In “A Man for All Seasons,” Sir Thomas More dismisses his daughter’s pleas to save his own life by compromising his ideals and acquiescing to Henry VIII. He says, “When a man takes an oath, Meg, he’s holding his own self in his own hands. Like water. And if he opens his fingers then, he needn’t hope to find himself again.”
I am a high school geography teacher and believe geography can reveal our character using the “landscapes” we create and live within as a mirror of self-evident truths about who we are. Are these landscapes just? Are they sustainable? In my classes, there are often conversations about “being real,” finding and then holding onto your authentic self — trying to live with your actions aligned with your values and not sell out, to make life better for all! We spend time trying to identify and possibly defuse those situations that can bring unbearable pressure on us to “open our fingers” and lose our own souls.
I first met Adam for a cup of coffee at the Creamery. I had been told that he was “real,” soulful, and might speak to my class about his experiences in the war in Iraq; could speak to holding onto your humanity under unbearable pressure. The following week he came to my class. He sat down, introduced himself, and asked others to say their name — honoring everyone in the room with a huge smile and a thank you.
He began to tell his story. He smiled as he described how his grandfather, a WWII hero, used to tap rhythms on his chest as he sang the Marine anthem. Adam spoke with his hands, shirtsleeves rolled up, revealing tattoos that moved on the curves of his muscular arms. Minutes later, Adam’s story seamlessly traveled to Iraq where he was part of the invasion, months after 9/11. He had enlisted the day after 9/11 but had to wait for his 18th birthday to join. He smiled as he recounted his excitement on the way to Iraq, daily practice runs to the border only to turn around and go back to the base. Then one day they didn’t turn back and they invaded Iraq. So many people, tanks, helicopters, all moving in unison, the relative ease with which they moved through Iraq, the looting of an Iraqi cigarette factory and handing out cigarettes to all the people — so welcoming and exhilarated with expectations of justice, electricity, and water.
And then his story turned on a dime. A young child walks towards them carrying a covered basket: “Ameriki, Ameriki!” Is it a loaf of bread or a bomb? Adam pauses, and smiles turn to tears in our class. Adam describes leading a patrol, they are protecting villagers from the Taliban; he speaks with his arms carefully on the table, describing the positions of the men. A perfect operation around a house they are protecting from Taliban recruiters. A shadow glides across the rooftop — Adam’s hands mimic the muffled staccato noise of his AR15 being fired, two shots.
The shadow falls from the roof: a father shielding his daughter from the Taliban falls from the roof. Adam describes the out-of-body experience as he watches himself take the wounded girl to the hospital and then buries the father by the river. Adam’s attention to detail is impeccable, and the memories vivid. Adams is with us but elsewhere, we hold our breath until he finds his way back to his story. The first life he has taken.
Adam was wounded his second year when his Humvee was blown up by an IED on a drive bringing a cross for Christmas services. Although seriously hurt, he refused to leave his men until his commanding colonel flew in and forced him to get on the medevac helicopter. He described him as a big hugger. We sheepishly asked what that meant. He smiles and says, “The colonel hugged everybody each day before they went out on patrol, to make sure they knew that he loved us.”
Class ended and 15 students thanked him and then waited, and I wondered for what. I told them to hurry to the next class. A student who I knew was contemplating joining the military came up and stood awkwardly in front of Adam, saying, “Can I have a hug?” Every student gently followed, lining up to get a hug from Adam.
Adam didn’t talk about right and wrong, misinformation, politics, or human rights. He described his moral ceiling. When asked, “How can you take a life?” Adam replied that it began with clarity — love for your men and country — which then got lost through the insidious ease with which your moral ceiling rises, allowing you to do things you never imagined you could do.
Why were the students so moved? I’m not entirely sure, but I think it has to do with Adam’s allegiance to telling the truth, to bearing witness to how difficult it is to be human. To be trusted to hold these “truths” with a tender grip is the key to honoring each other’s humanity, and is integral to seeing ourselves in each other as we try to hold tight to the sacred nature of our being. In this exchange, it was an honor and an inspiration to watch my students hold Adam’s truth, his humanity, securely in their hands.