The case of the Pre-Columbian stall art

Faith is an important part of our lives and our strength.

The account of any life demands chronicling not only those moments which happen to make the writer 'look good,' so to speak, but also the things that do the opposite. It is true the Larsen incident (described in the post before this one) did make me look pretty good among my peers, as well as the staff at Admiral Farragut Academy, in Pine Beach, NJ. However, no one (no matter what one may hear to the contrary) can be the best person they can be at all times. If I am wrong, I have yet to meet that individual after 48 years of walking around thus far; and after traveling over great expanses of this world. Well, there is one exception, I believe, in the Lord Jesus Christ, but other than that perfection has yet to be attained.

Feeling quite good about myself amid the semester at Farragut, I was having an excellent time. Of almost no note was that, in the head (bathroom) on the second floor of Farragut Hall, some of my classmates (cadet residents lived together in grades, grouped together) had taken to creating small graffiti images in a few stalls. I didn't give it much thought, really. It was some kind of vandalism. But, there is an old saying that "...pride goeth before a fall." This is true, in my opinion.

Cadets didn't have much entertainment; a television in the dayroom and a personal radio in one's room was about it. So, we ran, played sports, read or just hung out and talked. Bored one day, I happen into a room and some of my classmates began urging me to draw a nice-sized piece of graffiti on one of the stalls because I was generally considered the "artist" of the class. I could draw some.

I thought graffiti was useless; profane. But, I did have a public, of sorts. And, it was nice to be recognized for my artistic ability, so to speak. Well, I drew a picture of a woman. In hindsight, my depiction actually looked a little Pre-Columbian. Some of the other cadets went to the stall after I told them I had done something "artistic" there and I received mixed reviews about my depiction of a woman from the bottom of her head to the top of her knees. However, the cadre and staff at the Academy were far more critical of my latest work.

Farragut Hall

It was a Friday afternoon, after class. Some cadets were preparing to go home, others were on the way out to play sports or whatever, still others were cleaning up and getting ready for a good book; a few were in the dayroom watching whatever on television. I was coming out of the communal showers when the voice of the school's commandant, Commander Theodore Grahl, rang through the whole of the antique building.

"Everyone, out of your g-damn room, into the hall -- at attention and now!" Grahl bellowed. The commandant of cadets was a short, heavily muscled man with jet-black hair and a pencil-thin mustache. He spoke with a Brooklyn accent and was, when away from the Academy, a company commander in the United States Army Reserve. Walking up and down the halls, he threw a small garbage can into the center of the walkway, creating a horrible noise atop his screaming. It was scary. I settled back in the position of attention outside of the showers. Everyone was finally out in the hallway.

Cdr. Grahl settled into the center of the main hallway. He called for Petty Officer 3rd Class Fred Koch, a tall, thin high-school junior who was as shocked as the rest of us about this eruption out of nowhere. The commander ordered Koch to monitor the hallway he could not observe from the main hallway and said any command not followed by any cadet should be reported to him for punishment. Koch did not argue. He did as he was told and, for a change, acted just like a regular  non-commissioned officer (generally he was quite a nice guy who was worried about his grades and not the rank on his collar).

Pre-Columbian art

One could have heard a pin drop. Grahl's footsteps was all anyone could hear. In all that silence, though, it was deafening.

"Some [one] has drawn a picture of a woman in my [bathroom stall]. And, I want to know just who the hell it was, [right now], or I am going to punish you [people] until I get my [answer]! Am I [understood]!?"

In unison, we all shouted, "Yes, sir!"

Before calling for the moment of truth, Grahl talked about the need for military discipline, the importance of respecting other peoples' property and the poor choice of action this was for a gentleman. Consequently, he said the offender would come forward and assume responsibility for this, and receive 60 days restriction and 60 days scrubbing toilets one hour per day, not to mention extra duty (cleaning garbage cans, mopping, sweeping, whatever). The commander stated that if the actual offender of this "crime" did not come forward, he would be compelled to make the entire floor experience the full penalty to ensure the wrongdoer was adequately punished.

Well, I was the offender. Every one of the approximate 20 kids in that hallway knew I was the offender too, thanks to my big head about my 'artistic talent.' And, I was terrified of Commander Grahl. Truly. Utterly. Terrified. And being almost naked did not help a thing. I have had more pleasant nightmares in my life than this reality.

The commandant kept us there for a half hour like that. He said he would make one more call for the offender. Despite the fact I was freshly showered I could smell that coppery scent of fear coming off me. I was honestly trying to work up my courage to come forward. I was trying to get through the fear -- but it was so thick.

And then -- Class President Dan Brown (will the cheesy fake last names ever stop?)  steps out into the hallway and claims responsibility for the act, and I shrunk back into rigid attention. Brown was screamed at and called every name in the book in front of us. The commander humiliated him in ways that made us all wince -- dropping him for pushups and screaming at him to "do the (darn) push-ups or I am going to [be angry]!" Brown did not break his usual placid demeanor. He answered "Yes, Sir!" and "No, Sir!" as appropriately with all the confidence of any other day. He was unaffected by the punishment, as far as I could see.  He didn't even sweat.

This went on for about 20 minutes. Grahl then allowed Brown up and informed him the punishment would begin tomorrow. He then told everyone, equally as loud: "But I know Brown didn't do this! I know who did this -- and all of you know who did this! And, that [bad person] should rightfully feel about 2 [inches] tall right now!" Grahl did not look at me. He looked at everyone but me.

We were dismissed. I went to my room without speaking to anyone.

The next morning it was business as usual. The whole day was business as usual. Maybe what happened was a horrible dream, I thought. But, at the end of the day, as I returned from school with a few friends -- there was Brown: scrubbing toilets. He wouldn't speak to me. And, he was right not to.

I was truly ashamed for the first time in my life.

Lo' and behold some 30 some odd years later, I am sure Brown has forgotten entirely about this incident, while I recall it with some frequency. It was the first time I let myself and everyone else down. And, I tried very hard not to do that again in my life. Sometimes, I did not. Sometimes, I did. But, I wasn't going to hide from blame for anything else.

The old saying is true, I think: "Cowards die a thousand deaths; but the brave only one." What that means is that people who are upright about something can live through a moment and move on with their lives, whatever problem or roadblock in their way settled (for the good or the bad). But, people who fail the test of character remember that moment many times and truly never forget it. This is the case with myself, Brown, Commander Grahl and my ridiculous Pre-Columbian art.

Still, I do not believe everyone can be a hero in their own story every single time or every single day. Many times, people are up for the challenges in front of them; other times they are not. Everyone finds strength in different things: God, their friends, the family...whatever. But in the particular moment of decision, none of those things helped me do the right thing.

That day I learned an expensive lesson about character, and sometimes the lack of it. Fear makes people do the dumbest, weakest things anyone can think of doing. Yet, giving fear too much respect only leads to disaster.

Truly sad was that I had no real family at home. The details of that whole thing are embarrassing, but suffice it to say my nuclear family was nothing to write home about. Largely, we were individuals who shared familial connection, disagreed with each other intensely and did only the bare minimum by way of relationship to get through things as quick as they might be -- culminating in that day when my parents could wash their hands of my brother and I and they go their own way. So, the cadets were my only family, as well as the staff. And, I just screwed myself as hard as anyone could. Worse than a laughing stock, I had demonstrated I was a coward when things were down. Sure, people forgive -- but they do not forget. Things were quite different for me after that. My fellow cadets avoided me for a time.

Perhaps it was for this reason that a first-year cadet, named John Smith (let's call him that), pushed me into some particularly thorny bushes outside Farragut Hall on the way back to my room from class after the graffiti incident. It was very painful to be hurled into those bushes. My uniform was torn. I had a cut going across my face. And, I was fast on the way to being prey for my classmates, as I saw it. There was enough determination left in me, though, for that to not happen. I was very angry and my control was not firmly in place. I knew, though, that if Smith got away with this it would set a dangerous precedent for how my classmates would treat me: Life could become hell.

So, I went back to Cadet Smith's room (all our doors were unlocked) and waited for him behind his door for some minutes. He was going to be back. And, when he did arrive, I barked at him insanely from behind him. He was scared and turned around. I was a lunatic for several minutes. When I got off the boy other cadets were prying me away from him. I finally allowed them. It was fortunate I did not do more harm. He was terrified. So was I. Before I left his room, I informed Cadet Smith that if he ever bothered me again I would be very cross. Of course, I am cleaning up the language a lot. No one was speaking reasonably, and I certainly was not being eloquent. But, you get the idea.

Smith never told the cadre or the staff. It was not the way we handled things. And, with the exception of one knucklehead, I did not have any more issues with anyone that year. I had earned a frost coming over me socially during this whole process, though, and it was deserved. I could not escape the feeling I was letting yet another family down -- one I wanted to keep very badly. Instead of being considered a coward, I suppose now I was thought to be unstable by my comrades. I suppose they were not far from right at that point.

It is easy to learn from defeat and humiliation. It is said that defeat instructs character like nothing else. Perhaps this is true; but it is a bitter medicine to swallow, indeed. Following this incident, into adulthood, I always tried as best as I could to get along with others. Certainly, I can be very social and sociable when it is necessary. It would have been nice if it came a bit more naturally, though.