To the untrained eye, the title of this post is just a sequence of numbers. While that's true, it's also the date I honorably discharged from the military—or as I say, "the day I got my freedom papers."
If you're naturally inclined to be mathematical and calculating as most of us are, then you've already added up that this is my "one year out" post. I know it sounds like I'm celebrating one year out of prison, right? Well, that's because in many ways they're a lot alike and I'm going to share a few of those ways with you.
Now, don't go being presumptuous and think that I'm saying the military is some vacuous, soul-siphoning vermin that breaks spirits and replaces them with weak knees because you'd be wrong.
The military is a vacuous, soul-siphoning vermin that breaks spirits, steals hairlines, and replaces them with weak knees, a pedo-stache, and an over-inflated ego. It is a white-male-dominated institution that amplifies the experiences of living in a racist society.
After serving four years and taking a year to reflect, I now offer my experience to the People for their improvement. Disclosure: My experience is by no means the universal experience of black males in the military. But, as someone that is relatively aware of the myriad socially engineered illusions, I believe many of my comrades of color will agree that these are big facts. I also want to acknowledge the fact that I know people who have served longer terms and people who still serve—and while some have found sure anchoring in such a complex institution, many have fallen into the sunken place and struggle with getting out.
Let's ask and answer the big question: How is being in the military and being in prison alike?
Consider this, when you first join, you go through an intense indoctrination phase. Those of us who know, know indoctrination is only a euphemism for brainwashing. Begone what sense of individuality you thought you had! Now, whether it's by your DOD ID, SSN or rank, you become a number. You are given uniforms and told how to wear them. When to eat and when to sleep. Where to be and when you'll be able to leave. They teach you how to walk, talk, think, write, behave, exist, and dare I say even die. Healthcare and school are both covered. Suddenly, you become obsessed with performing and give the idea of being no consideration.
But, enlisting in the military is a voluntary act. Yeah? Well, so is committing a crime.
People who commit crimes act on and of their own volition. Looking through the socio-economic and deontological lens for a better view, we can investigate the reasons why a person would be compelled to commit a crime or join the military. Being a conflict theorist, I believe lack is incredible at motivating law-abiding citizens, with high ethical and moral values, to engage in criminal activity. In fact, some would say they commit crimes because of those values—e.g., a parent who steals to feed their family, a person who kills to save a child, a person who lies to protect the country—and the possibility of losing their freedom is worth the risk.
Now, consider the black citizen who grew up in a low-income working family that has struggled for three generations to recover from the deindustrialization of America. Not only that, after losing his job when the factory closed down, their father started selling dope to provide for his family and got sent up the river after the Feds raided their house in the dead of winter. Now they're being raised by a single-parent who works three jobs just to maintain. They're a brilliant student with infinite potential, but no money to pay for college. Their best friend was murdered a week before graduation because a rogue cop mistook a book for a weapon. They aren't offered a single form of counseling because this is the status quo and well, niggas don't have feelings. They vow not to be like their parents and have convinced themselves that college is for losers.
One day, they see a commercial. Keep in mind the organization behind the ad pays top dollar to the production company to have them shrewdly convey the idea that the American dream is attainable through answering the call of duty—and boy, do they deliver. This organization touts a commitment to the "...fair treatment of all." Steady pay. Healthcare and school are both covered. They house you, clothe you, and send you around the world for free.
They never stop and ask themselves if forfeiting freedom is worth it because the illusive allure of stability and comfort cloud their judgment. Then, young people enlist on and of our own volition.
Truth. This particular black citizen is a creation of my sociological imagination. But, it's not that far from reality. According to a study done by the Pew Research Center, blacks make up 17% of the DOD active-duty military—somewhat higher than our share of the U.S. population which is 13%. Granted it's not as high as the rates of mass incarceration, the effects of the military industrial complex are still staggering.
When I joined the Navy in 2013, I immediately found a community of brothers and sisters that I identified with within the institution. I learned to appreciate the struggle as a unifying force and respect the nuances of black cultural diversity. I'm pretty much an African Nigerian-Jamaican American. What? It's about as real as a Wakandan... All praises be to Killmonger! Anways, it was at this time, that I also learned what Zora Neale Hurston meant when she said, "all my skin-folk ain't kinfolk." You would not believe the level of "coonery" I was exposed to while enlisted. Except in the military, it's not called cooning. We use a more, politically correct term—it's called playing the game. Playing the game means learning how best to navigate and function in a white-male-dominated institution without ruffling any feathers and meeting opposition.
For a while, I was a bit bothered by how frequently my older brothers and sisters ages 35 and up, many of whom had served eight or more years, would tell me just play the game. Eventually, I learned that they were teaching me how to survive, not telling me how to live. They were in many ways passing down the tradition of Brer Rabbit and Brer Fox: mastering the arts of learning how to speak to white people, not talking back, withholding information about other black folks, and dissembling before being looked at with suspicious eyes. They were relic keepers-passing down generations of masterfully crafted deception. Which reminds me of Charsee Charlotte Lawrence-McIntyre; a free woman who affirms the need for a little razzle-dazzle and performing in rhyme:
"Got one mind for the boss to see; got another for what I know is me."
A few days after the acquittal of Mike Brown's murderer, a service-member who happens to be a white feller, greeted me with a devilish grin and an insulting caucasious tone, "What's up, thug?" You know what happened next: WHOP WHOP! Talk shit, get hit. But, before I had the chance to enjoy my sweet reparation, a friend jolted me out my violent reverie, and I subdued my anger, once again. I forced myself not to react, because my desired response would've been grounds for them to send me up for violating Article 91 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice: "insubordinate conduct toward a petty officer."
That was during the first two years—the radical years. Marked by the murders of Trayvon Martin and Michael Brown, 2013-2015 also saw progress with the movement for Black Lives, the ending of the Obama-era, a surge in the presence of Neo-Confederates and White Nationalists. The transition of Uncle Phil and Maya Angelou, 2014-Forest Hills Drive, and a few, very significant personal life-changing events that were nothing short of divine. So, you can see why my passion burned with furious rage, and I had no time for playing the game.
The last two years of my stint, 2016 and 2017, were the Gandalfic years—I was a weary wanderer, but not lost. I had my birth chart read. I practiced yoga for the first time. I read four books that changed my life. I sat in on bell hooks' conversations during her residency at the New School via YouTube. Beyoncé served us a cold, cleansing glass of Lemonade and Frank Ocean took us to nirvana, circumventing death by delivering another solid album with an André 3000 feature. To a significant degree, however, it was marked by the initiation of inner alchemy. With the New Year of 2017, came new experiences and my freedom. The first of which the French call, la petite mort or the little death. Fortunately, I had the pleasure of experiencing it twice.
The first experience was on my flight from Okinawa to Tokyo. The pilot had to abort the landing due to severe winds. When I looked out the window and saw the wing of the aircraft nearly rub the runway, my heart fell into my stomach. Looking around for comfort, I watched the lady who was sitting across from me turn pale when she finally came face-to-face with the possibility of death. I then realized I had no real control in the situation. I accepted my fate, sat into the experience, and trusted the process. Weird, but I have to admit, there's no greater feeling than the calm that washes over you when you stop resisting and acknowledge death for what it is. An illusion casting a shadow so thick it cripples us by the very threat of its presence. If death did come for us, trust me, we would know.
It worked out though. That experience equipped me with the tools needed to confront my second petite mort: Heartbreak. If you've ever experienced a broken heart, you know a turbulent flight seems like a better way to spend your time. At least then you only have two options, both of which you have no control over—land or crash. Heartbreaks are a little more challenging to navigate because the person ultimately responsible for your healing and recovery is yourself. For a while, I was only able to answer the question of who taught me to hate myself. Because when I searched for the answer of who taught me to love myself, it was like I had been hit in the head and lost all knowledge of self. There was a lot of life drama, internal trauma, and social conditioning manifesting itself as pain and fear that I needed to heal and transmute into love, light, and power. So, I sat with that experience. Breathed through it. Accepted that I had control over nothing but myself and got my freedom.
As it turns out, whether serving in prison or serving in the military, all caged birds sing the same song, Damn, I can't wait to get out. But, when I received my freedom papers I was given a brand new song to sing:
Free yo mind, free yo soul.
You gotta journey, you should go.
Free yo mind, free yo soul.
Onward and upward, til' you can't no mo.'
Free yo mind, free yo soul.
Truth is a pretty big pill to swallow.
Free yo mind, free yo soul.
Free yo mind, and yo matter will follow.
Feel free to check the four books I referenced out; I'm sure they'll be of some value to you.
