Why I don’t want to be remembered as a Soldier…
I’ve been out of the Army for years now, four years to be exact, and counting. Since receiving my honorable discharge, I have graduated college, I am completing my second year of law school, engaged to the love of my life, who also happens to be a pediatrician, and have a handle on all aspects of my world. I have worked a few part-time jobs, full-time jobs, and jobs that could lead to a career, but regardless of any accomplishments I achieve, I am still a soldier.
Sometimes I wake up in cold sweats, for I am still back on that mountain. Sometimes I forget that I can’t drink too much and yell and fight with my friends because they don’t understand I am just letting off steam. Sometimes my girlfriend gets mad at me because I am distant, closed off, and cold, and leads to drinking too much. Sometimes, when overhearing someone talking about how bad of a day they are having, I laugh at them. Do they even know what a really bad day is? I am, by no means, justifying any of my actions, but merely just acknowledging that they happen. Even if I don’t want them to.
In a recent job interview, certain things the interviewer said led me to believe the only piece of my resume he was concerned with was the line that said “United States Army”. This is in spite of my 3.8 GPA, prestigious internships, or the fact I am now attending a top 50 law school in which I am ranked second. At the bar that afternoon, about the time I was being served my fifth beer, I questioned whether or not I would ever be anything else but a Soldier.
I know, I know. I sound like I am complaining about people acknowledging one of the hardest and most rewarding things I have done in my life. It sounds odd, right? Like maybe, I should just shut up, accept the praise, and walk through whatever doors it opens for me? I get it. But imagine for a moment, if you will, walking into a job interview for a non-profit in which you are excited to put everything you have learned in your first year of law school to the test. I can get coffee and do research like nobody’s business. Instead of being quizzed on things like Torts, Con Law, or Civ Pro, you are only asked about your time overseas. A time you don’t like to, err, scratch that, adamantly refuse to talk about. But you’re in a job interview. Going silent and refusing to answer the interviewer’s questions simply isn’t an option.
So instead, I attempt to dance around the topic by giving short, vague answers. I stumble through them and I am highly uncomfortable. I begin to sweat. I am nervous now about my sweating, which causes me to sweat more. I desperately want to get up and leave, but I need this internship. I keep stuttering…What the fuck is that I never stutter. I should just get up and leave, I sound like an idiot and he isn’t going to hire me anyway. But I remain seated. My body is on fire.
Eventually, in what feels like an hour but was probably only twenty minutes, he ceases fire and I can begin the process of relaxing. His eyes glance over the rest of my resume, but apparently, nothing on it is worth mentioning, not even my hole in one. He starts talking about the responsibilities of the job and begins every comment with “Hey, Soldier…” or ends every comment with “…and how’s that sound, Soldier?”
I was a medic in the Army. I chose to work hard to get into law school because I was burnt out in that profession after six long years. I was tired of death, to be honest. Every single question or comment was a constant reminder of every friend I had lost along the way. I began to hate the man seated on the other side of the desk. I begin to think dark, terrible thoughts about what was going to happen if this interview didn’t end, now. And then he asked me the one question you never ask any soldier, ever. He asked me if I had to shoot anyone. I was dumbfounded. This is normally a question I only hear from small children or drunken douchebags. I couldn’t do anything but stare back at the man seated across from me. This was it, I was going to snap. I, to this day, have no idea how long the silence went on for.
Eventually, he brushed the question off and moved on to more “neutral” topics. He said he would give me more responsibility because I had been a soldier and he knew I could handle it. The voice inside my head started screaming “How in the fuck do YOU know that.” I tried desperately, in an Edgar Allen Poe moment of fear to quiet the voice, because, you see, I thought that my interviewer, my tormentor, might actually HEAR it.
I had known many “soldiers” in the Army who weren’t fit to handle any responsibility, let alone additional to the basic job requirements. What if I was one of them? I still wasn’t sure, myself, who I was. I was relieved to know this guy had it all figured out. Beyond all of that, I am still a law school student and simply do NOT want more work. The voices in my head won’t stop.
I notice the man sitting silently and looking at me. Oh crap, had I had that private, personal conversation with myself aloud? No, no. He just asked me a question. A question I didn’t hear I might add.
“I’m sorry, sir. Could you repeat that?” I am sweating again.
“Can you start Monday?” the man asks.
“Of course,” I say. I follow his lead, stand up, shake his hand, thank him, and then exit his office. The feeling in my entire body is numb. I feel shell-shocked, worse than when that RPG slammed into the sodden wall we were stacked up behind. I walk out of the building and the cold wind hits me. I am soaking wet. I stumble to the nearest bar, seeking shelter, seeking refuge, seeking peace. I am not disappointed.
And as I sit here, feeling the effects of my seventh glass of beer, I still have no idea what job I have agreed to perform. Although, I shouldn’t be worried because I was once and will forever be a soldier. I think it is time to edit my resume.
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Originally published on dustinlehmann.wordpress.com and is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock