There were 8 of them. Their uniforms were from different military branches but all shared a common spirit in tailoring: clean lines, two colors, cut to accentuate hard angular bodies. The men's faces matched their uniforms. In fact, every detail of their persons matched all others. Their faces were firm, their mouths were set lines, their spines were erect, their legs moved precisely and their eyes focused on nothing but the air in front of them. They were one body as every movement made was mirrored by all others at precisely the same time and in precisely the same way. They were each other, they were no one at all. They were only men in that moment; they were timeless and nameless, they were servants of their country holding up a man who had been the same.

While watching American servicemen hold up Senator Ted Kenendy's coffin at his funeral this past weekend, I suddenly understood the mindset of those who decide to join the military. I'm one of those people who takes my individuality seriously. Growing up I remember countless times when I would feel viscerally violated when I thought my freedom to self-determine was being infringed upon. If I wanted to do something unconventional (like run around shirtless like the boys though I was elementary school-, not toddler-aged) then I did and passionately defended my position to anyone who thought I should act differently. I've always been the kind of person who takes pride in doing what I want to do, regardless of societal pressures or immediate consequences. Because of my personality, I had always been dumbfounded by any man or woman who would willingly give up any semblance of personal freedom to join an organization that made them physically uncomfortable and psychologically servile.

That's how I felt until I saw these 8 men hold up a senator last week. While watching their rigid stature and focused gazes as they held up a flag-covered coffin, I sensed what had confounded me about the military until that point. These men had given up themselves, their earthly semblances of individuality (which more often than not seem arbitrary) for a more tangible sense of shared humanity. These men gave themselves up to be a part of something that, to them, is bigger than individual will. From their clothes to their hair, from their posture to their language, these men were each other, each others' fathers, and each others' grandfathers. As I watched them, I saw how they might find comfort in learning to become mirrors of the men around them. I saw how the military could be a manifestation of the idea of equality. I had always got that many people find honor, truth and a sense of purpose in serving; I got that they felt that being in the military is to serve a greater good and, judging by the number of bumper stickers, that they must get an almost spiritual comfort from military service. But seeing the men who carried Senator Kennedy's coffin, I understood a deeper reason for donning a uniform: serving brings a daily comfort of being freed from being an individual. I sensed that military men must get personal comfort in giving up the pressure of personality, the all too difficult act of fashioning a self that separates one from the selves of others.

Looking Back

I wish I could go to college now that I am a full person and not a shell of mistrust and uncertainty. Yes, because I think I would have made a far superior academic showing now than I did then and yes, because I would have taken classes and taken advantage of resources that suited my real interests rather than interests that I thought I should have. But mostly because college is an unparallelled opportunity to get to know people who are different than one but who are, by virtue of their age and station in life, at their most committed to getting to know others at a deep level. Or even at a not so deep level. Either way, merely being in the presence of others at a time of mutual openness is a beautiful thing. If one accepts that knowing others is the richest part of being alive then college is almost decadent in its offerings of people to know and love. I miss it.

From On Beauty by Zadie Smith

Memorable passages:

"Here were people, friends. A boy called Ron, of delicate build whose movements were tidy and ironic, who liked to be clean, who liked things Japanese. A girl called Daisy, tall and solid like a swimmer, with an all-American ingenue face, sandy hair and more of a salty manner than she required, given her looks. Daisy liked eighties romantic comedies and Kevin Bacon and thrift-store handbags. Hannah was red-headed and freckled, rational, hard-working, mature. She liked Ezra Pound and making her own clothes. Here were people. Here were tastes and buying habits and physical attributes." (page 210-- There's a side of me that feels that this description detailing the lightness of individual ego rings true)

"And so it happened again, the daily miracle whereby interiority opens out and brings to bloom the million-petalled flower of being here, in the world, with other people. Neither as hard as she had thought it might be nor as easy as it appeared." From page 211, when Zora joins her friends after travelling to meet them, alone.

"He did not consider if or how or why he loved them. They were just love: they were the first evidence he ever had of love, and they would be the last confirmation of love when everything else fell away." Jerome, on his siblings (page 236). The sentiment could be extended to parents as well. I love this and on my least alienated days, I feel this towards my own towers of absolute love.

"It is on journeys like this-- where one is so horribly misunderstood-- that you find yourself longing for home, that place where you are entirely understood, for better or for worse. Kiki was home. He needed to find her." page 307. exactly what I feel about romantic love. A good articulation of what I'm searching for as I search for my Kiki.

Page numbers from the 2006 Penguin edition with the pink cover