Transcendence
Becoming Me
As I progressed through the different phases of military training, life for me as a basic airman in the Air Force began to take on a new meaning. Whereas before I had always been very timid and reserved—probably due to my critical lack of self-esteem and my crippling fear of failure—I now found myself enjoying an enlightened sense of self-confidence.
My comfort level increased slowly but steadily as I began to understand why the training instructors (TI’s) were making us do inane little tasks over and over again until they were finally completed to ultimate perfection. Socks rolled perfectly and displayed in our foot lockers just so; comb, black and gleaming with not a speck of grease or dandruff anywhere on its surface; boots and oxfords polished to brilliance, belying the torture they had endured the preceding day as they had carried me on a five-mile march through mud and hardpan, or after hours of grueling precise marching drills performed on unforgivingly inflexible asphalt or on blazing hot concrete.
Over the past few weeks, at first eager to please my task masters, then later for my own satisfaction, I became skilled at the subtle art of moving my body in unison with thirty other men on a parade field. Eyes trained forward, chin out, back arched and arms swinging at just the right cadence, my mind waited for the bark from the drill sergeant containing coded instructions that would instantly send my legs and hips swiveling in exactly the right direction. It was choreography, full of precise movements and tempos—and executed not with one partner or two, but with thirty. It was like ballroom dancing minus the ballroom or the swirling three count musical flourishes. It was pure primal rhythm—the beat felt deep and true; and it was performed open-air, bodies not touching, music timed and punctuated by the growling bass of the sergeant’s calls. And when performed perfectly, it was beautiful.
I found that the predictability, precision, and the structure that made up the majority of military training began to grow on me while ostensibly annoying the majority of my fellow airmen. Every morning now I enthusiastically bounded out of bed, rushing to be the first one out of the barracks, and having everyone else find their place in formation in relation to my established position on the quad. Boots gleaming, shiny brass buckle marking the exact center point where shirt and pants met—my gig line plumbed to vertical perfection, fatigue cap pulled down low on my forehead, I stood stone still waiting for the drill sergeants’ silent approval.
As the weeks went by I found that the tasks that I had initially found difficult to accept were actually getting easier for me to comprehend. For example, I understood that by requiring that we have our socks rolled and displayed inside our foot locker in a particular manner, or insisting that our beds be made with the squarest of squared-off “hospital corners”, or that the sharp pleats on our uniforms were—well, uniform—the drill sergeants were driving home the point that discipline and uniformity was to be maintained by everyone, all the time, and always in the same way.
When the sergeants had been assigned their positions as training instructors they had accepted the challenge of taking thirty, or so, men of all shapes and sizes with differing views, beliefs, and backgrounds, and given six weeks to break each of them down to the lowest common denominator before building them back up to a solid group of similarly thinking individuals.
Of course there were those who insisted in fighting the system, and refused to fully conform. They suffered the most by making themselves the prime targets of Rice and Prince’s sometimes very painful attention. More push-ups, more running miles, more individual inspections resulting in them having their beds torn up, re-made, and torn up again; and their foot lockers unceremoniously dumped in the middle of the floor over and over until the sergeants tired of watching their victims put them back together.
In the end, when the drill sergeants decided that one these men was no longer worth the effort, he was culled out of our group and quietly washed out of the military. Most of these men were given “general” discharges—the type that usually wouldn’t hinder their chances of finding employment on the outside, but those few who arbitrarily and violently broke the rules, or forcefully displayed a serious and complete lack of respect for any kind of authority were quickly separated from the squadron and, after due process, given dishonorable discharges. This type of discharge would dog their steps for many, many years.
As I forged forward in my training I began to understand myself a little better. No longer cowed by my sergeants’ bluster and threats I sensed a growing confidence in my own abilities and often found myself yearning for some type of leadership role. Sometimes I even envied those in our squadron who had been chosen as “road guards”.
Picked mostly at random by the drill sergeants, they would be positioned on either side of our formation wearing reflective vests as we marched to and from our various training destinations. When approaching an intersection they would be called into action by the command—“ROAD GUARDS OUT!”—and quickly falling out of formation they would run ahead to block any vehicular traffic from crossing until we were all clear. As silly as it seems to me now, I recall being profoundly disappointed when I had not been chosen as a road guard.
Because of my propensity to be timid and reserved, particularly in public, I had always felt more comfortable when I could just blend into the scenery. Even back when I was playing guitar in church I routinely made extra efforts to avoid any direct eye contact with anyone in the congregation, and felt more secure when their attention was centered on the preacher condemning them all to hell, or focused lovingly on some devout brother or sister flopping fish-like on the floor, deep in the throes of the Holy Spirit.
Now, with my newfound confidence, I found that I wanted to be noticed. I was eager to please, and I pushed myself to be the best basic airman ever. Even though I’d always done pretty well in school, if I had been more focused I probably would’ve been a straight “A” student. Instead, because of what I now realize was a lack of structure and direction in my life, and a very healthy case of procrastination, I never tried to achieve any type of excellence, and I always ended up falling short and settling for the mediocre.
Case in point:
***
It was my sophomore year at Jeff Davis High School, and as usual I approached the beginning of the semester with a shot of boundless energy. As I exited the bus and crossed the street, carrying my newly purchased stock of notebooks, pens, pencils and the inevitable blue-green canvas-covered loose-leaf binder, I promised myself (as I always did) that this year was going to be different. Instead of settling for grades consisting of mostly B’s, with a slight sprinkling of A’s, I convinced myself that this time I was going to put forth a strong and consistent effort throughout the semester and finish up by bringing home a report card shimmering with straight A’s.
I had gotten creative with my courses and signed up for biology and French, along with the usual required courses like math and English. Because I had heard from some students a year ahead of me that in biology I’d get to do cool things like chop up frogs and cats, and look at stuff through microscopes, I just knew I’d breeze through that course. French, I was also advised, was usually populated with some of the best looking girls in school, so even if one didn’t learn to speak any French at all, the scenery was going to be awesome. Plus, the teacher, Mrs. Haden, was a real pushover and only really cared that her students learn to sing the French national anthem. And when it came to homework, she was very forgiving and usually just gave make-up work instead. Yes, I was excited and vowed to take both of those courses very seriously.
As you can probably guess, things didn’t really work out that well.
I bombed biology, actually getting violently ill once while dissecting a frog, after breathing in enough formaldehyde to pickle my lungs. And I could make no sense of photosynthesis and how leaves could make sugar. I finally skimmed by with a “C”, which really should’ve been a “D” minus.
And French? Well, that was a yet another sad failure. In my enthusiasm to conquer the language of love (plus maybe getting a bit of face time with an exceptionally sexy young lady who sat in the desk in front of me) I actually agreed to join the French Club. After I signed up, committing to attend all the after-school meetings and participating in fund-raising activities, I came to the shocking realization that not only did I not have transportation to get me home after the meetings, my parents would never support me in any out-of-school activities that would prevent me from attending church.
But it was my English class that came to be my greatest disappointment.
I walked into Charles Krohn’s first semester English One grammar class and picked out the last chair in the row farthest away from his desk. He was sitting on the edge of his desk, one foot on the floor, giving each student a serious visual once-over as we filed into his already steaming hot classroom. Once everyone was seated and the bell had rung he swung off his desk and walked to the blackboard. Picking up a brand new stick of chalk from the wooden tray running under the blackboard he carefully wrote:
“English I, Grammar – Mr. Charles Krohn, Esquire, Teacher”
Laying the chalk carefully back on the tray, he turned dramatically to face the class and stared at us for what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few seconds.
“Can everyone see this?” he said, pointing with his left hand back over his shoulder.
We all kind of nodded. Yes, we can.
“Can everyone read and understand this?” he said, a bit more emphatically, accompanied by a melodramatic arching of his eyebrows.
Yes, we can, all the nods said.
“Well, I assume from some of your befuddled cow-eyed stares and your barely perceptible nodding, that you can. Well, that’s good, because now you’ve all passed reading and reading comprehension, and I shall note that on your individual grade sheets.”
I thought he was funny and now he had my full attention. There were a few shallow coughs and a couple of throats were cleared of some non-existent phlegm; some readjusted their bootie position at their desks, and some nervous giggles sounded out from a group of girls at the back of the room.
Mr. Krohn, slowly wiping his hands together, stepped to his left and approached a couple of cardboard boxes that were resting on the hardwood floor.
“Ah, what have we here?” he said as he reached into one of the boxes with both hands. “Yes, we have English I grammar books!” He picked up a stack of bright yellow textbooks and took the stack to the first desk in the first row where a pimply pasty-faced kid in huge black horned- rimmed glasses was sitting.
“Here you go.” Mr. Krohn said cheerfully. “Take one and pass the rest back.”
He continued digging out stacks of books and placing them on the first desk of each row, continuously repeating his ‘take one and pass the rest back’ instructions.
Soon we all had a book, and sure enough it was titled, English Grammar Fundamentals.
I slowly opened the book, eliciting a sharp crackling sound from its previously unstressed spine and releasing a pungent shiny paper and fresh ink aroma. I read the title of the chapter that I had randomly selected: “Diagraming Complex Sentences” and a deep disappointing sigh escaped my lips.
“OK, open your books and find the appendix. Um, not the one in your tummies but the one you’ll find at the back of your book.” His eyes narrowed playfully through his eyeglasses and a smirky little smile pulled slightly at his mouth.
I pulled the back cover down onto my desktop and ruffled the stiff pages until I found the appendix. Sharp paper slapping sounds and dull thuds filled the still humid air in the room as twenty-nine other students riffed through the pages in their books in search of their appendices.
“OK, once you find that elusive appendix, look for the section titled, ‘Verb Conjugation’.”
There it was: conjugation of the verb “to be”.
Mr. Krohn, holding his book open in his left hand, took two steps to his left and quickly pointed to the pimply kid in the first seat. “Conjugate the verb, ‘to be’, in the first person!”
“Uh,” the kid mumbled and adjusted his glasses. “Uh…I…uh…am?”
“YES YOU ARE!! VERY GOOD!!” Mr. Krohn burst out, nearly shocking the geeky kid right out of his seat. “Now, you,” pointing to a girl in the desk directly behind the now much relieved kid, “pick it up in the second person!”
The girl, twirling a lock of her hair, chewing gum, and looking very annoyed cocked her head sideways and blurted out “YOU ARE!” Adding a very sarcastic emphasis on the word, ‘YOU’.
“Hmphf, I like your spunk, and you’re right—but spit that gum out and trash it or wear it on your nose for the rest of the period.”
Losing a bit of her cool she spit the wad onto the palm of her hand and dropped it unceremoniously into her open purse sitting on the floor next to her desk—accompanied with just a little rolling of her eyes.
“OK, people. Get it? OK, next!” pointing to the next girl in the row. “Third person!”
And on it went: ‘I am, you are, he is, we are, they are…”—students reciting over and over until everyone had had a turn.
“OK”, he now said, “pass those books up to the front please. And when the front desk people get them all please stack them into their respective boxes.”
A bit of shuffling around for a bit as the books were passed up and returned to their boxes. That being done Mr. Krohn turned his attention to another set of boxes partially hidden behind his desk. He pulled them out and pulled the tops open. As with the grammar books before he stacked piles of these blue textbooks on the desks at the head of each row with instructions to take one and pass the rest back.
When I got mine I saw that the title was “English Literature”.
“Now that each of you has this book,” he said, holding his copy in the air for all to see, “you will notice that the word ‘grammar’ does not appear anywhere on the cover. Why? Because I have determined that since each and every one of you is proficient in reading and comprehend the English language you will move on to what the English language is all about.”
I wasn’t sure if I was happy at what I was hearing since I hadn’t been too keen on spending this school period diagraming sentences or discussing the reason a word was an adverb, an adjective or a participle; or whether I should start worrying because the first few pages of the text contained paragraphs of some unintelligible Germanic-type language.
“So for the next few weeks we will be delving into what I believe sets the human species apart from all the other species: literature.”
And with that statement Mr. Krohn took me on a voyage that I have yet to veer from—my deep appreciation of English literature in all its forms.
He taught us about Bede, Caedmon, and King Alfred—all Old English authors—and introduced the ancient, but still mesmerizing Beowulf, reading it to us in the original Old English, sounding so Germanic, yet so gentle. We went on to study Shakespeare, and I reveled in the old bard’s sonnets, songs and plays; and I felt the hidden magic heartbeat of iambic pentameter as it danced rhythmically in my ears. The world of literary symbolism was laid open at my feet, interwoven secretly throughout seemingly innocuous novels like, “Madame Bovary”, by Gustave Flaubert, published in 1856. I was thrilled, enthralled, and entertained. Of all my classes that year I looked forward most to Mr. Krohn’s, and every morning I couldn’t wait to be introduced to some new piece of poetry, some unknown fact about Emily Bronte or Charles Dickens—or listen in awe to a forty minute explanation on why Edgar Allen Poe chose the raven.
Around the second week we were told that our final grade would be heavily weighted by our choice of some famous novel and the oral and written presentation of a book report on its contents. The report was to be turned in to Mr. Krohn in written format, and then presented orally to the class. Because I wanted to ensure my “A” in the class, I chose “Gone with the Wind”, by Margaret Mitchell.
When it came my turn to tell Mr. Krohn of my choice of books for my report he was overjoyed.
“Oh my!” he said enthusiastically. “I can’t wait to read and listen to your book report on that novel. It is my absolute favorite of all time—and I just know you’ll love it too and do it justice.”
And at that moment I had no doubt that I would do exactly that.
But of course all this was occurring during a period of my life when I had no direction or self-discipline; and worse, I was deep in the grip of that bane of all teenagers’ lives: procrastination. So, regardless of how I felt at the beginning of a project, or how much energy I wanted to put forth into its launch, because of my laziness, failure was bound to be the result.
Although I checked out the novel from the library the very day I had committed to reading it and composing a book report, I hardly touched it after an first reading of about thirty, or so, pages. From then on I would look at the book, and with all good intentions, promise myself that I would pick it up—oh, maybe later, or tomorrow—and keep reading until I finished.
But you know, there was church every night and all day on weekends, and besides it was a really big book. And to my youthful, short attention-spanned mind, so very boring.
A week before the report was due I realized that I had not picked up the book for a long time and I immediately spun into sheer panic mode. Reluctantly, and acknowledging my state of denial, I finally admitted to myself that there was no way I would ever finish reading the book in time to compose any kind of passable book report. That night I slept very little, trying to figure out how to get out of the mess that my procrastination had gotten me into, but far into the wee hours of the morning I had finally formulated an escape plan.
The next day I walked briskly into the library to turn in the already overdue book. The librarian, lifting the hefty novel to check the due date, raised her eyebrows and mumbled a soft, “my…my.” She asked me why I had kept the book so long but before I could formulate some lie she answered her own question.
“Well, it is a really long book, isn’t it?” she asked cheerfully not really looking for an answer; and without further comment charitably forgave the nickel fine.
I walked away, a bit relieved, and headed for the “Fiction” section to see if I could find a book that could be read in a few days and would allow me compose a quick report.
And, there it was!
At about eye level, its spine sticking out slightly was a very thin book. I pulled it out and read the title: “Up Periscope”. Checking out the inside cover I read that this was the true story of a navy frogman who, while assigned to a sub in World War II, had performed some great act of heroism after a Japanese aircraft had sent the vessel down to the bottom of the sea. Perfect!
Wow! I thought. This would be a short read, and probably pretty interesting to boot. And since I liked to read about war stories I could finish this book in a couple of days then punch out a pretty witty book report in no time. Besides, I had read somewhere that this very story was being produced into a movie starring James Garner as the hero. Well, that should make it a great book, right?
“Ah so, after that heavy read,” (the librarian gave me that certain little smile that said she knew that I never really read the book), “you needed some light stuff, huh?” she cooed cheerfully.
“What? Oh, yeah”, I mumbled as she punched the return date on the inside back cover.
That afternoon while on the school bus home and pretty much satisfied with my plan so far, a few nagging doubts began to percolate in my befuddled brain, and I started to worry a bit about what Mr. Krohn’s reaction might be to my…um…change of titles. I lied to myself (I did that a lot in those days) and tried to convince myself that he’d understand—and so what if I didn’t get an “A” in his class? A “B” shouldn’t cause too much grief with my mother, and my ego could handle a “B” okay. Sure.
Well, as one would guess, things didn’t work out nearly so well there either.
When Mr. Krohn called my name out the day of my report I rose from my seat with my head hanging a bit low and suffering a bit of a lump in my gut. Walking slowly to the front I tried to palm the one page handwritten book report by hiding it behind my back. Mr. Krohn, having announced my name, added that he was especially anxious to hear this particular report because “Gone with the Wind, was one of his most very favorite books.
I forced a smile, swallowed hard and deftly placed the written report on the corner of his desk—hoping that he’d leave it there until I finished my oral report. Turning quickly back to the class, I took a deep, and shaky, breath, and announced meekly, “My book report today is on, ‘Up Periscope’, by Robb White.”
Silence. The few students who had been paying attention gave me identical quizzical stares coupled with a slight head side tilt. But the loudest silence came from Mr. Krohn’s desk.
I dared not turn my head towards his desk, frightened that I would see him reading my handwritten report—so I stared straight ahead and launched into my discourse. With the time that he’d allotted for me to deliver the oral report I could have probably read my ill-chosen novel to the class—word for word.
Regrettably, after about thirty seconds into my report the thick damp atmosphere was broken by Mr. Krohn’s leaden voice.
“Mr. DeLeon! Stop right there!” I heard his chair push back from his desk, and I bit my tongue wondering if he had a paddle in his hand.
I heard him walk slowly in my direction and I tried not to flinch. All sets of eyes in the classroom now rotated away from me and latched onto Mr. Krohn. I braced for a physical assault.
Instead, I heard him speak softly into my right ear:
“You promised me a report on “Gone with the Wind”, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
A long pause ensued, wherein I dared not look to my right.
“So, what happened?”
“I…uh…couldn’t finish the book. It was just too long.” Giggles, mostly from the girls.
“Well sir, you were given plenty of time, and I even saved you as one of the last ones to give his report. And for all of that you decided to read some piece of…garbage? And then, you have the audacity to present this…this…report? Do I have that right?”
“Yes.”
“I am deeply disappointed in you, sir.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Take this…abomination,” pushing the now wrinkled loose leaf page in front of my face, “and take your seat!”
“OK.”
Rapidly walking back to my desk, he said to my back, “You have earned a zero for your… effort. And if I could go lower than that, I would.”
“OK,” I softly mumbled, mostly to myself, and quickly slid into my seat—thoroughly and justifiably humiliated.
He didn’t say anything else for about a full minute, and I didn’t have the courage to look up to see what he was doing. I was relieved when he announced that for the remainder of the class everyone should turn to some page in our book and read some poetry.
I wanted to cry, but I forced myself to breathe deeply and I continued to tell myself everything was going to be OK. In the back of my mind I worried about just how bad a zero was going to affect my grade. But worst of all, my bad feelings that day were the ones that tore open my heart and screamed at me, telling me how my habit of putting things off had ended up seriously disappointing my most favorite teacher.
When the bell finally and mercifully rang I jumped out of my seat and sped out into the hallway—relieved to be out from under his stare. As I tried to compose myself and hurry to my next class where a long dead frog awaited my scalpel, I stupidly thought that maybe if I’d thought to mention that the book was going to end up being a great movie starring James Garner, things might’ve gone a bit smoother.
***
Several years later, as I lay quietly in the pre-dawn darkness of a cool and humid San Antonio morning, I still remembered that deep discomforting and painful pang of having done a horrible wrong to someone for whom I had sincerely cared for—and I knew that it had been due to my slothfulness and my propensity to procrastinate.
Oddly, I thought about the day I lost Estella, and how I had allowed myself to be cowed by a brutish and ruthless bully. Because of my weak character I hadn’t even tried to fight back, and instead just meekly accepted, with reprehensible silence, the accusations thrown at us that day. Worse, with my reticence and my feelings of false shame, I had validated my parents’ cruel judgment, and that of the gutless hypocritical Pentecostals, for what they had all perceived as a “shameful and evil” act.
Lying on my stiff mattress that night in the dark cavernous barracks I felt a wave of bitter sorrow pass through my body and a hard lump grew slowly in my throat. I was angry and sad, and painfully tried to swallow the sorrow that had so suddenly taken me over. Squeezing my eyes as tightly as I could, I vowed to never again let myself be bullied by anyone and to try my very best to protect those whom I would come to love.
That night I understood that in the past five weeks my personality had truly been transformed and a new me had emerged. Maybe true to my late-blooming tendencies I had suddenly matured. Whatever. The truth was that I now possessed a confidence within me that had never existed before—and because of that new-found confidence I now stood ready to accept any challenge that life threw my way.
Of course, as life is wont to do, and as my personal history since then can attest, I went on to stumble many times and I surely made a lot of mistakes—a few, unfortunately, ending up hurting not only me but also those close to me. But never again did I shirk away from what I thought was right.
So ultimately, I truly believe that because of the core principles instilled in me during my initial military training, and the inner psychological changes that I was forced to make to successfully complete that training, I became a more focused and certainly a most self-assured individual. Going with the flow, putting things off for later, and turning away from responsibilities were no longer an option.
***
On a blazingly sunny day in late January of 1961, I proudly stood on a splendid parade field, formed up and ready to march by the grandstand to be recognized by the base commander as one of the proud and successful graduates of my basic military training class. As I marched perfectly in sync and saluted the colors I began to think about the next phase of my life.
Immediately after having completed our basic training, we had been notified of the results of the battery of tests that had determined if we’d continue onto the training we’d been promised when we enlisted. My orders stated I would be boarding a bus the following day and traveling to Keesler Air Force Base, in Biloxi, Mississippi, to begin sixteen weeks of training as a radar operator. Where I’d be going after completing that training would be decided later.
After passing the grandstand I glanced around at the bleachers surrounding the parade ground and took in the large gathering of military officers, and the relatives and parents of our graduating classes. As our formation broke up at the end of the large parade field, people came flooding out of the stands—mothers and dads looking for their sons, sisters for their brothers, and girlfriends for their beaus.
Dodging the throng I walked back to my old barracks building alone and thoughtful. At that moment, as I passed the chow hall where I’d learned to love grilled steak on Sundays, and the open concrete quad where I’d been taught to march in sync with thirty other men, I wondered wistfully what my parents might be doing back in Houston and what they would think of me now.