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The bumper sticker they hand you on your last day in the Army says, ‘Soldier for Life.’ It is at once comforting to know you will always belong, but also a foreboding reminder that perhaps the occupation you chose will separate you forever. When you first enlist, you presume that after you go from civilian to service member, one day you will return to being a civilian. But when that day comes, you are called a veteran, and while that word may just be a label that exists in concert with ‘citizen,’ it is also an indication that not only are you no longer a part of the military but somehow not a civilian either. You are warned time and time again that the transition is difficult, the job market is unforgiving, and there is difficulty transcribing your military experience to the civilian world – the stereotype threat is sewn into the fabric of transition programs. A transition to not only a new job, but a new set of norms and expectations. Boots become loafers, hit times become meeting times, and 1400 returns to 2:00.
I knew, or at least hoped, I could make the transition from the military to the civilian world. I wanted to work in higher education.
As I searched for jobs, the titles were baffling, but the relevant skills were familiar; crisis response, case management, teamwork, flexibility, and on-call were a part of my daily work as an Army social worker. The posting for these positions clearly indicated a certain amount of years of experience in the field of higher education. I had twice that required time, but mine was in a military uniform, working primarily in a mental health capacity with the Army.
I knew I was a long-shot candidate for any position outside the Department of Defense.
My first higher ed interview had been humbling.
“Have you ever used this case management system for student conduct?”
“No, Ma’am” I responded.
Darn it Adam, don’t say “Ma’am.”
I continued, “But I used two different electronic health records in the Army, requiring skills I trust are transferable for taking care of soldiers…. I mean, um… students.”
She glanced down at her paper, expressionless.
I thought to myself, “Was this the expressionlessness of a pragmatic interviewer? Or the silent wondering of how I even made it to this interview?”
In a future interview, I was asked to detail an experience about responding to a crisis. My answer, a scenario from my service, made the interviewer cry. Never a good sign.
Again, I thought to myself, “Was I really that different?”
I couldn’t believe that just because I had quite consciously used my twenties to serve meant I was barred from breaking into a new field, but I was starting to fear that perhaps I had limited myself.
After dozens of applications, several rounds of interviews, and a few offers, I decided on a student affairs position.
With the affirmation of an offer, I had expected to feel the weight lift off my shoulders. Instead, I awaited my first day nervously wondering if I could hack it.
Relatively speaking, I was in the Army for a short time, so I did not consider myself indoctrinated. But to be in your thirties and not have even a week’s worth of business casual clothing is a humbling realization. I had to laugh at myself when I bought the same three pairs of pants in different colors and the same five shirts in different patterns. Had I just bought myself a new uniform?
I did not shave the first day of work. Shaving felt military. But not shaving felt unprofessional. A small hygiene decision underscoring how deeply between worlds I was, putting each decision under a microscope of indoctrination, adjustment, and self.
The vast differences between this culture and my last were palpable within the first few hours. No signing into reception. No gear distribution. No orders to turn in. I remember my boss being surprised that I had somehow found the ID office, gotten my ID, and had access to the building before my first welcome meeting.
I had assumed that was the expectation. I was already different and I had not even started.
I began to meet new peers in the first week. They were kind and inviting.
“Welcome to Harvard – I heard you’re coming from North Carolina, were you at Duke? Someone said maybe you were at Columbia? From what institution are you coming?”
“The Army,” I would respond, ending each interaction in an accidentally abrupt fashion, watching my new peers search for words.
During my first all-staff meeting, the dean signaled its end with a thank you. I popped to my feet out of impulse. Standing awkwardly among all who were still seated, I pretended I had a phone call as to cover my abrupt movement. I felt ridiculous instinctively snapping to ramrod precision as the others engaged in casual conversation. I was painfully aware of the cultural transcription errors in my learned behaviors.
I remember similarly my first night of basic training. But at least in basic training the experience is shared. No one knows how to stand, where to put their thumbs, who to call Sir, who to call sergeant, and what to do with your feet. Here, it seemed like everyone knew the rules but me.
There seemed to be an insider’s framing of ideas, and I was struggling to keep up. I found myself overthinking every email, every comment, and every decision. I thought perhaps I had fooled myself (and them) into thinking that I could possibly translate my military experience to a new ethos. Or that I even wanted to.
I remember riding the T, packed in between other commuters. I caught my reflection in the train window with the pitch-black tunnel behind it, creating a mirror. The person looking back in a button-up shirt, tie, shoulder bag, was me, I think. I felt like I was in a costume, living a life I had only previously heard about. This removal from myself and my situation was heightened when I would hear about my former unit’s activities; I felt like my team was going on without me. And here I was, an anonymous commuter on a train who was still accidentally referring to students as soldiers.
I reached out to a mentor for support. She reminded me to be patient and to set up a meeting with another staff member at the institution.
To start that meeting I blurted out, “So are you military too?”
She wasn’t.
Prior to this position, she had captained sail boats. She went from climbing masts to working on a higher education staff – using idiosyncratic sailing language to the language of higher education. I confessed to her that after two weeks, I had finally slipped up and written 1400 in an email instead of 2:00. She laughed and said she used sailing language all the time, and her coworkers loved it. She seemed calm and relaxed about her different experience and seamlessly translated it to her new current environment. She embraced the differences and had confidence that her experience, while not typical, was entirely relevant. She seemed to find joy in how baffled her coworkers were of her life prior to joining the university. I respected and longed for her confidence. If she could do it, perhaps I could too. Perhaps being different wasn’t that different.
Within a few days of that meeting, my phone rang; it was the campus police. We had an active student crisis. My first at this institution. I immediately focused and went into professional reaction mode. My mind steadied. I made the calls and executed the protocols. I met my supervisor on the scene. I slowed my heart rate. I was mindful of my breathing and my tension. I worked methodically, empathetically, and deliberately. I helped the student, wrote my report, and prepared to brief the dean.
I was in ‘Go’ mode. I was in my wheelhouse. My relevant experience was in play.
I was certain I had done right by the student but was waiting to hear how I might have done the wrong thing from an institutional perspective. I waited to be told I was too gruff, too direct, too action oriented. I was waiting to be told I was too military.
Instead, the responses to my actions were very positive.
Even outside of crisis response, I began using my skills, my style, and my instinct within the new structure and environment. Instead of pushing against my professional experience, I leaned into it. Not by marching through campus, wearing military symbols, nor saluting deans, but by letting the parts of me that were simply me exist without overanalyzing whether they were innate, formed through my military training, or picked up somewhere else along the way. What I came to find was that my experience was entirely relevant, and even more so, I was adding a new perspective. I had no doubt that I would continue to experience a learning curve, but my learning arc was no longer in opposition to my experience, it was-and continues to be-informed by it. I would not trade any of my experiences for a more linear approach. I am so grateful for the professional I have become through the military, as well as being sculpted and nourished through all of my other life experiences.
I realized that I had forgotten sage advice that went back to the days of my performing arts high school experience. When it was time to graduate from high school and consider our next steps, the head of our program sat us down to guide us in envisioning our futures:
“Many of you will not go on to study at conservatories. For those of you who go on to do something else, do not hide your theater education here. Own it. Highlight it. Embrace it. You are bringing an incredibly distinct experience.”
Always being good at following orders, I took her advice to heart. As an adult, emerging from the distinctive culture of active military life to the ethos of the Academy, thankfully, it washed back through my thinking, and like all sagacious perspectives, it had a more profound impact in my more seasoned world sphere. In this student affairs position my ultimate charge was to create a welcoming, warm, and inclusive community for our incredibly unique, diverse, and talented students. Contributing to a community, be it a professional institution or neighborhood, is not the result of one field or one career trajectory or experience, but exists at the combination of distinct experience in which relevant experience, whatever that really means, is required.
