America.

Stars and stripes forever.

School is defined by routine. So when the routine is broken, it becomes immediately obvious to all related parties. Fire drills in particular used to make girls in my school cry in pre-k, kindergarten, or even first grade. Because we weren’t used to that particular kind of disruption, each time we couldn’t entirely convince ourselves that our school along with all our friends, teachers, and possessions weren’t about to burn to a crisp. 

So in second grade when just after our school day began, that long hallway that connected all fourteen years of students now empty and quiet, our class was interrupted by the assistant head of lower school shortly before our teacher informed us we were to gather in the lower school auditorium, I was intrigued. But once we had all gathered there (the entire middle and upper school clearly seen filing into the primary auditorium just a little further up the hallway), no announcements were made. We were instead just told to sit there. Eventually, we were told that our parents had been contacted and we’d all be headed home. For whoever couldn’t go home right that second, we would be sheltering in place right there in the auditorium.  

A few distraught older girls and a few pensive looking older boys came in to drag their siblings away over the following hour. My sister, then in seventh grade, was one of them. She had clearly been crying and when we exited out of our school to meet my grandfather who also had our cousin from the boy’s school in the back seat, there were police cars stationed out on the street, the officers alertly watching us go. My questions only got answers when we were gathered in the kitchen with our grandmother and my grandfather sat us down in front of the TV to explain why planes were flying into buildings.

My grandfather loved America. His entire house was decorated with eagles, flags, and countless volumes of books on the history of the country, war, philosophy, and god. As the years went by, books and magazines featuring Colin Powell and Condoleezza Rice would be prominently displayed on the coffee table. He wouldn’t live to see the rise of Obama. Cancer would kill him in the fall of 2007. But even as a second grader, a couple months shy of turning eight, I was familiar with the basic outline of America’s victories. I knew who our historical enemies were at the very least (I along with many other kids had to be corrected at a summer camp where we innocently asked a German girl if she was a Nazi and were confused why that made her burst into tears).

“They shouldn’t have done that,” I said, watching footage of office workers jumping from windows thousands of feet to their deaths. “Now we’ll need to wipe their country off the map… probably with atomic bombs.” 

“Yes, we will,” he agreed, patting my also seven year old cousin on the shoulder like his draft letter would be coming in the mail by the end of the day. 

By the time we were back in school, an American flag hung at the front of our classroom and I was more than happy to recite the pledge of allegiance to it every morning with far more willingness than I’d ever shown during evening prayers. It was with my parents and grandparents that we eventually made our way to ground zero in New York, ash and rubble still everywhere, a cross hastily erected with jagged beams from the destroyed Twin Towers we’d taken photos from the top of not long before. To this day, despite living in Manhattan for many years, I haven’t been back down there.

At the time, I didn’t think the war would really be a war. I thought it would be the United States annihilating Afghanistan because, I figured, that’s what happens when you attack us. But as the years passed and the war drew on and spread, I wanted to prove to others that despite being so young, I was fit enough to join the fight.

By the time I was eleven, I was dedicated to olive drab attire, had a copy of The Art of War in my locker, and began committing myself to stoicism. In watching the drawn out death of my grandfather, I betrayed no emotions at all, not even at his funeral. I peered over at his body long and hard, committing death to memory. Because at that point I was still set on joining JROTC, dropping hints to my parents that I wanted to go to a specialized military high school (or at least summer program), before heading to the Air Force Academy for college. I was fully expecting to grow up and be faced with the reality of having to kill the enemy. 

Even in my early life, excellence was the expectation and I never felt particularly in danger of failing to meet that expectation. The very word “excellence” was plastered over our school’s doors I’d pass through each day, part of the school motto. And it was hammered into my mind that you shouldn’t get rewarded for doing what you’re supposed to do. As a result, extraordinary excellence was the only thing that would get you any sort of nod. One of my earliest memories was coming home from my first tennis tournament with a silver medal and my grandfather saying, “That only makes you the first loser.” And I remember the utter sense of triumph I felt the following year bringing home gold which got me the nod I was looking for. Because I didn’t just win. I decimated, barely offering a word or a smile to anyone watching.  

As touched on a bit in Wheels, I naturally took to athletics. I enjoyed the teamwork, camaraderie, and clearly seeing the results of hard work. It fit in well in a school where being smart was seen as a good thing, studying hard was seen as a good thing, and healthy competition with others was seen as a good thing. I was excited by the prospect of being challenged both in sports and in academics, and even in college, I would sign up for classes simply because I heard they were difficult. In my career, I sign onto projects because I know they will push the limits of my abilities. That aspect of me hasn’t changed one bit. I don’t particularly believe in being comfortable. Go in and get the job done was where my brain has always been.

Unlike other components of male culture, the pause in my military trajectory wasn’t brought about by some intrinsic rejection of the concept. Rather, as someone in a position to have many options available in life, it began to lose its luster in the face of more artistic pursuits. Getting my knee destroyed during a lacrosse game at sixteen also made a military career fall way down my priority list, another component of what could be interpreted as some type of divine intervention in my transition from girlhood to womanhood.

Learning Japanese in high school, taking tests alongside Japanese children, and learning from Japanese adults gave me a WWII narrative I hadn’t considered relevant before. Going to college exposed me not only to men in general, but to men and women from varying walks of life as well. I found it impossible to begin to tackle the issue of male rule and male violence without taking into consideration war, governments beholden to male doctrine, or even the very concept of nation-states to begin with.

Despite being deeply obsessed with a franchise like Star Wars, it was only in my twenties that it began to sink in what all Star Wars stories from the films to the books to the comics to the video games were trying to teach me. Still not particularly engaged with politics (my stance was whichever politician kept the lights on and didn’t get us blown up was fine in my book) I began to question the narrative fed to me through countless History Channel documentaries and the state of current affairs. 

I think anyone would still consider me fairly patriotic. I am competitive, after all. For events like the Olympics or the World Cup (both things that warrant their own long feminist analysis), you’ll still find me swelling with a bit of pride each time our admittedly top tier national anthem plays or each time our teams win (musically I believe this is objectively true… I do have a music degree after all :P ). You certainly won’t find me looking to relocate to some other country. That wouldn’t solve any of the qualms I have with the state of the world or my place in it. And while I’m still not the most politically literate, I have learned to question and take a step back. And I can do so at my own leisure. Like the average citizen of Coruscant in Star Wars, the center of the Galactic Empire, I have the luxury of choosing when and where I care about most things. 

Who benefits from this action? Who suffers the consequences? Why is this thing happening in the first place? What is its impact on women? What am I advocating for and why? These are questions I will continue to ask myself as I observe all manner of events unfolding around me. 

Male indoctrination can be hard to shake. However, it is imperative to do so to work toward the liberation of all women. 

In closing: