A lesson from boot camp

 

APRIL 27, 2021 11:40 AM PT

By Charles Kraus

Kraus is an author who served in Vietnam for part of his four-year enlistment. He was awarded the Bronze Star. 

1966 — I’d enlisted. Our country was going through what felt like a tectonic shift. The anti-war movement. Urban riots. Civil rights. There was a lot for young recruits to talk about. But animated discussions were held in check by a military that needed its men and women to stick to task. Generally, we did. We spent our days drilling together, then co-existed within our separate clusters during the evenings. To the extent that we spoke about the external — civilian — world, we presented gripes, solutions and opinions that assumed the system was in need of adjustment. Nobody proposed dismantling the government.

I went through boot camp with a guy from Texas. Tall. Handsome. Smart in a practical way. We worked together on a few of the ridiculous projects handed to us during the course of training. Boot camp is designed to break your resolve, deflate any sense of individuality, then replace it with a team spirit and an unflinching willingness to obey orders. We enlisted men more or less worked as a unit to placate our superiors. To that end, the Texan and I scrubbed whatever it was our battalion leader claimed needed perfecting. As we wore out brushes and mops, we talked. Our voices controlled so as not to be perceived as contentious. The topics included integration and the war.

At the time, I was big on proving my positions. These were the facts. You added them up. This was the conclusion. Airtight case. I presented my views about the lack of equal opportunity. About intimidation and rigged systems. You couldn’t look at a photo of a child being chewed by a policeman’s vicious dog and claim the act did not occur.

I stated my reasoning. Society could not expect high-end, informed performances from individuals who had been denied meaningful education, and found themselves being manipulated by everyone from drug dealers, to politicians, to the marketplace, to the media, to history and to society at large. We had to close the gaps and right the wrongs if we wanted to put people on an equal footing. Like most young folks in the ‘60s, I was bursting with generalities, but vague on the specifics.

Perhaps I was eloquent, or just another blowhard, well-meaning but naive. Either way, the Texan seemed to have some appreciation for what I was saying. He offered counterarguments. Traditional. Biblical. Apocryphal. And there was a feature that I detected in many Southerners. Possibly a misguided, incorrect observation. But one I’ve become attached to over the years. I detected a seething. A ready supply of unmitigated hate mixed with an equal share of rage. An undercurrent of vitriol waiting for a target. Sort of a Lindsey Graham on/off switch.

In those days, you could declare a draw. I couldn’t budge my Texas compadre, he couldn’t budge me. Touché. Plus, an afterthought, an explanation provided by my debating competition. He revealed his membership in the Ku Klux Klan. My arguments did not matter, he explained — he couldn’t allow them to matter. This wasn’t about facts. It was about allegiances. It was not possible to win him over by logic, or information, or by pointing out how everyone would benefit from a more integrated world.

2021 — Defense Secretary Lloyd Austin’s efforts to reduce racism within ranks won’t find easy resolve. Brotherhood happens when reasonable attitudes prevail. Unfortunately, human nature is the biggest of tents. Some of its occupants, fueled by hate and stupidity, cannot be persuaded to reevaluate their faulty perceptions. Diversity training only works when the minds of participants are both willing and capable of change.

If you can’t reason with a dangerous individual, or with members of a group dedicated to inflicting harm, you have to approach the problem at a global level. After weeks of violence that reflect years, decades, of failed solutions, I think we would all welcome a consensus approach that imposes common sense. Rules and laws need to be enforced. See, I’m still vague on specifics, and a little naive.

Together

Together

By Charles E. Kraus

Our children and grandchildren live in Northern California.  "Only a plane ride away," we used to say, heading again and again to the airport.  Either to board a flight or pick up arriving family members.  For the past year, these trips have been curtailed.  But my wife and I have now booked tickets.  Not virtual tickets.  Actual tickets for an actual visit. We are feeling tentative.  And giddy.

Back in them old days, my concern about air quality had to do with smog levels, with gaseous air pollutants such as carbon monoxide.  Now it is not so much about forest fires and industrial waste.  It's about people exhaling, especially on planes.

We've revised our travel reservations three times.  So far.  These are rethinks.  Will our shots be fully effective by mid April?  May 1st?  Should we wait until a larger percentage of the public has been inoculated?  Late Spring?  Summer?  Our grandchildren are learning that the word "soon" is an expandable concept.  Like them, I need a hug.

Of course, there is no such thing as a virtual hug.  Hugging is one of the physical elements that has gone missing during our too numerous to mention family Zoomethons.  About fifty years ago, Ashley Montagu published a book titled Touching.  In it he advanced the theory that physical contact, tactile experience, was one of the essential methods people employed to communicate.  That touch provided unique and important emotional messaging.  Let me tell you, we've been out of touch.

Our grandchildren have become quite skilled at participating in virtual family interactions.  They display lots of artwork and demonstrate ever increasing skill levels on bicycles and scooters.  To keep up with this, their parents have substantially honed videography techniques.

Alice, who is almost seven, is now qualified (and certified by her mother and father) to borrow an iPhone and take us on a tour of the house.  We generally end up at the hamster cage where she gets her new pet to demonstrate its prowess on the rodent ferris wheel .  Three-year-old Lila wants Bubbie, her grandmother, to read another story.  My wife has gotten pretty good at holding the book so illustrations fill the screen.  If she falters, Lila takes on the role of director.  "Higher," she says, "More up."  Not only does this kid understand camera dynamics at our end, she is quite capable of directing her selfies.   

Zoom and other visual chat systems have built-in filters designed to improve screen appearance.  On camera, I seem to be a little less wrinkled, my aging skin not so blotchy.  And because audio is adjustable, nobody at the other end has heard me say, louder, speak up, can't hear you.  I'm hoping that when we finally arrive for our in-person visit, family members won't be asking themselves if it's really me.   

Fortunately, my hugging techniques remain constant, so I should be able to prove my identity.