When I was a plebe at West Point, I got in big trouble. I got two First Class boards and almost got kicked out. Now First Class does not mean extra classy...it means extra bad. To top it off, I got both of them for the conduct of one night (September 28, 1983 to be exact....but who's keeping track). My roommates and I would celebrate my survival of that night every year thereafter with a "Worst Night of Tanja's Life" party. Funny now...not so funny then. I know, you're wondering what I could have done that was so bad because I was and am such a great law-abiding kid....right?
My two boards were for Fraternization and Drinking Too Much. Sounds like your basic college stuff but...I was at a virtually all male military academy funded by taxpayer money....in other words, a whole other story.
First, the Fraternization. There is a strict rule that plebes cannot have a relationship with anyone other than their classmates. By relationship, they mean the obvious but also mean being any level of friend (i.e., using first names) and anything other than a formal "yes sir," "no sir" relationship. I got caught having an "unauthorized relationship" with a Firstie (or Senior). He was my beast (or basic training) platoon leader and I thought he was God. I also had no idea that he liked me in any way during basic training. I have since found out from my dear friend Scott Rainey (who's in Iraq now) that everyone in my platoon could tell that he liked me back then, it was so obvious. I was 17 and had been on one date. (A set up with a Coast Guard Academy guy...a whole other story.) In high school, I did the usual worship the popular guys from afar thing (oh...Keith Dixon....why couldn't you read m y mind and return my affections?). Because Keith Dixon couldn't be bothered with reading my mind, I hung out with my group of girlfriends on the weekends (who are amazingly still my pals today).
Here's a description of what I looked like during that summer. I was constantly sweating. My hair had been cut by a men's barber and it was stuck to my head like a bowl. I ALWAYS had my shirt tucked in tight....even when I had a T-Shirt and shorts on. I also tried to quit 4 times that summer. Each time they brought in a therapist or someone from the tennis team to talk me out of it. (Some of you don't know this but I used to be a pretty good tennis player and was an NCAA blue chip athlete recruited to be Number One on the ladies' team.) I was pretty miserable. At night I would hug my tennis racquets for comfort and cry a lot. (The racquets being the only things I had left of my civilian self....) In other words, it was no surprise that a totally buff hockey stud would find me attractive....
Well, this guy (Cadet Christmas) was gorgeous. He was also on the West Point Hockey team (which increased his beauty immeasurably in my eyes) and, surprise, he liked me (which I always consider a great attribute in a guy). I was always the study/jock girl so I've never had this kind of attention before. (Granted, there weren't that many women to give attention to....I'm not putting myself down here....I'm being realistic.) Very flattering, to say the least. Anyway, he sought me out after basic training was over and we would meet in the library and he would talk to me (while I gazed lovingly into his eyes) and sometimes pass notes. THAT WAS ALL THAT HAPPENED! I certainly wished that more would have happened but it didn't. For the amount of trouble I got into, I really should have done more.
Through a series of informants (another long story), we got caught and Cadet Christmas never talked to me again.
Second, Drinking Too Much. I don't remember what the exact title of that infraction was but I do remember drinking too much. Back then, if you had a military ID, you could drink. A rule that is no longer in effect but still makes sense. Back in 1984 or '85, Congress wanted a national uniform drinking age and they conditioned highway funding on the State's agreement to raise it's drinking age to 21. So...in NY State I could drink my plebe and yearling (sophomore) years but could not drink my cow (junior) year and the first part of my firstie (senior) year. Makes a lot of sense. So...I was permitted to drink my plebe year. That wasn't the problem. It was that I drank too much. I got sick and made a spectacle of myself (as usual). (No...I didn't fall into a lens grinder....)
Anyway, when you got punished at West Point you got area tours. Which is literally an hour walking back and forth in one of the internal areas of the barracks in full uniform with weapon on your shoulder. The weapon, by the way, was an old M14 (without firing pin....for obvious reasons...) that was a pain in the butt because it was heavy and needed a lot of care and maintenance. (Which I never had time for.) You can walk 5 hours a weekend and, while you're on the area, you cannot leave post or go pretty much anywhere but class and the mess hall, for that matter. For my crimes, I got 2 First Class boards which translates to 2 First Class punishments. I got two 45 hour area tours or 90 hours on the area. Now...I was a Corps Squad tennis player so I got some special treatment (because they didn't want me to get injured). Which meant that I had "room tours" wh ich means you sit three hours for every area tour. In other words, I sat for 15 hours every weekend. Plebes weren't allowed radios until Christmas so I had nothing really to do (besides homework). I sat up until Christmas break (which they miraculously let me take) and then I came back to school to sit through the spring.
Now, it is hard to get off the area because they're always looking for little things to increase your time. For example, I got extra hours for my hair being too long and then, when I cut it in my room during a break, I got extra hours for cutting my own hair. Neat. When exactly was I supposed to get my hair cut during this confinement? I did a lot of weird things. Weirder than usual. I decided not to talk to anybody for a month (except for mandatory responses to upperclassmen and during class). The officer in charge of my company decided that my silence was worrying and he sent me to therapy. The therapist told me that the officer had said he was worried that I had "suicidal tendencies." I told the therapist that he shouldn't worry, "I only have homicidal tendencies at this moment." I didn't go to therapy again.
In sum, I was in a big rut and I REALLY REALLY wanted to quit. Almost every upperclassman in my company wanted me to quit too and they called me all sorts of names. I got spit on a few times too. Good times. I didn't think I was ever getting off the area. Thank God I had tennis because it was the one place where I wasn't a pariah and I could kick some butt.
Anyway, one Saturday afternoon in the Spring of 1984, I was sitting in uniform at my desk in my room (as usual) when I heard a knock on the door. I yelled "enter" and my Dad appeared with a large pizza in his hand. He was in his dress green uniform (with all of his medals, etc.) and I immediately burst into tears. I couldn't believe that he was there.....with food. He said "I thought you could use this" and came in, closed the door and we ate pizza and laughed and talked. About 45 minutes into our visit, a cadet came by to check on my confinement and was rendered speechless by the sight of a Lieutenant Colonel eating pizza with me. My Dad said, "Is there something I can help you with son?" and the cadet stammered and pretty much ran away. Ha! I laughed so hard I almost choked on my pizza. After the pizza was finished, my Dad left. That was one of the coolest things my Dad ever did.
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