it’s not bad at all. I generally have the answers to the questions the plebes on the phones ask, just because I know the stuff.

The most recent, notable bout with the pesky butterflies occurred during my first flights. Remember how my first day went? Surprisingly, I didn’t worry about the actual flying (and the inter-workings of gravity—falling.) I mainly feared failing the screening.** My first flights went very poorly, jam-packed with constant corrections and stress. Thus, in the moments leading up to my lessons, the butterflies attacked in formation flight with sidewinder missiles. Instead of ceding to them, I took preemptive action.

[I can’t believe I’m admitting this.]

I talked to myself in the car on the way to the airport. “You can do it. It’s not that difficult. You know how to do it. You are great!” I followed Dwight Schrute’s example from The Office:

It all worked out pretty well. As cheesy as it seems, hearing someone calm and studly telling you how great you are really does feel good—even if it’s your own voice! I wouldn’t let myself think negatively.

For as funny as they thought my technique was, Jason and Chris were supportive as well. After one particularly long day, I dragged my feet into my room and found a note on my desk with an abstract sketch of what I think was a guitar. The note said, “You’re a Rockstar!!!” I have it posted next to my computer, and I don’t think I’ll ever get rid of it.

**Granted, I have not completed it yet, so I am not acting like I am in the clear.

Letters March 16, 2010

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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.

Move Along March 14, 2010

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Twenty-five days down. Seventy-five to go. Memory 26/100:

Doing some song-surfing on youtube.com, I had a memory of plebe year.

It was fairly early in the first semester. I was in the drum and bugle corps, and we were going to Stanford for their home opener against Navy. I hadn’t been assured I would go on the trip because my grades had been borderline since the first day of class. I had “Stanford???” written on my desk planner, and it helped me study harder. I just wanted to get away from Annapolis, Maryland. A trip to the West Coast seemed too good to be true; so, when I received approval to go on the movement order, I felt an incredible weight lifted off of my shoulders.

I didn’t know what to take besides the essential uniform items—so that’s all I took. I didn’t have an iPod with me (they were forbidden,) nor did I have a Gameboy of any type. I stuffed my bags with black socks, white socks, undershirts, white leathers, corframs, an extra cover, extra summer whites, extra ribbons, and more whitey-tighties than I care to admit. I took running gear, in case I had the chance to P.T. (I didn’t.) Oh, and I did make sure to take my Pro Book (Professional Knowledge Book—it had a weekly topic about the Navy and Marine Corps that I had to memorize for tests each Sunday—these tests successfully ruined every weekend.)

Overstuffed with enough uniforms to last two weeks, I departed for my three-day trip. This was my first of many trips to the airport in uniform—they let us through the express lane in baggage claim and security. I felt like I didn’t deserve the treatment, having been in the Navy for only a few months. I still feel the same way, after almost four years.

You know how the rest of the airport process goes. I eventually made it onto the plane. This is where the youtube surfing comes in. I didn’t have headphones, so I bought an airliner pair, the type with two plugs, for two dollars. I plugged them in, and I turned to the first station. I hadn’t listened to music since Induction Day, (the last song in the car was “Yellow” by Coldplay,) so I didn’t know what was popular. The sound was so amazing! Looking back, I think it was the perfect song for me at the time. I was a lowly plebe, feeling sorry for myself, and I needed to move along.

Listen to “Move Along” by The All American Rejects: