He Made it, So We Made It
by Marcy O'Brian (Exerpted from The Washington Post, Sunday, May
24, 1998)
He has wanted it since he was eight. Now 23, he's
finally realized his dream. On May 22, 1998 he was graduated from the
Naval Academy and commissioned as Marine 2nd Lt. Barton O'Brien.
It was quite a clambake...the dress parades, garden
parties, the Blue Angels, and the President as commencement speaker. It
seemed fitting that the celebration was so big-the challenge certainly
was.
We had tried to talk him out of going. My husband, Tom,
had been a naval aviator, Vietnam era, NROTC from an engineering school.
He wanted his son to have a broader education, one that would expose him
more to the arts and stretch his small-town ideas. He expected Bart
would sandwich studies between a fraternity life of drinking beer and
chasing girls. More importantly, we both wanted him to make his own
decisions and learn to live by the results.
But, the kid knew himself better than we thought. His
life had always been a high-wire act-he was impetuous, outspoken, always
stretching the limits. I vividly remember the night he told me that it
wasn't just his dream of flying jets; he knew that without the Academy's
demanding discipline, he wouldn't make it through, that the good times
would prevail and he would not. We gulped when he turned-down the all
enticing liberal arts college offers.
On that sticky July morning of Induction Day 1994, an
enormous line of families snaked toward Alumni Hall, the processing
center. We anxiously hugged encouraging good-byes as he entered his new
world. Three hours later he came out the back door-shaved, inoculated,
uniformed and very subdued. A Plebe.
A Navy chief petty officer stood among the parents as we
searched the emerging trickle of white for our new Midshipman. "I've
watched them for three years," she said, "and I still don't know how we
get them. Why would any kid, with all this potential, come here? They
give up their cars, music, beer, friends, fun, their freedom. I don't
understand it." I'll never forget her.
At lunch time, Tom and I stood in the Admiral's
receiving line. I heard him ask every set of parents: "Who did you bring
to us today?" or "Who are you giving us today?" Two precisely worded
questions, carefully alternated. My only son, now his; it was sinking
in.
We were allowed to see Bart for ten minutes after the
Induction Ceremony that evening. He was ugly, bald. "Well, what do you
think?" I beamed, hoping to prompt the usual enthusiastic bravado that
his body language no longer conveyed.
"This sucks!" He was serious. Not only had his afternoon
been worse than he'd ever imagined, but his assigned roommate had quit,
the first one out. On our long drive home that night, Tom and I felt as
if we'd been punched in the stomach. We were devastated.
Bart called for the first time two long weeks later-for
five minutes. He never cried on those brief calls home, but many do. He
complained, but only at first. Gradually, the challenge became more
important to him than his misery.
And I began to understand the prevailing wisdom: If they
can struggle through Plebe Summer, then can get through Plebe Year. If
they can make it through Plebe Year, they can go all the way. It is
physically punishing, demoralizing, intellectually demanding and almost
impossible. They are told, until they are sick of hearing it, how much
easier it is now, without the extreme physical and verbal harassment of
"the old days." It is still awful. But, they survive, and they survive
together. Then, they flourish.
Even so, our high-wire walker continued to perform
without a net and gave us four years of worrying. During Plebe Year,
Bart was "fried" for allowing a roommate to keep a teapot in their room
and for some good-humored horseplay. He spent the next 45 days doing
extra marching and extra inspections, restricted to the Yard and
cramming punishments into his already tight schedule. He was confined to
the Academy over Easter and wandered echoing halls while everyone else
went home to family, fun and springtime.
But, he learned. He learned to sleep on top of his
sheets because he didn't have time to make his bed, let alone for
inspection. And, he funneled his natural mischief and newfound
self-respect into positive action, eventually winning one of six
battalion commands. By the end of his second year, Bart couldn't wait to
train Plebes because by then, he'd acquired a grudging love for the
place and he wanted them to love it as well. If you ask him today, he'll
tell you that "it's an awful place to be, but a great place to be from."
He'll tell you that the Academy has to be this demanding to create the
teamwork required and that they learn leadership first by example, and
then, by doing.
My son feels deeply that the integrity of Annapolis must
be beyond reproach. I don't pretend that there haven't been past
problems, but Admiral Larson '58, the Superintendent who came on board
with Bart's class and leaves with them, has firmly stood watch over the
institution's moral compass. He created a character development program,
and the Mids now study the everyday, practical ethics of their workplace
along with the moral responsibilities of leadership.
This class will be the first to take Larson's renewed
imperative into the Fleet. Will there be some failures? Probably. But,
not every school is blamed for the widely publicized errors of just a
few of it's graduates. Thousands of Midshipmen perform their daily
duties at the behest of a concerned and professional leadership, and
they deserve more respect than they've been given in the press.
Do they come for the free education? Be serious! Today's
teens wouldn't tolerate these four grueling years for money, let alone
with a figure of authority in their faces at all times. The Mids who are
math whizzes do not leave for $75,000 high-tech jobs, but for nuclear
sub school. The Mids who were high school All-Americans won't be
entering the professional drafts, because they chose the Navy, not the
Big Ten.
What they have chosen is a tougher path, one on which
they will continue to be judged more critically and more often than
their civilian counterparts. We needn't worry. They're ready. When I
look at my son-a grown man, 6-foot-3, with the slight swagger and broad
grin born of this new self confidence-I know that the Class of '98 will
carry it's hard-won tradition of honor and service into the Fleet with
pride.
We are not just teary-eyed patriots. For four years we
have silently, patiently, hopefully watched the perseverance and
struggle it took Bart to get here. We stood among the sunbaked thousands
who gathered at Commencement watching the hats soar over the
cheers-enormously proud of the dedication of our children, yet soberly
understanding that their course direction could take them into harm's
way. This time he leaves with our faith, support, love and prayers.
Anchors aweigh, my boy.