In Pennsylvania, Bethlehem Steel is dying. I grow up watching it die. It built naval guns for World War I and Liberty ships for World War II. It built the Golden Gate Bridge and the New York City skyline. But the country eventually lost its thirst for steel. In Bethlehem, there were too many pensions, too many vice presidents, too many corner offices. In elementary school, we learn words like “pig iron,” “coke,” “limestone,” and “slag.” But we also learn words like “Kraut steel” and “Jap steel.” We watch neighbors lose their jobs. We put on a spring musical and sing a Billy Joel song.
Out in Bethlehem they’re killing time
Like the fathers in the song, my grandfathers fought the Second World War. My father received a deferment for Vietnam. In my boyhood, he tells me stories about how the Army was going to train him to fly helicopters, but they passed him over because he was a public school teacher with a daughter on the way. He says it’s a good thing he never flew helicopters, because at the time “they were knocking those things down with tennis balls.” The image fascinates me. I ask him to tell these stories often.
My mother is a substitute teacher. On the days she teaches, I eat breakfast at Steve Kave’s house. Steve’s father works at the steel mill, where he is forced to share a single job with two other steelworkers. The plant allows them to split the salary. It’s the only way to keep them all employed. Mr. Kave only has one leg. He lost the other in Vietnam when they shot down his helicopter.
When I’m sick, I stay home from school at the Kaves’ house. I lie on their couch and watch TV. In 1981, I watch Ronald Reagan get shot. In 1983, I watch paratroopers ride on helicopters and invade Grenada.
On Sundays, we attend the First Presbyterian Church of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. The church is large and wealthy. Eugene Grace, the CEO of Bethlehem Steel till 1945, and chairman of the board until 1957, attended services here. Employees looking to climb the ladder poured into the church pews on Sunday mornings in hopes of being seen by Mr. Grace.
As a boy, I don’t know much about Presbyterians. I know we baptize babies and I know we aren’t allowed to clap in church. I never see anyone carrying a Bible. But all the men wear suits and ties. A talented choir makes beautiful music. When they finish, there is silence. Occasionally someone tries to applaud. Older members, including my grandmother, shake their heads and say, “We are here to worship God, not the choir.”
My grandparents, Dorothy and Phillip Fair, are well known at First Presbyterian Church. My grandfather worked as a reporter in Altoona, Pennsylvania, after the war. Multiple sclerosis has confined him to a wheelchair. There is always someone willing to help unload him from the car on Sunday mornings, or wheel him up the ramp, or escort him into the sanctuary and help him page through the weekly bulletin. My grandmother works in the visitors’ booth between services. She serves coffee and tea and holds long conversations with people she’s never met before. Then she introduces us to these people and talks to them as if they are old family friends.
We visit my grandparents on Saturday mornings. I’m allowed to ride my grandfather’s wheelchair down the ramps that have been installed throughout the house. The VA hospital has provided my grandfather with a remote-controlled television. It’s the first one I’ve ever seen. The remote has two large buttons. You can only turn the channel one way, so you have to cycle through all thirteen channels to get back to the beginning. I sit and press the button and watch the channels change as my parents and grandparents sit in the other room and talk about family.
My grandmother tells stories about the MacFarlanes, Campbells, and Burds. She talks about the deep Scottish roots and how important the Presbyterian church has been to the family. There are drawers full of photo albums with black-and-white portraits of well-dressed men. Colonel Burd posing with his unit at Gettysburg in 1898 as they prepare to deploy to the Spanish-American War. A photo of William Burd standing in front of his Presbyterian church in 1902 after preaching one of his sermons. And there is a collection of letters from James MacFarlane, written during his service in the Civil War.
I grow up listening to my grandmother’s tales. I grow up learning that I come from a long line of Presbyterians who valued their faith and marched off to war.
In 1983, I start sixth grade. I am small and slightly overweight. I’m not fat, but my mother buys my jeans in the husky section at the Hess’s department store in Allentown. I am slow. At Nitschmann Middle School, we take the Presidential Physical Fitness Test. My father tells me it was President Eisenhower’s idea. Eisenhower was unimpressed by the fitness level of World War II draftees, so he decided it would be a good idea to make sixth-graders do pull-ups. I can’t do pull-ups. I just hang on the bar with my face to the wall. My fellow students sit behind me on the gym floor and laugh. There is also a shuttle run and some sort of stretching exercise. I fail to impress on those events as well.
At Nitschmann we have special activity days. Students are allowed to choose an activity that interests them. I choose a class about statistics and board games. Mostly we just play Risk. A popular girl from the majorette squad is in the class, too. We start to become friends. A few weeks later, during homeroom, Principal Kartsotis announces my name over the school’s intercom. He recites other names, too. They belong to the kids who don’t play sports and who buy their jeans in the husky section. Principal Kartsotis tells us that we will be removed from our special activities classes and enrolled in a fitness program. The gym teacher, Mr. Lindenmuth, makes us run laps and hang from the pull-up bar.
At home, I remember being told that I shouldn’t feel embarrassed. At Nitschmann, I remember meeting the majorette in the hallway a few days later and lying to her about why I couldn’t play Risk anymore. I remember spending much of that year being sent to the guidance counselor’s office for crying during school.
I spend my weeks at Nitschmann Middle School looking forward to Sunday mornings at First Presbyterian Church. The chimes of a large bell in the towering white steeple greet us as we arrive. I like the sound my dress shoes make on the slate floor in the narthex. Ushers in crisp dark suits, with white shirts, escort us down the aisle and hand me a program. I am twelve years old, but they call me sir, or young man, or, on occasion, Mr. Fair. They offer a firm handshake. My family lets me sit in the aisle seat, where I have a better view of the choir and the pulpit. If an adult sits down in front of me they always turn around to ask whether I can see.
The pastor at First Presbyterian is handsome and popular. He shakes my father’s hand and points at my tie: “Attaboy.” He played quarterback on his college football team and he often talks about the Pittsburgh Steelers during his sermons. There are no theatrics during the sermon. His voice is strong, but there is no yelling. He stands nearly still in the pulpit, removing his glasses to emphasize certain points. The sermons are almost always about love and the need to reach out to those in pain. I watch as the adults in the sanctuary sit nearly still. Occasionally they nod their heads, or write something down on the back of the bulletin, but they are completely silent. It is the one time during the week when I feel safe.
In 1986 I make the transition to Liberty High School. In ninth grade, we study world cultures. There is a week about Vietnam. Mr. Gentry, a history teacher at the school, comes to class and talks about his service in the Army. One day he goes drinking in Saigon. As they stumble outside, a young boy shoves his hand in Mr. Gentry’s pocket. He thinks the boy is trying to rob him, so he grabs the hand and yanks it out. The boy has a grenade in his hand. Mr. Gentry’s friends attempt to get control of the grenade but the boy won’t let go. They overwhelm the boy and pin him to the ground. Someone kills the boy. They don’t want to pry the dead fingers loose so they saw off the arm and toss it into the air. It detonates and sprays the men with shrapnel. Mr. Gentry shows us the scars. He says, “I think about that boy a lot.”
There are twenty-five hundred students at Liberty. The school consists of three main buildings, the oldest of which was built in 1918. It has marble staircases and large dark hallways. A labyrinth of overpasses and concrete walkways connects the three main buildings. Between classes, students congregate on these overpasses and walkways, creating choke points where larger students threaten smaller students. One day, in ninth grade, I accidentally step on the heel of a larger student. The student says something threatening. I try to walk away, but he approaches from behind and strikes me on the back of the head with an oversized textbook. The blow leaves me nauseated. The crowd makes room; larger students cheer while smaller ones look on in silence.
At home, I cry. My father is a history teacher at Liberty. He offers to intervene. I don’t know how to survive high school, but I know I can’t ask my father to protect me. I tell my father he should let me handle this on my own. He hands me a roll of quarters and shows me how to make a fist around them. He says, “Last resort.” I am terrified. The next day I am forced to navigate the crowded overpass again. My father is standing guard in the center of the crowd along with a group of students from his senior history class. My father and I have been friends ever since.
In October 1986, the Boston Red Sox lose the World Series to the New York Mets. The next day, I wear a Red Sox hat to school. A boy wearing a Mets hat beats me badly for this, while his friends stand by and laugh. I go home and cry again, but not in front of my father. My older sister takes notice and forces me to tell her what happened; then she calls some of her friends. One of them plays linebacker for the Liberty High School football team. She tells him to handle it. The next day, the Mets fan approaches me in the hallway and apologizes. His friends do the same. My sister and I have been friends ever since.
For the next two years, before my father drives me to school, I drink Pepto-Bismol with breakfast. The memory of the mint-chalk flavor lingers into adulthood. At night, I’m too afraid to concentrate. I struggle in Mr. Wetcher’s honors-level algebra class. He returns our exams in order of performance, saving the best grades for last. My tests are handed back first. Eventually, Mr. Wetcher drops me into a lower-level algebra section. He announces my departure to the class, then walks me down the hall and delivers me to the new teacher. The new class is seated alphabetically. Almost everyone is forced to move to a new desk. There are loud complaints as they shuffle their belongings and drop their books. Mr. Wetcher wishes me luck.
I seek refuge at church. Don Hackett, the youth pastor at First Presbyterian, is the first adult who allows me to call him by his first name. Don takes me under his wing. In the mornings, before school, he picks me up and takes me to breakfast. He challenges me to memorize Scripture, holding me accountable to a strict weekly schedule. He asks me to help teach the sixth-graders on Wednesday nights and makes me give the weekly announcements, forcing me to face my insecurities about performing in front of large groups. He teaches me how to be properly prepared for meetings and stresses the importance of public speaking.
As I continue to struggle in school, my parents look for ways to turn me around. Grades matter most, and mine are terrible. There are long, loud arguments about trying harder and not making excuses. I tell my father that some of my other friends are struggling, too. He tells me to find smarter friends. I take my frustrations out on my parents. I start stealing money from my father’s dresser drawer. When he catches me, there are more loud arguments about consequences and accountability.
My father forces me to take on a paper route as punishment for stealing the money. In the mornings, before school, I ride my bike to a neighborhood apartment complex and deliver the Bethlehem Morning Call. Every month, I am required to collect money from my customers. I can hear my customers through the thin walls of the apartment complex saying, “It’s the paper boy, don’t open the door.”
In the 1980s, Bethlehem Steel loses more than a billion dollars. There is talk about a brief return to profitability, but only after a significant portion of the workforce is laid off. Unemployment brings crime, and Bethlehem is not immune.
One morning, after finishing my route, I return to the light pole where I lock my bike. There is a large man removing my front wheel and rifling through the storage bag on the backseat where I keep my collection book. When he sees me, he begins to walk away, taking the wheel with him. I say, “That’s my bike.” He turns, takes a few steps toward me, and says, “Well, you shouldn’t leave it out here unattended.” I begin to walk away, but he follows. There is a fire station across the street. In a panic, I wheel what’s left of my bike to the front door and ring the bell. No one answers. I ring it again, and again, and again, not knowing what the firemen can do, but hoping they’ll at least let me come inside. The man with my wheel eventually leaves, but the firemen never answer.
When I get home, my father calls the police. The police officer is large and intimidating. He sits down at the dining room table and listens to my story. He laughs when I talk about no one answering the bell at the firehouse. He says, “Fucking firemen.” My dad and I laugh, too. The police officer says I did everything right. He says they know about the apartment complex. It has a reputation for this type of thing. They probably won’t be able to catch the guy, but they’ll certainly be looking for him.
The next morning I walk to the apartment complex to deliver the papers. I’m scared. I arrive to find that same police officer parked across the street. He stays until I finish the route.
1.1
Eventually high school becomes a better place. I can do pull-ups. I have friends. I begin dating a girl from church. She French-kisses me in the church parking lot.
I don’t think I’m supposed to be kissing girls at church, so I don’t tell Don. But it isn’t difficult for him to find out from others what’s going on, so he pulls me aside and talks about how it’s best to avoid shallow relationships at my age.
I break up with the girl from church, but only for a short time. I like the way she looks, I like the way it feels to be next to her, and I like the things she does to me in the church parking lot. And there are other girls too, including ones who don’t go to church. But Don’s words mean a great deal to me, so I do not have sex. I’m afraid to do something that can’t be undone.
In 1988, during my sophomore year in high school, I begin attending youth group meetings on Sunday nights. But instead of the quiet and reserved services I’ve come to love in the sanctuary, there are drums, guitars, and lots of clapping.
Don does not always attend the meetings on Sunday nights. When he doesn’t, volunteer leaders, college students mostly, talk about Jesus and being born again. One Sunday night, a volunteer leader stands up in front of the group and tells us about how Jesus died. He tells us to stand up and lift our arms in the air. When some of us start to struggle, he yells at us to hold our positions. He says we could never handle what Jesus did for us on the cross. You can’t breathe, so you have to hold your weight up with your arms, and eventually they give out and you suffocate to death. I don’t think that I had anything to do with Jesus dying in this horrible way. I don’t think I would ever ask someone to do something like this. I don’t think I need to be saved.
When I attend the Sunday night youth group meetings, I sit in the back, stay silent, and watch others clap their hands and talk about being born again.
1.2
In December 1989, the United States invades Panama. In history class, Mr. Deutsch makes us read newspapers. I read an article in the New York Times about the 82nd Airborne Division and its role in the invasion. The article says the 82nd Airborne represents the best the country has to offer. They are men who lead by example and do not draw attention to themselves. They are quiet professionals who do impressive things like kill bad guys and feed starving refugees all on the same day.
By 1990, my senior year in high school, I no longer take beatings under the overpass. I take honors-level courses and participate in the high school activities that my guidance counselor says will make me look more impressive on my college applications. I apply to a variety of small liberal arts colleges in Pennsylvania and New England, but I also spend time in the Army recruiting office. The church has played a critical role in my life. Men like Don Hackett offered a safe place where I could grow and mature. I want to offer that same protection to others. I want to be like the police officer who showed up at my paper route. I want to be a quiet professional who saves starving refugees.
Don says a calling is a way of defining our choices in life. We don’t hear a voice or have a vision. Instead, we rely on those we trust to help us make good decisions. When the process is done properly, we honor God with the choices we make. I tell Don that I feel called to law enforcement. Don tells me that I can’t just make that decision on my own. He says you have to follow a path, not create one.
Don and I talk about the difficulty of being a soldier while still following Christian tenets such as turning the other cheek and loving your enemy. But Don says there are different ways to love your enemy. He says the world can be a difficult place. He says sometimes God calls us to do what is necessary to protect people. I ask him about war. I ask him about killing. He says, “Sometimes it’s okay to lie to evil.”
1.3
During my childhood, when my father wasn’t grading papers or preparing lesson plans, he was working a second job stocking shelves and manning the register at Pennsylvania State liquor stores. My mother eventually turned her substitute-teaching position into a full-time job teaching high school biology. My parents are supportive of my decision to pursue a career in law enforcement, but they insist that I attend college first. They are adamant about the importance and value of a four-year degree. They have saved their money for a reason. Before I graduate high school, they agree to shoulder the entire cost of my education.
I receive a number of acceptance letters from small Pennsylvania colleges. But there is also an acceptance letter from Gordon College, a small Christian school in Wenham, Massachusetts, so I attend a weekend for prospective students.
I spend the weekend with Roy Carson, a Gordon College sophomore. I go to class with him, eat in the dining facility, and sleep in his dorm room. Roy is fat. He sweats constantly. His skin leaks grease. His slick hair sticks to the pimples on the back of his neck. He talks constantly. He won’t let you say anything. He barely pauses to take a breath.
I am embarrassed to be seen with Roy, but Gordon College students are not. They stop and take time to talk to him. They listen intently as he rambles on and interrupts anyone who tries to speak. They shake his hand or give him a hug. They ask him to sit with them at dinner and invite him to evening gatherings. I can picture Roy Carson as a student at Nitschmann Middle School. And I can picture him failing the presidential fitness test. But I don’t think anyone at Gordon would care.
The curriculum and special religious focus at Gordon College hold no special interest for me. I don’t care about learning economics from a Christian perspective or hearing a biblical viewpoint in a science class. Instead, I think about the terrible days at Liberty High School. I think about the beatings and the sleepless nights and how hard it was to concentrate in Mr. Wetcher’s algebra class. If my parents are going to force me to go to college, I want to go somewhere safe. I enroll as a student at Gordon College.
1.4
In the fall of 1990, I spend my first semester at college adjusting to life in a Christian dorm. Wood Hall is the oldest dorm on campus. Half of the building is reserved for male students, the other half for female. There are visiting hours for the opposite sex on the weekends, but only in the evenings. While there is no prohibition against dating, students of the opposite sex are forbidden to make public displays of affection. Some students push the envelope by holding hands. The girl from First Presbyterian Church visits me on campus and we push the envelope even further.
I meet students from a variety of Christian backgrounds. Many attended private Christian high schools that funnel them into Christian colleges like Gordon. Some of them talk about the dangers of a secular education and the effect it can have on faith. During a class on the New Testament, students debate the origins and efficacy of infant baptism. A student stands up and says anyone who was baptized as an infant needs to be baptized again. There is some disagreement, but most students concede that babies can’t accept Christ. Someone else tries to argue that if you aren’t baptized as an adult you aren’t really Christian, but the professor says this is going too far.
The sentiment reminds me of the Sunday night youth group meetings at First Presbyterian Church, where youth leaders taught us that you needed to be saved to belong. I am uncomfortable, but I stay silent. I want to be safe at Gordon, I don’t want to be a target again, so I avoid defending anyone my classmates say doesn’t belong.
1.5
The week before Thanksgiving of my first semester at Gordon, someone hands me a pamphlet advertising a support group for students from non-Christian homes. At the bottom, there is a series of questions.
Do you pray regularly with your family?
Do you read Scripture with your family?
Do your parents speak the name of Jesus?
Were you baptized as an adult?
I answer no to these questions. I tally up my score. The score says it is possible I do not come from a Christian home.
I attend the support group meeting along with other students who may not come from Christian homes. I meet two other Presbyterians. The leader of the group gives a talk about visiting churches where the congregants don’t even carry Bibles. He says this is very dangerous. He says there are houses throughout America where the name of Jesus is never mentioned.
At Thanksgiving, I return home and show Don the pamphlet. I ask him if I should be concerned about my family’s Christianity. My parents never talked about issues of faith around the dinner table. My grandmother never talked about Jesus. Instead, my family talked about history, biology, and books. I ask Don whether it’s possible that my family isn’t Christian at all.
Don is furious. He says, “You don’t choose God. God chooses you.” Don reminds me of all the Scripture I’ve memorized and all the verses about fools and the foolish things they say. He reminds me that I’ve told him I feel called to protect people, but I won’t even defend my own family. He tells me my grandmother is the kindest and quietest person any of us have ever met. He says, “That’s the voice you should be listening to.”
1.6
In January 1991 I sit in the common room at Gordon College and watch the beginning of Operation Desert Storm. Someone says they heard the draft will be implemented by the end of the week. Someone else says students from Christian colleges will be exempt. Students talk about just war theory and the writings of Augustine. No one talks about joining the military.
I think about the recruiters from Bethlehem. I think of Mr. Kave and Mr. Gentry. I think of helicopters being shot down with tennis balls and of young children sticking grenades into the pockets of American soldiers. I think of the quiet professionals of the 82nd Airborne Division who feed starving refugees. I think of students skipping out on chapel. I think of long discussions about infant baptism and the pamphlet from the support group that suggested I might not come from a Christian home.
In Bethlehem, Don offers me a summer job working at the church as an associate in youth ministry. I spend the summer leading Bible study groups for middle school students and taking them to amusement parks and baseball games. I organize a popular Frisbee match on Sunday afternoons on the church’s front lawn. I lead a camping trip into the Pocono Mountains and I organize work crews to assist the local soup kitchen. In the Middle East, U.S. troops are celebrating an overwhelming victory against Iraq. But the Kuwaiti oil fires continue to burn, and there is talk about Saddam Hussein hiding his weapons. And I’m ashamed not to be involved.
1.7
In the fall of 1991, back at Gordon College, I take a class on Romans and Galatians. The professor, William Buehler, a veteran, has taught theology since the 1960s. During the first class of the semester, Buehler gives a lecture on the dangers of the modern church. He complains about overhead projectors: “When I walk into a church service with an overhead projector, I turn around and walk back out.” He also talks about guitars and drum sets. He says, “And, for God’s sake, there should be no clapping in church. It’s not a Broadway musical.”
The first chapter of Romans talks about men committing shameless acts with other men, which leads to a debate about homosexuality. Some quote other parts of Romans and say homosexuality is being compared to murder. They say Paul may even be suggesting we put homosexuals to death. As in the conversation about baptizing babies, I choose to stay silent. I avoid becoming a target.
Buehler says the comparison of gays to murderers is the type of thinking he finds at churches with overhead projectors. He encourages us to read through Romans and Galatians before deciding we know what Paul thinks. He tells us to grow up and see the world. “Join the military,” he says. “And while you’re at it, transfer out of Gordon, get a real education.”
In 1992, after three semesters at Gordon College, I transfer to Boston University. I doubt Buehler was seriously encouraging us to leave Gordon. But Gordon showed me something essential about how the church could move away from its responsibility to care and protect and instead choose to condemn and accuse. I was too afraid to confront it, so I left.
I move into a Boston University dorm on Beacon Street over Christmas break in 1992. I arrive a few days early, to attend an orientation program designed for transfer students. The room is a double but there is only one bed. With the help of a janitor, I find the other bed stacked in a closet down the hall. I clear space in the room and carve out my territory. I hear footsteps, then keys, then the door. Mike, my new roommate, curses and throws his bags. He says the school promised him he wouldn’t be getting a roommate. He has a ton of work to do this semester and he can’t afford to have someone in the way. My Gordon College sweatshirt is hanging on the back of my chair. He says, “Gordon College? Oh, fuck no.” He calls the housing office. They deny his request for a single room. He throws the phone and leaves the room.
His girlfriend moves in with us. At night they are loud. In the mornings, Mike says, “Are you sure you don’t want to look for a new room?” I spend a great deal of time in the library trying to hear God. I take an introductory philosophy class and read The Myth of Sisyphus, by Albert Camus.
Camus says we cannot know God. In the dorm, my roommate sees me reading the book and says, “I love Camus. Fucking genius.” On Sunday morning, I wake up early to go to church. I open the window and turn on the lights. I bang drawers and drop coins on the floor. The girlfriend climbs out of bed, naked, and says, “Think of this when you’re trying to pray.”
Mike and I eventually become friends. We return to our dorm room after dinner and watch the evening news together. One evening, there is a report about changing attitudes in the military. There is talk in Washington about finding ways to allow gay men and women to serve in uniform. Mike is surprised to hear me say something supportive about this.
In the coming weeks, Mike introduces me to his friends. Some are gay. Some are not. None of them go to church. In the evening, after class, I walk back to the dorm along Commonwealth Ave with Mike’s girlfriend. She says, “We just thought you were one of the bad guys.”
1.8
In the summer of 1993, Army Rangers are dying in Somalia. I’m working at First Presbyterian Church again, playing Frisbee, going to amusement parks, and teaching Bible study. I visit the Army recruiters on Stefko Boulevard in Bethlehem. I don’t tell my parents this time. I don’t need permission to enlist. President Clinton withdraws troops from Somalia. Wars don’t last long anymore.
I move off campus for my senior year. I take a class on World War I. I read about the generation of 1914, trench warfare, and mustard gas. I read All Quiet on the Western Front and write a paper about Wilfred Owen.
I read an article in the Boston Globe about a war on the streets of Boston. The article mentions the infamous 1989 Charles Stuart case and how it exposed racism in the city. Charles Stuart, a white man, drove his wife to the Mission Hill neighborhood and murdered her. He blamed the crime on a black man wearing a hooded sweatshirt. People in Boston thought of Mission Hill and the Bromley-Heath housing project as places filled with bad black men, so they believed the story was true. Police tore Mission Hill apart. They arrested a black man. The case fell apart. It turns out Charles Stuart was in debt. He murdered his wife for the insurance payment. Charles Stuart eventually committed suicide by jumping off a bridge. The police released the innocent black man from custody. But in the early 1990s, as I read about a war on the streets of Boston, people still think of Bromley-Heath and Mission Hill as bad places full of bad people.
A friend of mine from Gordon who is studying urban ministry rents an apartment in Roxbury with three other men on the condition that there are always two whites and two blacks in the apartment. He wants to prove that blacks and whites can live together. When one of the roommates gets married and moves out, I’m offered one of the white rooms. In the evenings I work in downtown Boston, delivering packages to law firms and tax lawyers. I work late into the night. Afterward, I ride my bike back to Roxbury through neighborhoods where my roommates tell me not to ride my bike.
The apartment is often engulfed in a concert of police sirens and shouting matches. I eavesdrop on domestic disputes from the back porch and avoid the drunks and addicts as I ride my bike to campus. I watch the news and hear about a shooting that took place a few blocks away. At night, the four of us sit out back and talk about Boston. Jay, one of the black roommates, works for a Christian organization called Young Life. Some of the kids who attend Young Life in Roxbury are former gang members. Jay says the gang members tell him the difference between the Boston police and the Metro police. He says there are black Boston police officers, but there are no black Metro police officers. He says no one cares when the Boston police show up, but the Metro guys mean business. He says, “You don’t fuck with the Metro guys.”
Jay is a large man. He was a star athlete in high school and was recruited to play basketball in college. He always has friends at the apartment. My other roommates tell me that these friends are associated with the gangs in Bromley-Heath and Mission Hill. Some of them come from opposing gangs, but when they’re with Jay, everyone is safe.
One evening, Jay and I are the only two in the apartment. He says, “Why are you always avoiding me? Why are you always leaving when I show up?” I tell him about wanting to be a police officer. I assume black people don’t want to be police officers. I don’t tell Jay this. He says, “If you want to protect people in this city, you’re going to have to learn to hang out with black people.”
On Sundays I begin to attend a Pentecostal church in Dorchester with the guys from the apartment. We arrive early and set up metal folding chairs and the overhead projector. There are guitars, drums, and clapping. Many of the congregants are black. After the sermon they gather in the aisle and share the peace. They mingle and hug and say, “Peace be with you.” This is something Presbyterians don’t do. On the way home I tell my roommates that I’m just not a “share the peace” kind of guy. Jay says, “Maybe you’re just meant to be a Metro police guy.”
In the fall of 1993, my senior year at Boston University, I call the Boston Police Department and enroll in the testing program. I’ve done what my parents asked and earned my degree, but I haven’t lost interest in law enforcement. There is a civil service test in January. There are more than seven thousand applicants. I earn a perfect score, but it’s not enough. Applicants with “preference points” are elevated on the list. I call the recruitment office and ask for advice. “Join the Army, get veterans’ preference, and we’ll see you when you get back.”
1.9
In 1994, I graduate from Boston University and return home to Bethlehem. The steel company isn’t making anything anymore. The newspapers write about decentralization. The blast furnaces go quiet. Paratroopers invade Haiti. My father calls and says that CNN has come to Liberty High School to ask questions about the intervention. They want the perspective of a working-class town, and they’re going to interview my father’s history class. He asks me to videotape the event.
I sit down with Don and tell him about the civil service test in Boston. He says, “When God closes a window, he opens a door.” I tell him I’m joining the Army. I tell him it’s a necessary step to becoming a police officer.
On Sundays, I visit my Presbyterian grandmother after church. When I tell her about joining the military, she talks about the day my grandfather left for the Army. She hands me a black-and-white photograph of him in uniform. He’s waiting for the train, heading back to base after a short furlough. My two-year-old father stands next to him, hanging on his leg. She talks about how everyone thought World War II was necessary. They all felt they were doing the right thing, that it was good they were marching off to war, that it was good that everyone was doing their part. Then she says, “Of course, we didn’t actually know what they were going through. We didn’t actually know what they were doing over there. If we did, I’m not sure how we would have felt.”
My grandmother sounds sad, but she quickly changes the subject. She starts telling the stories about family and all the places they have come from. She pulls out the enormous Bible that once sat on the lectern in the church at Spruce Creek. It was published in 1874. She remembers playing in her grandfather’s office and being told to be quiet because he was working on a sermon. She tells me that the Bible is mine. She writes my name on an index card and slips it into the cover page. I can’t help but sense a certain disappointment that I haven’t followed in her grandfather’s footsteps.
In 1995 I open the door at the Army recruiting station on Stefko Boulevard. Friends, to include Mr. Gentry, have advised me to apply to Officer Candidate School. This is the path most college graduates take into the military. Officers lead a much better life in the Army than enlisted personnel. They are paid better, live in better housing, and outrank every enlisted soldier. Enlisted soldiers are forced to do menial jobs like raking leaves and cleaning toilets. They are housed in the barracks alongside other soldiers and receive half the salary of an officer. But enlisted soldiers, unlike officers, can choose their own training school and select their own career path. I want to control my own path. I want to be a military policeman, so I enlist.
I take the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery (ASVAB), a multiple-choice exam that tells the Army whether you are smart enough to be a military policeman. I am. But I’m also smart enough to be trained as an artilleryman, a water purification specialist, and a Patriot missile repairman. I don’t want to do these jobs. No one else does, either. But the recruiter tells me that there aren’t enough slots for the military police and he can offer me a better choice of duty stations if I take one of the jobs no one wants. When I hesitate, he says they might still be able to arrange military police training. I just need to sign first. He’ll arrange it later.
I know this isn’t true. Mr. Gentry warned me about recruiters desperate to fill jobs that no one wants to take. They find a way to make you sign, then rescind promises or alter agreements, and you end up tightening screws on Patriot missiles for three years. When I get up to leave, the recruiter’s supervisor steps in. He says they can offer me whatever I want; I just need to be patient. Sign the paperwork and everything will work out. I keep moving toward the door. He says, “What about the language program?”
I was never aware the Army had a language program. The recruiter tells me my ASVAB score qualifies me for the Defense Language Institute (DLI). I sit back down and we talk about the life of a military linguist. He assures me the experience would benefit my pursuit of a law enforcement career, even open doors to intelligence agencies. He convinces me to sign the papers. I enlist as an Arabic linguist.
But the recruiter doesn’t tell me everything. He doesn’t tell me that I still have to take the Army’s Defense Language Aptitude Battery (DLAB) in order to qualify for the Arabic program. If I fail the test, I’ll be forced to choose from whatever jobs the Army makes available. I’ve signed the papers. The Army owns me for the next five years. The recruiters know that most candidates fail to score high enough on the DLAB to qualify for Arabic. They expect the same from me. When I pass the test a week later, they seem disappointed. One of them laughs and says, “Everyone flunks out of Arabic eventually.” None of them wish me luck. I board a plane in Harrisburg and fly to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. I spend the flight thinking I should have listened to Mr. Gentry and become an officer. I wonder what else the recruiters haven’t told me.