My experience at the military ball

04-30-07 12:40 AM

At the end of the night, the colors were retired. The colors, however, are actually never retired. That is, I suppose, what makes the US Army the greatest army in the world. They never retire the colors.
As we watched slide shows of MS IVs and gave scripted answers to toasts (i.e., “I propose a toast to ____” then, the answer, “to the ____!”), I was simultaneously wrapped up in the prestige and the pain. I wanted to immerse myself in and cast myself away from the red, white, and blue. As I looked at him there, standing at attention, I wanted to smile with pride. But I also wanted to shake him and scream, “How could you do this to me?”
The military is an entirely different way of life. It has scripted roles, long-standing traditions, and a different set of social rules. The guys I’ve come to know and love this year- my boyfriend’s fellow cadets- were not the fun-loving, sex-craving, beer-wanting guys I knew. They were men. Their backs were straight, their hair was cut, their buttons shined, their smiles were gone. As we dates looked on, these men (and lone women) stood ramrod straight, looking dead ahead.
I didn’t look at him once while he was at attention. I watched one of our friends do the color guard; another did the sabre arch. I watched him get an award, and I smiled and was perfectly sociable. I played my role in the military hierarchy- submissive female, attractive woman- whatever you want to call it, I did it and I did it well.
As a two-star general talked (I later learned that the stars meant something, and weren’t just a Homeric epithet) I realized that the military meant everything to these men. They weren’t doing it for the great benefits or to get a great body. This meant something to them, on a strange level. As I watched “Wibs” emcee the event, being incredibly serious, I wanted to cry. This vibrant young man was, to me, almost destroyed. They aren’t men, or boyfriends, or sons, or even husbands. They are soldiers.
It killed me.
I looked at the military wives, their arms linked with their decorated husband’s arms, and I thought, “How can you marry someone that isn’t really yours?” Indeed, he isn’t really mine- he signed a contract. Our wedding will be rushed in between engineering school and moving to a base in God knows where. We will wait to have kids because I don’t want to raise our baby alone. I also don’t want to take my chances with being a twenty-something widow, but no one seems to want to discuss that.
Some days it is a great adventure and an honor to be a part of something like this. Other days, it is reason enough to either get Prozac or swerve my car off the road.
I looked at the other women- some of them engaged to their military man- and wondered if they felt the same way. Am I a freak? Do I think this over too much? Do most women not mind if their husbands or boyfriends are in the army? So many families seem to be able to live this way. I wonder if I can. Can I be alone for eighteen months on some base? Can I smile and play my role for seven more years (three more years of college, four years of active duty)? Can I cope with all of the unknowns, and will I ever be able to vote Republican again?
Perhaps if I was more religious, I could pray to some higher power for help. But believing in a higher power gets harder as I read more about Iraq and see more young men wiping off their identities for “a bar of gold on Army green,” as the song goes.
As I walked by the table set for one- the cup turned over, they won’t toast with us; their bread sprinkled with salt for the tears of the families; a slice of lemon for their bitter fate- to honor the dead, I wonder if anyone thinks it’ll be them. I wonder if I will be the family whose salt is on the bread. And I wonder if given a choice, who would still choose Army, and who would choose everything else. More than anything, I wonder if being part of the greatest Army in the world is worth it.