Tag: usma

After Fifty Years

May 22nd, 2026

“Sometimes the light’s all shinin’ on me
Other times I can barely see
Lately it occurs to me
What a long, strange trip it’s been.” – Grateful Dead

I was sitting at the kitchen table with my wife, Karin, a few days ago. Our five-year-old grandson, Asher, was watching mindless YouTube videos on Karin’s phone while my wife and I talked and drank coffee. Somehow, the topic of my time at West Point came up in the conversation. Karin asked how I did in that school.

I told her, “I did okay. I think I ranked 203rd out 800-something total graduates.”

She replied, “Oh, you must have been pretty smart. You were in the top quarter.”

I sighed, “If I was really smart, I would have quit and gone somewhere else.”

She looked at me and glanced at Asher, “But, if you had quit, then Asher wouldn’t be here!”

I laughed, “Then it’s good that I’m not that smart.”

Ah, the immutable law of karma strikes again. Karin was obviously right. If I had not graduated from West Point, I would not have gone to Germany and met Karin, and she would not have given birth to our daughter in 1991, and she in turn would not have given birth to Asher during the depths of the Covid pandemic, and we would not be fulltime care givers for Asher now. I can depend on my wife to help me to refocus on what is important.

My sojourn at the United States Military Academy, aka West Point, has been on my mind lately. It was almost fifty years ago that I went there. I think it was on July 7th, 1976, that I reported to the man in the red sash and jumped on to the military roller coaster. It has yet to come to a complete stop. I took the advice of Hunter S. Thompson: “Buy the ticket. Take the ride.” I can’t get my money or my time back. No refunds.

The first day at West Point is an incoherent blur. It is probably better so. I can remember getting a haircut, learning to march (sorta), and taking the Oath on the Plain while wearing a starched white shirt that was quickly becoming damp with sweat. All other memories are mercifully inaccessible.

So, what was West Point like? It was a mind fuck from start to finish. I like to describe the four years there as being like going to an Ivy League university and doing time simultaneously. I’m not saying there was nothing good about the experience. There were many positive aspects. However, the environment was in some ways deeply twisted, and that didn’t do much good for my mental health. Other people have very different memories than I do. They may be nostalgic. That’s fine. I’m not.

What did I learn? Well, let’s look at West Point’s motto: “Duty, Honor, Country”. Those are fine words, and they can mean damn near anything. I will try to express what they mean to me now, half a century after first hearing them.

What is duty? I would define the word as meaning “doing what needs to be done”. As a case in point, I have a duty to raise our grandson, Asher. I could have refused to be his legal guardian and care for him, but I have a moral obligation to do so. I have to be his father figure at this time in his life. I am simply doing what needs to be done, and I am doing it out of love. Duty performed reluctantly and lovelessly is a dead thing.

What is honor? That is strange word. It seems to be archaic and out of place in our society. I would say that honor means doing the right thing, just because it is the right thing. Have I always been honorable? No, of course not. I’ve screwed up plenty of times. However, I have tried to do the right thing, and maybe just the sincere attempt to do what’s right is in itself honorable.

What is country? That’s a slippery question. To my mind, country is about patriotism, and patriotism is about making sacrifices to promote the common good. That can take all sorts of forms. It might mean that a person puts on a uniform to defend the Constitution. It might mean that a person gets arrested for civil disobedience at a demonstration because of their beliefs. I have done both of those things. Love of country is multifaceted, and rightly so. It requires courage. I believe that both Charlie Kirk and Malcolm X were patriots, and they both died because they loved their country.

Asher will be waking up soon, and I have to help Karin get him ready for school.

He’s the reason that I went to West Point in the first place.

The First to Leave

August 3rd, 2025

Mike died on the evening of July 25th. That’s what I was told anyway. I have been thinking about Mike since I heard about his passing. We weren’t close friends, and I last saw him in 1980 or maybe in ’81. During the intervening forty-five years, I have connected with him three or four times, and all of those interactions were relatively recent and brief. They consisted of a couple emails, a snail mail letter, and an aborted attempt at a phone call. We haven’t had an actual conversation in decades. I have no idea what he looked like in the last months of his life.

Mike was in my West Point class. We graduated together in June of 1980. We were in the same company at United States Military Academy. The Corps of Cadets at USMA consists of four brigades, and each brigade has nine companies. Mike and I were in the same company, B-4 (B Company of the 4th Brigade). We joined that unit in the fall of 1976 as plebes (freshmen) and stayed there until we graduated and became 2nd lieutenants. We spent nearly four years in the same barracks, day in and day out. Upon graduation, our paths diverged, and they never really crossed again.

B-4, like the other companies, was in many ways a fraternity (even though there were a few women in each unit). Over time, a cadet gets to know his or her classmates. You make friends. Some people are close, and others not so much. Eventually, a common bond is formed, and in some cases that bond remains intact for years, even decades. I’ve maintained contact with maybe half a dozen of my comrades from B-4. Mike wasn’t one of them. Once we graduated, we separated and stayed that way, that is until I learned that Mike had cancer.

Mike was a stranger to me when he left this world a week ago. I know nothing of his time in the Army or of his career in the civilian world or of his family. That’s why I grieve. I missed out on most of his life. He only died a few days ago, but he has been missing from my life for a long, long time.

I have never gone to a class reunion. Now that I am the legal guardian and a primary caregiver for a four-year-old, I doubt that I will ever go to one. I know that some of my classmates want to attend one of these events, because people are starting to check out of the net. If we don’t reunite now, we might never do so. I don’t know if Mike was the first to go. However, his passing is a wakeup call.