We humans can be quite vocal. We talk a hell of a lot, sing on occasion, weep and wail when we're sad and when we're furious we sometimes scream. I have always been intrigued by how appropriately-matched our moods are with the sounds we emit. Consider the phrases, "flying high," "blow my stack," "chillin out," and "down in the dumps" for an illustration of the complementary interaction between emotion and expression. What kind of sound is likely to come out of you, when you're in a given mood? Dunno about you, but when I'm flying high, for instance, I'm "on"...talking excitedly, at a pretty ambitious clip, the tone of my voice toward the right of the spectrum, but not off the charts. Conversely, when I'm a bit depressed, so is my dialogue, the sounds I make being low and slow. I find all this pretty interesting, particularly the influence our mood-expression can have on others around us. On that last note...if you're in a bad mood or just feel like being negative, do the rest of us a big fucking favor and LIE TO US, OK. We don't need you bringing the rest of us down! In fact, lie to yourself...fake it (your motivation) till you make it and maybe you'll convince yourself to stop wasting your precious time on this earth in a funk.
With all this philosophy floating around randomly in my brain-housing-group, my reticular activator (THE RETICULAR ACTIVATOR is a part of the brain the stays on alert. It's job is to make you notice some things and ignore other things (if you noticed everything, you'd be too distracted to function). When you buy a new VW, it seems like the whole world has bought VWs, because you notice them everywhere. That's the reticular activator at work.) sprang to life one day, as I was perusing Musashi's Book of Five Rings:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Book_of_Five_Rings
Musashi is essentially the most accomplished samurai of all time, having bested scores of opponents in his day in sword fights to the death. He was believed to have retreated into a cave later in life, during which time he compiled 'five rings'.... his martial philosophy, which is in my opinion cut out of the same cloth as Sun Tzu's, The Art of War. It is just really good shit. One particular segment of the book spoke to me, a few paragraphs on what Musashi terms, "combat shouting."
"There are at least two entries related to shouting in the Fire Book. One is related to frightening the enemy either before or during combat with a sudden, well-timed shout that breaks the opponent's rhythm and it is stated that you should research this idea well. The other is specifically related to the timing and types of shouting in combat. These are the three shouts.
Musashi breaks down the three shouts into when they should take place: before, during, and after combat. He also explains that the shout has energy. If you remember the external links provided in the Kiai entry, this idea should come as no surprise to you in the sense of the tangible or in the sense of ki.
Later, he goes on to state that in large scale conflict, shouting is done when first entering battle (presumably to "psyche" yourself up and possibly intimidate the enemy). During battle, low-pitched shouts are used while attacking (likely to add strength to attacks). After battle, another shout is used as a victory cry (that also releases pent-up energy)."
The above is very pertinent to our work in the Dr. Drill Instructor Program, merely because we do a lot of yelling. Just to clarify, no one is yelling at each other, it's more of what I term, "yelling at adversity." Furthermore, though we are talking about exercise here, not a combat situation, the same principles in shouting apply. There are many different types of battles fought in life, and there is an entity in DDIP I refer to as, "exercising the demon." On this battlefield, we use our combat shouts to drive a physical work ethic and team spirit that destroys the negative mindset. We're literally using a physical strength to solve a problem in motivation here.
In addition to our sounding off the exercise cadence and repetition in the traditional military format, of 1-2-3...[1], 1-2-3...[2], which maintains the tempo of our workout, team chants are often bellowed, along with organizational cues from the instructors. Finally, we end in "school circle," closing our training with a motivational platoon mantra, "1-2-3...aDDIP...aGMC...aStinkin Rock Pit, Smells Like Shit - Who-who-Woot, Slap/Stand - or the equivalent.
The cadence calling for each exercise is redundant, to such a degree that you may get lost in it, which is to your advantage as the PT grinds onward and upward in intensity. It takes on a sort of meditative quality, which is essentially the frequency of the platoon. A trained ear, familiar with this frequency, can hear plainly when it needs adjusting, and the correction is always up, never down. I have often described the up-regulation of DDIP shouting as analogous to maintaining a volley. As the training continues, the troops become fatigued and the combat shouting begins to falter, there are certain methods of communication which can provide a boost. They are verbal commands, body language and leadership-by-example. The first is obvious. Body language means altering your facial expressions and postures to prompt a motivational reaction from the group. Leadership-by-example means jumping down along side the troops and performing the task in the most exacting and aggressive manner possible, sufficient to prompt a mirror image in the participant. This last point flies directly in the face of standing on the sideline, barking commands but not practicing what you preach.
Practice your combat shouts, my friends...it's not what you do, but how you do it!
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
"Losers Look At The Ground!" - A Lesson in Character
Marine Corps Recruit Training Depot, Parris Island, South Carolina - 1993
Platoon 2080 had come a long way after enduring First Phase of USMC Boot Camp, the initial rigorous month of training in the Paris Island heat and humidity was now in our rear-view mirror. Our physical and mental beings had been, at this point, partly purged of civilian nastiness; the way we walked, talked and perceived the world around us had been changed forever. We were students of bushido, the "way of the warrior" - modern-day samurai pupils, immersed both day and night in the arts of combat. The Drill Instructors were training us how we would be expected to fight - in a word: relentlessly.
We would wake at zero dark thirty, to the now familiar barrage to the senses:
Hearing: Drill Instructors screaming at us, "Get on line, get on line...expletive, nasty thing...expletive. I will bust your heart!"
Smelling: The squad bay aroma was a combination of wool blankets, CLP (gun oil), Aqua Velva, and the predictable and unmistakable scents of maleness: farts, sweat and testosterone. Throw in a whiff of the the surrounding tidal swamps and the characteristic above-ground plumbing and you get the idea.
Tasting: this sense having an intimate relationship with olfaction, take that to mean everything tasted like the corresponding smelly descriptions. Beyond that, there was the metallic taste that came along with cotton mouth and the nasty ass food we called chow. Then there was what could be called "the Paris Island Milieu," our every experience on that godforsaken island, rapidly inspired and expired through such heat and humidity, we might as well have been breathing through straws. All this left such a distinct gustatory impression, that I am certain every Marine returning to Paris Island will find it familiar on his taste buds, and relive the experience in full.
Seeing: Sight alignment and sight picture, of course; the windage flag; ginormous cockroaches, cruising the squad bay, and fire ants that would swarm and devour your spit when you were pulling targets in the butts. Everything was green, brown or black, the colors comprising camoflage - the only exception being the frequent glimpse of scarlet and gold of the USMC emblem: the eagle, globe and anchor, which was all but forbidden to us at the moment, for we had not yet earned the title "Marine."
Feeling: Physical pain from the rigorous training, mental anguish from missing "Suzy," our families and the comforts of home. Eventually, a familiarity with the intense recruit training regimen, which instilled in each recruit a feeling of pride, accomplishment and a growing appreciation for the men around you, who you relied upon to accomplish every task.
Pardon me for the lengthy description, entire books could and have been written on the above experience. But it is very important to appreciate the environment which sets the stage for the moral of this story.
We were now entering 2nd Phase of Recruit Training, and among other duties during this period, Platoon 2080 was tasked with the mission of "mess duty" at the 2nd Battalion chow hall. Mess duty essentially had us functioning in every menial task inherent to a food service institution. We would cut fresh fruit, scrub pots and pans in the "scullery" and serve other recruits chow. The chow hall was always crazy busy, regardless of whether we had actual diners in-house, as there was constant prep work and cleaning to be done.
Platoon after platoon of recruits would cycle through in the usual manner, via close-order-drill. The barking commands were predictably issued by the Drill Instructors, their raspy voices harassing, "AhLEFT, rrIGHT, AhLllaft RIGHT, aCOLUMN RighTT - MARCH! PlaTOON, HALT." Knowledge was drilled during the wait to enter: "First General Order? Sir, the First General Order is..."
In came first squad, then the others in sequence. Trays were grabbed and recruits would sidestep mechanically through the chow line, as we dished out servings of eggs and creamed beef, stuffing and "turkey." Our mantra to them was always, "stay motivated, recruit," which always seemed to inspire some hope that times would indeed get better.
On this particular day, I was working in the scullery, assisting my fellow recruits in washing trays. As the giant machine churned, steamed and came to a halt, we would open it up, dry and stack the trays and then carry them out to their carriages on the chow-room floor, for the recruits to grab. I loaded up a stack of perhaps thirty trays and bumped open the scullery door, feeling good about having a job to do; completing this non-combat training task was a respite from the heat and mud. Satisfied to have struck a rhythm in my work, I swung around the corner and my employee-of-the-month attitude was clothes-lined by the ominous presence of my Senior Drill Instructor, standing in the threshold of the hatch (doorway). I averted my eyes, as the thirty-odd trays that I had previously wielded with ease grew painfully heavy.
Staff Sergeant Hanke was a pretty short Marine, 5'5" is giving him credit, I'm certain. He was small in stature but giant in character...in all qualities Marine. He had all the attributes of the Marine Drill Instructor. He was of impeccable physical fitness...could run three miles in 16 minutes and change; climb two ropes at the obstacle course simultaneously, one in each hand. He had tremendous "command presence," the type of man who had everyone on the island's respect - by my observation, especially that of his peers, which spoke volumes. To Platoon 2080, SSgt. Hanke was on the level of supreme being. And I, Recruit Oberst, the scullery lacky, had stepped into his kill zone.
My gaze rebounded from his eyes directly to the floor, as I made for the tray rack - away from him! But my retreat was immediately arrested by the Senior Drill Instructor's bellow, "Heyyy, Oberssst! Commmere, YOU NASTY THING!" He stared through me, his icy eyes popping out, along with several serpentine veins on his forehead. "LOCK YOUR BODY, FREAK!"
"Hey, Oberst" (talking now, his voice still a raspy uhhhhhhhhh, but instructive; matter-of-fact, not demeaning), "know who looks at the ground, Oberst?"
"Loozers."
I fought back a smile, then a frown...some shit in between, as I anxiously considered the fear and intimidation I felt, just a minute earlier by the man's mere presence. Then I responded to the Senior DI's challenge, defiantly-locking my eyes to his, and I found not the face of a man trying to demean me, but the countenance of a samurai sensei, demanding fearlessness from his pupil...wanting it for me. Insisting it!
"Are you a LOSER, Oberst?"
And so a valuable lesson was taught. Traveling my chosen path, I would be expected to face my fears, and overcome them. The importance of a firm handshake and a sincere look in the eye was now analogous to knowing the enemy, respecting your opponent and stopping only upon mission accomplishment. I consider it a hygiene, like bathing or brushing my teeth; only with such regularity can its integrity be upheld. And in looking fear in the eyes, we neutralize its momentum; take away its power. Like the animal that has you on the run or the fighter that has you on the ropes, fear relies upon your fleeing so it can chase you down. Never turn and run from life's problems.
I have put the valuable lesson of "Losers Look at the Ground" to work more times than I can count in the dozen years or so that have passed since my days at Paris Island. I also never miss an opportunity to seize the teachable moment, when I see others struggling with their own problems. To this day, when I see a friend solemnly looking at their feet, depressed about some impossible situation that has befallen them, I remind them "You know who looks at the ground?" Most of them have heard this story a million times and they chuckle and straighten up immediately. In so doing, I relive the day when I was called on the carpet to answer that rhetorical question, "Hey Oberst, you know who looks at the ground?" the day I was called a loser to bring out the winner in me.
Platoon 2080 had come a long way after enduring First Phase of USMC Boot Camp, the initial rigorous month of training in the Paris Island heat and humidity was now in our rear-view mirror. Our physical and mental beings had been, at this point, partly purged of civilian nastiness; the way we walked, talked and perceived the world around us had been changed forever. We were students of bushido, the "way of the warrior" - modern-day samurai pupils, immersed both day and night in the arts of combat. The Drill Instructors were training us how we would be expected to fight - in a word: relentlessly.
We would wake at zero dark thirty, to the now familiar barrage to the senses:
Hearing: Drill Instructors screaming at us, "Get on line, get on line...expletive, nasty thing...expletive. I will bust your heart!"
Smelling: The squad bay aroma was a combination of wool blankets, CLP (gun oil), Aqua Velva, and the predictable and unmistakable scents of maleness: farts, sweat and testosterone. Throw in a whiff of the the surrounding tidal swamps and the characteristic above-ground plumbing and you get the idea.
Tasting: this sense having an intimate relationship with olfaction, take that to mean everything tasted like the corresponding smelly descriptions. Beyond that, there was the metallic taste that came along with cotton mouth and the nasty ass food we called chow. Then there was what could be called "the Paris Island Milieu," our every experience on that godforsaken island, rapidly inspired and expired through such heat and humidity, we might as well have been breathing through straws. All this left such a distinct gustatory impression, that I am certain every Marine returning to Paris Island will find it familiar on his taste buds, and relive the experience in full.
Seeing: Sight alignment and sight picture, of course; the windage flag; ginormous cockroaches, cruising the squad bay, and fire ants that would swarm and devour your spit when you were pulling targets in the butts. Everything was green, brown or black, the colors comprising camoflage - the only exception being the frequent glimpse of scarlet and gold of the USMC emblem: the eagle, globe and anchor, which was all but forbidden to us at the moment, for we had not yet earned the title "Marine."
Feeling: Physical pain from the rigorous training, mental anguish from missing "Suzy," our families and the comforts of home. Eventually, a familiarity with the intense recruit training regimen, which instilled in each recruit a feeling of pride, accomplishment and a growing appreciation for the men around you, who you relied upon to accomplish every task.
Pardon me for the lengthy description, entire books could and have been written on the above experience. But it is very important to appreciate the environment which sets the stage for the moral of this story.
"Losers Look At The Ground"
We were now entering 2nd Phase of Recruit Training, and among other duties during this period, Platoon 2080 was tasked with the mission of "mess duty" at the 2nd Battalion chow hall. Mess duty essentially had us functioning in every menial task inherent to a food service institution. We would cut fresh fruit, scrub pots and pans in the "scullery" and serve other recruits chow. The chow hall was always crazy busy, regardless of whether we had actual diners in-house, as there was constant prep work and cleaning to be done.
Platoon after platoon of recruits would cycle through in the usual manner, via close-order-drill. The barking commands were predictably issued by the Drill Instructors, their raspy voices harassing, "AhLEFT, rrIGHT, AhLllaft RIGHT, aCOLUMN RighTT - MARCH! PlaTOON, HALT." Knowledge was drilled during the wait to enter: "First General Order? Sir, the First General Order is..."
In came first squad, then the others in sequence. Trays were grabbed and recruits would sidestep mechanically through the chow line, as we dished out servings of eggs and creamed beef, stuffing and "turkey." Our mantra to them was always, "stay motivated, recruit," which always seemed to inspire some hope that times would indeed get better.
On this particular day, I was working in the scullery, assisting my fellow recruits in washing trays. As the giant machine churned, steamed and came to a halt, we would open it up, dry and stack the trays and then carry them out to their carriages on the chow-room floor, for the recruits to grab. I loaded up a stack of perhaps thirty trays and bumped open the scullery door, feeling good about having a job to do; completing this non-combat training task was a respite from the heat and mud. Satisfied to have struck a rhythm in my work, I swung around the corner and my employee-of-the-month attitude was clothes-lined by the ominous presence of my Senior Drill Instructor, standing in the threshold of the hatch (doorway). I averted my eyes, as the thirty-odd trays that I had previously wielded with ease grew painfully heavy.
Staff Sergeant Hanke was a pretty short Marine, 5'5" is giving him credit, I'm certain. He was small in stature but giant in character...in all qualities Marine. He had all the attributes of the Marine Drill Instructor. He was of impeccable physical fitness...could run three miles in 16 minutes and change; climb two ropes at the obstacle course simultaneously, one in each hand. He had tremendous "command presence," the type of man who had everyone on the island's respect - by my observation, especially that of his peers, which spoke volumes. To Platoon 2080, SSgt. Hanke was on the level of supreme being. And I, Recruit Oberst, the scullery lacky, had stepped into his kill zone.
My gaze rebounded from his eyes directly to the floor, as I made for the tray rack - away from him! But my retreat was immediately arrested by the Senior Drill Instructor's bellow, "Heyyy, Oberssst! Commmere, YOU NASTY THING!" He stared through me, his icy eyes popping out, along with several serpentine veins on his forehead. "LOCK YOUR BODY, FREAK!"
Yes, Sir!
No, Sir!
"Loozers."
I fought back a smile, then a frown...some shit in between, as I anxiously considered the fear and intimidation I felt, just a minute earlier by the man's mere presence. Then I responded to the Senior DI's challenge, defiantly-locking my eyes to his, and I found not the face of a man trying to demean me, but the countenance of a samurai sensei, demanding fearlessness from his pupil...wanting it for me. Insisting it!
"Are you a LOSER, Oberst?"
No, Sir!
And so a valuable lesson was taught. Traveling my chosen path, I would be expected to face my fears, and overcome them. The importance of a firm handshake and a sincere look in the eye was now analogous to knowing the enemy, respecting your opponent and stopping only upon mission accomplishment. I consider it a hygiene, like bathing or brushing my teeth; only with such regularity can its integrity be upheld. And in looking fear in the eyes, we neutralize its momentum; take away its power. Like the animal that has you on the run or the fighter that has you on the ropes, fear relies upon your fleeing so it can chase you down. Never turn and run from life's problems.
I have put the valuable lesson of "Losers Look at the Ground" to work more times than I can count in the dozen years or so that have passed since my days at Paris Island. I also never miss an opportunity to seize the teachable moment, when I see others struggling with their own problems. To this day, when I see a friend solemnly looking at their feet, depressed about some impossible situation that has befallen them, I remind them "You know who looks at the ground?" Most of them have heard this story a million times and they chuckle and straighten up immediately. In so doing, I relive the day when I was called on the carpet to answer that rhetorical question, "Hey Oberst, you know who looks at the ground?" the day I was called a loser to bring out the winner in me.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
"83 cents." or, The Plight of the Integrity Violator
Integrity, as per Wikipedia:
Integrity is a concept of consistency of actions, values, methods, measures, principles, expectations, and outcomes. In ethics, integrity is regarded as the honesty and truthfulness or accuracy of one's actions. Integrity can be regarded as the opposite of hypocrisy,[1] in that it regards internal consistency as a virtue, and suggests that parties holding apparently conflicting values should account for the discrepancy or alter their beliefs.
The word "integrity" stems from the Latin adjective integer (whole, complete).[2] In this context, integrity is the inner sense of "wholeness" deriving from qualities such as honesty and consistency of character. As such, one may judge that others "have integrity" to the extent that they act according to the values, beliefs and principles they claim to hold.
Where I come from, integrity always meant doing the right thing; making the right decisions; being accountable for your actions. There's a USMC ideal that suggests a devildog should be able to leave his wallet sitting in the middle of his rack (bed) in the squad bay and let it sit there all day, and upon his return, find it unscathed and containing the entirety of his beer money. While I rarely tested this notion, being wary of some of the company I kept, particularly early on in my time-in-service, there was a genuine integrity throughout my time in the grunts that was evident in our everyday lives. From the physical training we conducted, to our care and maintenance for our weaponry, to the very way in which we walked, talked and looked out for one another - being a United States Marine...doing the job correctly, was about the upholding of integrity. Will someone please tell me, where in the civilian community does such true integrity exist? I would wager, few places.
My wife and her buddy took the kids to the Camden Aquarium today. It's an awesome place, so awesome that we bought an annual family pass. The aquarium is small enough not to be a logistical ordeal and the weather was sufficiently nasty today to keep the squeamish home, making it a great day to go. But we are talking about Camden, N.J. now friends - a dump among dumps, one of the most poverty-stricken cities in the U.S. Adding insult to injury, the state government decided to include in their recent budget cuts, the shit-canning of many civil servants, among them scores of cops and firefighters. So essentially what you have is the setting of the movie, Escape From NY, complete with drug dealers, thugs and panhandlers - oh, and a pretty decent-looking waterfront, featuring Adventure Aquarium and the Battleship NJ. But, you can't polish a turd - you know?
Getting to my story on integrity, or lack thereof, everyone had a blast at the aquarium and around 3pm they headed for the parking lot in hopes of beating the evening rush. But, the stinking battery was dead...click-click-click - perhaps one of the kids had pressed a light, which had been left on? So children-in-hand, they went over to a bus driver to ask for a jump start. The guy says, "can't chance it, sorry." What? Then they happened upon a maintenance man who worked at the aquarium, who ultimately helped, after making them sign a waiver. What has this world come to, if we can't help out a couple moms who clutch their children in the inclimate weather? This is the shit I'm talking about...integrity is scarce. Adding insult to injury, the predictable derelict walks over to take advantage of these ladies, "excuse me, miss...I'll just stand here (I suppose suggesting himself a non-threat), hey, my car broke down and I've been walking around in the rain for hours...I need bus fare." They give him a couple bucks. "Man...still short about four bucks." Get the $&#@ out of here dude!!! Had I been there, I might have taken all HIS money and dealt him an ass-whooping. All this summoned back to my memory a story I like to call, "83 cents" - and it's a good one:
It was a blustery Saturday night, back in 2007. We had agreed to meet another couple down at a good Mexican joint in East Norriton, PA. The place was called El Cancun, the food was great, fast and cheap - always a good combination. The only problem was, it was in a seedy shopping center located geographically, on the cusp of the haves and the have-nots. My son Samuel was mere months old, nestled in his car-seat in the back of the SUV. We spied our friends upon arrival and parked the vehicle as close as possible to the joint. We gathered our gear, covered up Sam, greeted our pals and hastily made our way to the entrance to the restaurant. The wind was whipping and damn cold, getting indoors was a priority.
As I stepped onto the curb with Sam's seat handle awkwardly positioned in the crook of my elbow, I saw a man approaching fast...there was something in his body language that indicated he intended to interact, which I thought strange, considering the weather. I thought about my son, my family, and how hungry I was for a quesadilla supreme - how completely I would destroy this person if he threatened any of these things. So now we're feet away and the previously determined-looking man changes his demeanor entirely, to one of "pity me, kind sir." He very politely asks, "excuse me sir, I hate to bother you, but...man - all I neeeed is eighty three cents." Well, what the hell does one say to that, so I dug in my pocket and pulled out a dollar. This was followed by, "may God bless you, sir...bless you." We hustle into the restaurant and sit down, a good part of our initial discussions being this bizarre encounter.
We ordered a couple appetizers and sipped a few drinks. Suddenly, Mandy turns to me and says, "shit...I forgot Sam's baby food! If he wakes up he is gonna be inconsolable, Aaron...sorry, can you go get some? I think I saw a supermarket across the way." Reluctantly, the other dude and I head out on a hunt for some baby food - perhaps a little amused by this noble mission; the novelty of being a new daddy. We see an Aldi and head over, "piece of cake," right? Yeah, well Aldi doesn't have shit! If you like boxes strewn all over the place and ZERO baby food, head to Aldi. Scarred by the experience of speed-walking up and down the aisles in this establishment, only to learn that they don't carry the stuff, suffice it to say that I don't shop there. Then, we see a Super K-Mart...and wasn't it super?! Every freak in Pennsyltucky thought it was the place to be on this particular evening, and if there was any baby food there, I couldn't stomach another minute in the place to close the deal.
Frustrated at the thought of a screaming newborn, cold food and ultimately failing in the modest task, which was our charge, we thought hard. "Wait," said Matt. "I think I saw a Shop Right a couple miles down the road." "Let's do it," I said. And behold! There it was...Shop Right, the trusty store that I grew up buying groceries at in NJ, but had seen few of in PA. We made for the entrance and knew it must be victory...and standing there at the entrance was, you guessed it, "83 cents." He peers through the cold, likely poised to spring his pitch and then he sees a familiar sight, in my accusatory gaze. Instead of the sheepish eyes and desperate plead for an odd-enough sum of money to prompt someone to round up, he looked at me, busted, and said, "hey, mannnn." As if to convey, "yeah, I scammed you, and now I'm doing the same thing to these suckers."
I wish I could say that I broke the man down shotgun style, or at least given him a verbal thrashing. But the reality was, I had a mission to complete, family and friends to rejoin, and integrity to mete out. The 'consistency of my actions' would not be in question on this day. I left this imitation bum, who was content to sell his integrity down the river $.83 at a time, out in the stinkin cold! And if he's still there, I won't lose sleep.
Integrity is a concept of consistency of actions, values, methods, measures, principles, expectations, and outcomes. In ethics, integrity is regarded as the honesty and truthfulness or accuracy of one's actions. Integrity can be regarded as the opposite of hypocrisy,[1] in that it regards internal consistency as a virtue, and suggests that parties holding apparently conflicting values should account for the discrepancy or alter their beliefs.
The word "integrity" stems from the Latin adjective integer (whole, complete).[2] In this context, integrity is the inner sense of "wholeness" deriving from qualities such as honesty and consistency of character. As such, one may judge that others "have integrity" to the extent that they act according to the values, beliefs and principles they claim to hold.
Where I come from, integrity always meant doing the right thing; making the right decisions; being accountable for your actions. There's a USMC ideal that suggests a devildog should be able to leave his wallet sitting in the middle of his rack (bed) in the squad bay and let it sit there all day, and upon his return, find it unscathed and containing the entirety of his beer money. While I rarely tested this notion, being wary of some of the company I kept, particularly early on in my time-in-service, there was a genuine integrity throughout my time in the grunts that was evident in our everyday lives. From the physical training we conducted, to our care and maintenance for our weaponry, to the very way in which we walked, talked and looked out for one another - being a United States Marine...doing the job correctly, was about the upholding of integrity. Will someone please tell me, where in the civilian community does such true integrity exist? I would wager, few places.
My wife and her buddy took the kids to the Camden Aquarium today. It's an awesome place, so awesome that we bought an annual family pass. The aquarium is small enough not to be a logistical ordeal and the weather was sufficiently nasty today to keep the squeamish home, making it a great day to go. But we are talking about Camden, N.J. now friends - a dump among dumps, one of the most poverty-stricken cities in the U.S. Adding insult to injury, the state government decided to include in their recent budget cuts, the shit-canning of many civil servants, among them scores of cops and firefighters. So essentially what you have is the setting of the movie, Escape From NY, complete with drug dealers, thugs and panhandlers - oh, and a pretty decent-looking waterfront, featuring Adventure Aquarium and the Battleship NJ. But, you can't polish a turd - you know?
Getting to my story on integrity, or lack thereof, everyone had a blast at the aquarium and around 3pm they headed for the parking lot in hopes of beating the evening rush. But, the stinking battery was dead...click-click-click - perhaps one of the kids had pressed a light, which had been left on? So children-in-hand, they went over to a bus driver to ask for a jump start. The guy says, "can't chance it, sorry." What? Then they happened upon a maintenance man who worked at the aquarium, who ultimately helped, after making them sign a waiver. What has this world come to, if we can't help out a couple moms who clutch their children in the inclimate weather? This is the shit I'm talking about...integrity is scarce. Adding insult to injury, the predictable derelict walks over to take advantage of these ladies, "excuse me, miss...I'll just stand here (I suppose suggesting himself a non-threat), hey, my car broke down and I've been walking around in the rain for hours...I need bus fare." They give him a couple bucks. "Man...still short about four bucks." Get the $&#@ out of here dude!!! Had I been there, I might have taken all HIS money and dealt him an ass-whooping. All this summoned back to my memory a story I like to call, "83 cents" - and it's a good one:
It was a blustery Saturday night, back in 2007. We had agreed to meet another couple down at a good Mexican joint in East Norriton, PA. The place was called El Cancun, the food was great, fast and cheap - always a good combination. The only problem was, it was in a seedy shopping center located geographically, on the cusp of the haves and the have-nots. My son Samuel was mere months old, nestled in his car-seat in the back of the SUV. We spied our friends upon arrival and parked the vehicle as close as possible to the joint. We gathered our gear, covered up Sam, greeted our pals and hastily made our way to the entrance to the restaurant. The wind was whipping and damn cold, getting indoors was a priority.
As I stepped onto the curb with Sam's seat handle awkwardly positioned in the crook of my elbow, I saw a man approaching fast...there was something in his body language that indicated he intended to interact, which I thought strange, considering the weather. I thought about my son, my family, and how hungry I was for a quesadilla supreme - how completely I would destroy this person if he threatened any of these things. So now we're feet away and the previously determined-looking man changes his demeanor entirely, to one of "pity me, kind sir." He very politely asks, "excuse me sir, I hate to bother you, but...man - all I neeeed is eighty three cents." Well, what the hell does one say to that, so I dug in my pocket and pulled out a dollar. This was followed by, "may God bless you, sir...bless you." We hustle into the restaurant and sit down, a good part of our initial discussions being this bizarre encounter.
We ordered a couple appetizers and sipped a few drinks. Suddenly, Mandy turns to me and says, "shit...I forgot Sam's baby food! If he wakes up he is gonna be inconsolable, Aaron...sorry, can you go get some? I think I saw a supermarket across the way." Reluctantly, the other dude and I head out on a hunt for some baby food - perhaps a little amused by this noble mission; the novelty of being a new daddy. We see an Aldi and head over, "piece of cake," right? Yeah, well Aldi doesn't have shit! If you like boxes strewn all over the place and ZERO baby food, head to Aldi. Scarred by the experience of speed-walking up and down the aisles in this establishment, only to learn that they don't carry the stuff, suffice it to say that I don't shop there. Then, we see a Super K-Mart...and wasn't it super?! Every freak in Pennsyltucky thought it was the place to be on this particular evening, and if there was any baby food there, I couldn't stomach another minute in the place to close the deal.
Frustrated at the thought of a screaming newborn, cold food and ultimately failing in the modest task, which was our charge, we thought hard. "Wait," said Matt. "I think I saw a Shop Right a couple miles down the road." "Let's do it," I said. And behold! There it was...Shop Right, the trusty store that I grew up buying groceries at in NJ, but had seen few of in PA. We made for the entrance and knew it must be victory...and standing there at the entrance was, you guessed it, "83 cents." He peers through the cold, likely poised to spring his pitch and then he sees a familiar sight, in my accusatory gaze. Instead of the sheepish eyes and desperate plead for an odd-enough sum of money to prompt someone to round up, he looked at me, busted, and said, "hey, mannnn." As if to convey, "yeah, I scammed you, and now I'm doing the same thing to these suckers."
I wish I could say that I broke the man down shotgun style, or at least given him a verbal thrashing. But the reality was, I had a mission to complete, family and friends to rejoin, and integrity to mete out. The 'consistency of my actions' would not be in question on this day. I left this imitation bum, who was content to sell his integrity down the river $.83 at a time, out in the stinkin cold! And if he's still there, I won't lose sleep.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Band of Brothers...and Sisters! THAT is MOTIVATION!
I'm forever talking about the connection among DDIP'ers and this clip is an illustration of the itch I'm trying to scratch in that regard. Being there for another human being, under any circumstances, is a truly special thing! Especially when the chips are down..."it's about the men next to you."
Great work during MOTIVATION WEEK, comrades. Though the theme changes next week to EDUCATION, we remain highly motivated hereafter!
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