Frank is Emptiness

April 18th, 2024

It’s starting to get light. The eastern sky has hints of pink and orange at the horizon. The naked trees stand in black contrast to the dawn. A few of the tree limbs have buds on them. The maples are beginning to get leaves. The walnuts and the locusts are still bare. The world is still partially in shadow. The sun will come soon.

I’ve been up since 3:00 AM. I feel like I did when I worked third shift years ago. I’m tired but wound up. I am tempted to lie down and try to sleep some more, but that is pointless. I’m going to be active the rest of the day, a day that really hasn’t even started yet.

Asher, our three-year-old grandson, lives with me and my wife. He sleeps with me at night. He’s restless, constantly moving as he dreams. He often wakes up during the night. He sits up in bed and demands that I carry him to the kitchen and give him a warm bottle of oat milk. I do that. Then I hold him in my arms as I sit in a chair by the table in the dark kitchen. Eventually, he dozes off, and we both go back to bed.

We went through this process around midnight. I woke up three hours later feeling something warm and wet. It was Asher, and everything near him. He had peed through or around his diaper, soaking his pajama pants, the bed sheet, the mattress pad, and the bed cover. Asher was unhappy. So was I.

I stripped the wet stuff off the bed, and then gave Asher a fresh diaper and new pajamas. Then I fed him again. Then I held him. Then I put him down and laid next to him in bed until he slept. I am now in the second phase of the program. I’m washing the soiled bedding and keeping an eye on the boy. I made coffee. That is one thing I did for me. Writing this essay is the second thing.

It is amazing to me that, at the age of sixty-six, I am still preforming the child rearing tasks that I did thirty years ago, along with some other chores that I probably didn’t do back in those days.

I never thought I would be a new parent again.

April 16th, 2024

When I put my grandson, Asher, to bed last night, all I could think about was the fact that Iran was attacking Israel. That scared me, and it still does, because the show is not over. I’m not so much frightened for myself as I am for my grandkids, in particular the little boy who we are raising at home. I’m old. I am in the seventh inning stretch of my life, so Armageddon doesn’t bother me that much. However, Asher, and my other three grandkids are just starting their lives.

What kind of future will they have, if any?

I like to read history. It’s a nasty habit, probably worse than smoking crack, but I am interested in learning about the blunders of previous generations. Human nature has not changed much over the centuries, and it is depressingly predictable. Our ancestors fought innumerable wars, and they never learned that these bloody affairs generally don’t end well. The outcomes seldom match the initial expectations of the adversaries. Just glance at World Wars I and II for evidence of that.

It would be nice to believe that the United States has a handle on the current events in the Middle East. We don’t, and I don’t think it matters who is in the White House trying to run things. Our best friend in the region is Israel, and they do whatever they want whenever they want knowing full well that we won’t interfere. That makes Israel simultaneously both our ally and a rogue state. Our other allies in the neighborhood are also kind of iffy.

We might like to think that Iran and its surrogates in the Mideast are all in lock step. I doubt that. I have read that Tehran was a bit surprised with Hamas’ action on October 7th of last year. Iran has allies, but these organizations also have their own agendas. The ayatollahs don’t own these people.

I don’t foresee Israel and Iran deciding to play nice. For decades, both nations have characterized the other as being an existential threat. Iran’s drone and missile attack of a couple days ago won’t be the last round in the fight. The potential for this struggle to suck in other parties, like the United States, is very high.

I am not so scared about Israel and Iran going at it. I am terrified by the prospect of a variety of forces getting involved, each with its own goals. This game has way too many players, and not enough rules.

I hold my grandson and I pray that this all ends with the world left in one piece.

That is also iffy.

April 6th, 2024

Passover is coming soon, and its meaning seems a bit different this year. Pesach is all about freedom, in particular the liberation of the Israelites from slavery in Egypt. In one sense, it is the reliving of the Jewish triumph over the power of the Egyptian army. It is the story of a glorious and miraculous victory, but there are also subtle nuances involved. The following quote applies:

“Yet our celebration of this extraordinary victory is muted: the Hallel, the psalms of thanksgiving, is recited in abbreviated form on the seventh day. According to the Taz, a famous 17th-century commentator on the Shulchan Aruch, we shorten Hallel on the seventh day in remembrance of our enemies who perished. The Taz’s comment is based on the Talmud, which imagines a divine cry of pain and grief, directed at the angels about to sing their morning song: ‘The work of my hands is drowning in the sea, and you sing songs?’ (Sanhedrin 39b). At this moment of exhilaration and triumph, God commands us to feel empathy for the defeated. – by Benedict Roth from an essay in The Jewish Chronicle

Hamas is not by any means defeated. The war in Gaza is not over, and there seems to be no chance of it ended any time soon. The Israeli forces are engaged in a slow, grinding type of urban warfare. In the process of uprooting their enemy, the Israelis have killed over 31,000 civilians. When the Israelis win this war, if they can win in any meaningful way, will there be any empathy for the noncombatants? What is the end result of this bloodshed going to be?

I go to an Orthodox synagogue about twice a month on Shabbat. The war in Israel and Gaza is always front and center in the minds of all the congregants. They all support Israel, and they are all very concerned about the hostages who are still held by Hamas. Yet, in talking to a few of the members of the shul, I find that there is also an uneasiness about the violence and destruction in Gaza. As one man told me about the Palestinians,

“They are people too.”

We are all God’s children.

At every Shabbat morning service, we all pray for the U.S soldiers and government, and we pray for the soldiers and government of Israel. When I first started going to the synagogue, I was bothered by this prayer. However, I have found a way to deal with it.

When my oldest son, Hans, was deployed to fight in Iraq in 2011, I prayed for him every day. I prayed that he would return home safe and unharmed. He came back, but not unharmed. I prayed that he would never have to take the life of another human being. He did kill people, and once it was up close and personal. God brought Hans home, but my son returned to us a very different man.

When I pray for Israeli soldiers, I pray for their safe return home. I pray that they never commit an unnecessary act of violence. I pray that they never suffer a physical, psychological, or moral injury. I don’t want these Israeli soldiers to go home changed for the worse. I know how that is.

At the same time, I pray for the people of Gaza. Some of them are ruthless killers, but many of them are innocent, as innocent as people can be in our world. Most of them don’t deserve this agony.

When the war started in October, I emailed a friend from the synagogue, and I emailed a person I trusted at the Milwaukee Muslim Women’s Coalition. I had the same question for both of them:

“To whom can I make a donation that will help in Gaza, but won’t get somebody killed?”

My Jewish friend suggested giving to Magen David Adom (the Red Star of David), which is the Israeli version of the Red Cross. My Muslim friends suggested SAMS (Syrian American Medical Society).

I give to both.

April 4th, 2024

My daughter-in-law in Texas sent me this photo a couple days ago. It’s a picture of her daughter (my granddaughter), Madeline, kneeling on top of a wobbly table on their porch gazing at a flag bearing the emblem of the 1st Cavalry Division. My oldest son, Hans, is Madeline’s father, and he served in the 1st Cav. He was deployed to Iraq with the Cav back in 2011. Hans and Gabby just bought this home with the porch, so I am pretty sure that the flag is also a new purchase. Hans never had a place to fly a flag before. Now, it proudly waves in the Texas breeze.

I like the photo. It is mysterious in a way. I can only see the back of Madeline, so I don’t know what her face looks like. I can’t see her expression. I can’t guess what she may be thinking. All I know is that this three-year-old is intently watching Daddy’s flag flap in the sunshine.

Hans identifies strongly as a vet, especially as a combat vet. The flag waves in his yard because it means something to him. I don’t know if Hans can adequately explain what it means, but I do know that it is important to him. It represents part of his history, an extremely vital part of it. Part of my son, and part of Maddy’s father, is in that flag.

Hans has a military ancestry. His paternal grandfather was a Navy man on an aircraft carrier in the Carribean back in the 1950’s. Hans’ maternal grandfather was a radioman in the Luftwaffe during WWII. I was a helicopter pilot for the Army in West Germany during the Cold War in the 1980’s. Hans followed suit and joined the Army. However, Hans was trained as a tanker, and then Hans went to war.

When Hans was growing up, he saw stuff that I had kept from my time in the service. When I was young, I saw stuff that my father had from his time in the Navy. I saw things that my father-in-law had in his possession from his years in the German military. These things add up, and the next generation, for good or will, takes them to heart at a very young age.

I don’t know what Madeline sees when she looks at the 1st Cav flag. Maybe she just thinks it’s pretty. That’s okay. I know for sure that she knows it’s her daddy’s flag and that is all that matters.

April 6th, 2024

My wife and I went on a date yesterday. Generally, this sort of event would not be very newsworthy, but in this case, it is. The fact is that Karin and I have not gone anywhere as a couple for well over year. This lengthy interval between outings has not been entirely voluntary. We are the fulltime caregivers for our toddler grandson, and he is with us all the time. We have never been able to find the time to find a babysitter for Asher, so except for the rare instances when our youngest son and his wife are available to stay with the boy, Asher is in our care.

As it turned out, Asher’s mom was willing and able to watch over her son for a couple hours. There was other adult supervision on hand when Asher visited his mother, so Karin and I were free to go. We did.

We didn’t go very far. Two hours really isn’t that long a period of time when you think about it. We drove a couple miles to the east side of Milwaukee and parked near Downer Street. Downer has a small retail section with a movie theater, a couple restaurants, a grocery store, and a bookstore. There isn’t a lot to do on Downer Street, but then we didn’t have much time available to us. We walked south down Downer and strolled into Boswell Books.

Boswell Books is an old independent bookshop. It’s part of a dying breed. Boswell hosts frequent book talks by authors eager to sell their wares. It is a focal point for both writers and readers. The bookstore has an eclectic selection of titles, and it is a place that invites the visitor to wander about. Karin and I were not looking for much of anything in particular, although I really did want to find a copy of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. I found one. Mostly, we just picked up books at random, and after a short time, each of us had three books to buy. We splurged. We don’t buy much outside of necessities. Of course, for Karin yarn is a necessity, but usually we aren’t eager to make extraordinary purchases. It felt good to do that for once.

From there we walked to the Cafe Hollander. It’s a bar/restaurant that specializes in Belgian food and beer, mostly beer. The food menu is all listed on two sides of a single laminated sheet of paper. The beer menu is more like a pamphlet. Karin ordered a veggie sandwich and a fancy latte. I got a cone of French fries and a beer. It is worth noting that in Belgium the outdoor kiosks sell fries in a paper cone. I remember that from when I was doing Army flight training there back in 1982.

Karin asked me, “You’re only getting French fries? Don’t you want something nicer? We don’t go out much.”

I told her, “I’m getting a beer with it.”

I got a .250-liter glass of Piraat, a blonde Belgian ale with a hint of cardamon and orange peel. It’s truly a sipping beer, partly because of the octane level. A Piraat has a 10% alcohol content. One glass is usually sufficient.

The truth is that Karin and I were both thinking frugally. In a sense, we are like new parents, and the money habits we had thirty years ago are back again. It’s really hard for me to just let go and spend freely on myself. It just doesn’t feel right.

It’s interesting how hard it is for me to begin a conversation with my wife when the little boy is not with us. It was initially awkward. Then it felt good. We talked about family. We talked about politics. We talked about adult subjects. The time went swiftly, too swiftly.

We drove back to pick up Asher. He was happy when he saw us. The boy had a good time with his mom, but he was ready to go home. We packed him into the car. He was asleep before we got to our house.

March 29th, 2024

I have been in contact with a woman who is spending endless hours trying to get Afghan refugees to safe locations. Her years of effort have enabled a trickle of Afghans to leave Pakistan and arrive someplace where they can start a new life. Portugal has been a destination for some of these migrants. It is difficult and expensive to find new homes for these mostly young people. My friend who is organizing all of this sometimes feels frustrated, and rightly so. She wrote this to me,

“I realized my tendency has been to focus on each individual that lands in a safer setting and think, ‘You’ve made it! Good for you! Now you can begin a new set of plans.’ But it seems most of our young friends see themselves as so inextricably linked to their loved ones, their relations, that they can’t imagine getting ahead without trying to help the whole group and so almost no one has saved any money for their own future. What to do? Will they all become homeless? Sadly, most have not made much progress learning Portuguese, and this will hamper them in seeking better paying jobs or entering Universities.”

I had to think about what she said. It made me remember things, and it made me realize that every migrant has the same struggles.

My people came to America 120 years ago. They left Slovenia, which was at that time part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and took a ship from Trieste to someplace in Canada. Mysteriously, they ended up in Wisconsin. Apparently, there was no razor wire on the borders back in those days. In any case, they started new lives in the United States, and they effectively cut the cord with the folks back in the Old Country.

Did they want to leave it all behind? Probably not, but back then there was no other option. There was no phone service available, much less an Internet. If they wanted to keep in touch with family and friends, they only had snail mail. They had to hope to God that their letter found its way to some obscure little town in the Alps. Then, they had to hope that somebody on the other side of the world wrote back to them. I have experience with overseas snail mail. Even today, I write letters to a friend of mine in Spain. Usually, he gets my mail, but by the time he receives the letters, they are more like historical artifacts than current news. I also write to a friend in the Dominican Republic. He has never received any of my letters, not one of them. So, for my ancestors, the odds of maintaining a relationship with those they loved in Slovenia were low. My people cut the cord as soon as they boarded that steamer.

The young Afghans who managed to get to Portugal or wherever have the ability to be in instantaneous and constant contact with loved ones who are stuck in Afghanistan or Pakistan. They don’t need to cut the cord, and so they don’t. It is completely understandable to me why they want to maintain that connection, but as my friend noted, it is to their long-term detriment. They can’t move forward if they are looking back.

I have a friend whose family came from Palestine. We talked about the Afghans who arrived in Wisconsin after the fall of Kabul. She spoke of her own experiences, and said this to me about refugees:

“They all have one foot in the Old Country, and they all believe that they will get to go home before they die.”

That is true. It cannot be otherwise.

These young Afghans are longing for their homeland, and it will take years before it sinks in that they are not going home, ever. That is simply the migrant experience. Eventually, reality will dictate that they start new lives in a new place. They will adapt to a home that has a culture that is alien to them. Their children will grow up in this new home, and they will have no memories of the Old Country. These children will never understand the sadness of their parents. They won’t understand why their parents cling to old traditions. That’s neither good nor bad. It just is.

My wife is an immigrant. She came here with me in 1985 from Germany. To this day, she considers herself to be a German. To our grandchildren, she is “Oma”. She has not been back to her home village in the last twenty years. My wife has adapted to life in America. There is nothing left for her in Germany. And yet, even after nearly four decades, she still has one foot in the Old Country.

April 1st, 2024

The church was crowded yesterday morning. It wasn’t full, but then it’s never full anymore. Usually, for a Sunday Mass, only about one third of the pews are occupied. Yesterday, being Easter, we were at around three quarters of capacity. I remember when, not too long ago, it would have been almost impossible to find a seat if a person was tardy for the Easter service. Nowadays, there is plenty of room for anyone who strolls in late.

Personally, I would have been okay with blowing off Mass yesterday. Easter is supposed to be joyous, and it is difficult for me to handle all the positive energy. Deacon Greg, who is a good friend, greeted everyone with a hearty, “Happy Easter! He is risen indeed!”

Okay, whatever.

My wife, Karin, got dressed up for Mass. She wore a new shawl that she had knitted, over a white blouse. Our little grandson, Asher, wore black pants with a multicolored button-down shirt. The shirt had a lot of pink in the mix, and Asher likes pink. He also likes to look good, and of course he did.

I wore a dark sweatshirt, blue jeans, and sandals. Work clothes.

Easter is the culmination of a long period of preparation. There are the forty days of Lent and Holy Week. In the Catholic scheme of things, a person is supposed to use the time during Lent and Holy Week to get ready for the celebration of the Resurrection. Lent is there for prayer, fasting, and almsgiving. Holy Week is for meditation on the Passion of Christ. The culmination of it all is Easter, and a new birth, at least in a spiritual sense.

I didn’t do any of that, and so Easter was “whatever”. I would have liked to take the time to prepare myself and get into the groove, but for the most part it didn’t happen. Lent and Holy Week consisted of days filled with chaos and confusion, anxiety and turmoil. I don’t remember there being much time to catch my breath, much less sit quietly to ponder the mysteries of the faith. Easter was not a day of exhilaration. It was a day of exhaustion.

My sister-in-law has a blog with many Catholic readers. In the days before the holiday, she sent an email with Easter greetings to all and sundry. I read her message on a day when I was in a particularly dark mood. I replied to all, and said,

“I don’t believe that God gives a fuck.”

I really didn’t believe that God cared at that moment. In retrospect I can see that it was inappropriate to send that message, but it came from the heart. Most of the time I can grudgingly accept the idea that God loves humanity. More to the point, I can usually buy the notion that He loves me and mine. But probably once a day, especially in recent days, I conclude that God is not all that interested in human suffering. The evidence is for that is mixed. Ask Job.

I spent most of the Easter Mass chasing Asher around the church and narthex. That’s what I do. Years ago, I would have been shocked to see kids running around in church. Those days are gone. Over the years, Karin, and I have gone to a variety of services, and we have discovered that this need to have children passive and silent during a liturgy is more cultural than Catholic. We have gone to Latino Masses where the kids run amok and swarm near the altar, and the priest is okay with it all. Actually, our pastor is okay with it too, so Asher is mobile and so am I.

There was a baptism during the Easter Mass. Two little girls got baptized. The congregation renewed their baptismal promises along with the godparents of the girls. It’s curious that during this recitation people solemnly promise to believe all sorts of things. It’s basically like reciting the Creed at Mass. We say that we believe in a variety of theological doctrines, but we never, not once, say that we believe that God loves us. But that’s the whole point. None of this has any meaning if God doesn’t care for each and every one of us. If we don’t believe that, then why not just close up shop?

Do I believe that God loves us?

I believe it when I hold Asher in my arms.

March 26th, 2024

We had a house guest this weekend. That was a little unsettling. My wife and I haven’t had somebody stay overnight at our house since before the pandemic. It was nice to have the young woman come to visit us, but it kind of disrupted our routine. Perhaps that was good thing. Karin and I sometimes get into a rut.

I met Sarah, our recent guest, several years ago in Chicago. She was working with a small peace group at the time. Her organization was deeply involved with helping young people, especially young women, in Afghanistan. Members of Sarah’s outfit would frequently go to Kabul to meet with these idealistic Afghan peace activists. The goal at that time was to encourage the new generation of Afghans to build a future without war and violence.

That goal was never achieved.

The last time I saw Sarah was in 2019. Then things radically changed in our lives. Covid struck our home hard, as it did in homes all over the world. Then Karin and I became primary caregivers for our little grandson, Asher. Sarah moved south and became a member of a Catholic Worker community in Alabama. Sarah and I stayed in contact, but there was no opportunity for us to get together, until now.

Things also changed radically in Afghanistan. The United States withdrew its forces from the country in disarray. The Taliban roared back into Kabul, and chaos reigned. The work that Sarah’s organization had been painstakingly doing among the Afghans was literally destroyed overnight. Her group no longer could promote peace in that country. She and her coworkers were suddenly tasked with getting their young Afghan friends to safety. After almost three years, they are still trying to do that.

Sarah spent part of Sunday at our kitchen table sorting through emails on her laptop. I asked her about that. She told me that she got numerous messages from members of what she called “the Afghan diaspora”. These were often cries for help. Sarah told me how careful she had to be in responding to these requests. she said,

“I have to choose exactly the right phrase or word. I have to really think about what message I send and how they interpret it.”

I get it. It’s hard. She wants to give these people hope, but not false hope. No, never that. The Afghans who write to Sarah are often grasping at straws. They want to good news. They want to read a response that says, “Help is on the way!”, even if that message says nothing of the sort. Sarah has to be cautious not to inadvertently mislead anyone. Some of these people who write to her might be stuck in a bad place, or perhaps they are trying to get family or friends to safety. In any case, Sarah has to be honest with them, and that’s a bitch.

For a while, I was involved with trying to help an Afghan refugee who had fled to Pakistan, like thousands of others did. He desperately wanted me to help him to get into the United States, and I found much to my chagrin that I could do almost nothing to assist him. This man and his young family were rapidly running out of time and money in a poor and unstable country, and they needed to go someplace safe. Eventually, Sarah’s organization was able to get them into Portugal, a place where they had never expected to go. Karin and I helped to pay for their journey to their new home, but that was all we have ever been able to do to help. Well, I also have tried to keep in contact with this family just to let them know that they are not forgotten. I suppose that counts for something.

Sarah told me that her contacts from the diaspora often hear about new immigration opportunities, or rumors of such, before she does. These people have skin in the game, and they scour the Internet looking for countries that might accept them or their loved ones. The pickings are lean. They want Sarah’s organization to look into any possible lead, not matter how unlikely.

There has probably never been a good time to be a refugee. However, this is a bad time to be a migrant, a very bad time. Afghans want to go to Western countries., preferably places where the population speaks English. These displaced Afghans fled their homeland because they had worked with Americans, so they usually know some English. Unfortunately, racist views and xenophobia are now rampant in Western countries. Just think about the southern border of the United States. European countries are also very leery about accepting more foreigners into their midst. Some of this concern is valid. Nations have to control their borders. It’s just that now many countries are slamming their doors on people who were our friends.

The tragedy here is that, at least in the case of the Afghans, they are homeless because they trusted us. We promised to take care of them, and we didn’t. The United States has a moral obligation to welcome these people into our country. We owe it to them. It is wrong that it falls on the shoulders of people working in small, private organizations to rescue Afghans who still admire America. Our government should be helping them.

The Afghans were our allies. We have forgotten them.

March 22nd, 2024

Wednesday was my birthday. It generally falls on the spring equinox, but this year the changing of seasons came a day early, probably because it’s a leap year and we had an extra day in February. This morning doesn’t feel much like spring. It’s cold outside, and a heavy, wet snow is falling. Winter isn’t quite finished with us yet.

My birthday was uneventful, and I’m okay with that. Last year was a big deal because I qualified for Medicare. Sixty-five is the last birthday where a person wins a prize. This year just seemed a bit odd. I wondered at the fact that I am still in the material world, and I asked myself, “Why?” After all, a number of my contemporaries have gone to the other side. What am I still doing here?

One of the answers is asleep in the next room. Asher, our toddler grandson, is snoozing away. My wife and I care for him fulltime. We are his guardians, and there is nobody else available to watch over the boy. If we weren’t caring for Asher, he would be in the foster care system, and that would be very, very bad. So, I am still here because Asher needs me. At least, that’s how I make sense of the situation.

Other people also need me. My wife, Karin, needs me. To a certain extent, so do our adult children. Just because somebody needs me does not mean I get to live longer. A lot of people die who still have others depending on them. However, being needed give me a reason to keep going. I often think that old folks wither away because they feel superfluous. They are abandoned by the younger generations and see no point in continuing to fight the good fight.

I received a couple gifts on my birthday: a music CD, a book, a card. There was nothing fancy, and there was no need for anything like that. At this point in life, there is very little that I need or even want, at least in a physical sense. I have more than enough stuff. What I want is peace of mind, and that is apparently a scarce commodity.

I asked my youngest son, Stefan, simply to spend some time with me. Time is also a scarce commodity. He’s a busy man, and he has a full and active life. However, he is willing to go to lunch with me this coming weekend. Once again, it doesn’t need to be anything fancy. I just want to sit with him and listen to what he has to say. I don’t need to talk much, unless he has a question for me.

A young woman in our lives has been struggling with health problems. It’s been very hard for her, and also for us. On my birthday, we found out that this young woman had been accepted into a treatment program. My wife and I breathed a bit easier knowing that. The young woman started the program yesterday. I took her there.

Knowing that she is getting the help she needs is the best birthday present I could have possibly received. I am grateful for it.

March 15th, 2024

Yesterday I read some mindless article about an apparent scandal at West Point, my alma mater. I shouldn’t have done that. The whole story was simply annoying. The article featured quotes from Elon Musk, the bazillionaire, and from Jeff Kuhner, some conservative radio show host, and neither of those people had any idea of what they were talking about, which really isn’t that surprising. I doubt that either of them has ever set foot at the United States Military Academy or can even find it on a map.

The whole point of the article was that the folks running the academy removed the phrase “duty, honor, country” from the institution’s mission statement. This outraged a number of commentators who insisted that West Point had gone “woke”. That is ludicrous on the face of it. If there is any organization on the face of the planet that is not woke, it’s USMA. The academy has not jettisoned the phrase “duty, honor, country”. That motto is literally engraved in stone on the campus. More to the point, the motto is engraved on the hearts of its graduates.

When I was a cadet, there was an alternative motto for West Point that was used as a joke. I heard this said about West Point,

“175 years of tradition unhampered by progress.”

Indeed.

I haven’t been back to the school since 1980, so I don’t know what the place is like now, but I can’t even imagine USMA being woke. The institution has this deeply ingrained conservativism that makes The Roman Catholic Church look like a hotbed of radical change. Seriously, just look at the cadet uniforms. Those hark back to the War of 1812, for God’s sake. Nothing there changes unless it has to change.

I was a plebe (freshman) at West Point in 1976, the first year that women were allowed to be cadets. Prior to that, USMA was kind of a monastic community with excessive amounts of testosterone. Then it was all different. For many people the acceptance of female cadets was akin to the Apocalypse. A lot of old grads were convinced that their Hudson Highland Home was going to hell in a handbasket. Yet, somehow, the institution survived and managed to churn out another generation of Army officers. We got over it.

“Duty, Honor, Country” will never not be a part of the culture of West Point. It doesn’t matter of it is in the mission statement. Those words are in the DNA of USMA. Even now, after 44 years, the phrase affects my life. “Duty” is part of who I am, maybe not with regards to the military, but certainly in other ways. I have a sense of duty toward my family, especially now that I am raising our toddler grandson. Even though the notion of “honor” is countercultural and seemingly anachronistic nowadays, it’s important to me. Love of “country” is what moved me to teach a citizenship class for years. I want immigrants to feel at home here.

I am not woke. Neither is West Point.