Physical challenges and lessons learned.

Here is another #StoryWorth question and answer that took me down memory lane. Some of these questions have been fun, but all have been enlightening for me. I would recommend StoryWirth to everyone!

What is one of the most significant physical challenges you have ever had to go through? What gave you strength?

My rat year at Virginia Military Institute.

It was unquestionably one of the most physically, emotionally, and mentally demanding things I have done in my life. I had harder workouts on the wrestling team in high school, but they were never more than a few hours at most. Officer Candidate School, which is boot camp for future Marine Corps officers was six weeks long, and probably more demanding, physically. Still, I was not trying to work on my electrical engineering degree in the midst of OCS. Plus, I attended OCS after surviving my rat year, so I was far more prepared mentally and emotionally.

I was eighteen years old the day I first walked into the barracks at VMI on August 17,1977; just a kid who had lived a sheltered life. I was painfully shy and physically unremarkable; tall, skinny, and timid. I hated that about myself. I wanted to be the strong, confident, good-looking guy you only saw in boardrooms or on TV.

VMI never offered to turn me into Rock Hudson, but they did offer to toughen me up a bit, and that would be a move in the right direction. The words that sealed the deal for me came from a cadet who was giving a recruiting presentation at my high school; “Not everyone can make it here.” That is when I knew I had to go to VMI.

In retrospect, it is a crazy reason to select a college, but it might be the mindset that helped me get through the tougher days, and nights there.

As it turned out, I underestimated what it would take to get through that first year. I was assuming the toughening up process only required good nutrition and a nurturing manner. It turns out that an institution that has been around for 138 years has a well-established process for achieving their goals, and their goals for that first week before class started were to break every rat down to somewhere below the lowest common denominator. The details of all that happened that week are mostly a blur of physical exhaustion, fear, and regret, and that was just the start. The only good news was that when classes started you at least got to sit down most of the day.

I can always remember matriculation day. Mom and Dad drove me up to Lexington, where VMI is located. It was about 4 hours west of our home in Norfolk. After arriving on post, we were directed to the gym for a few administrative matters, and to sign the matriculation book that every cadet has signed since 1839. The connection to the long and storied heritage of VMI was palpable. With the simple act of signing my name, I was suddenly part of something greater than anything I had ever been a part of in my life.

The timeline of all that happened that day has been blurred, but I wonder if the entire registration experience took more than 30 minutes. It happened so fast. A pleasant third classman in a white uniform told me to say goodbye to my mother and father. He then led a group of us, casually, from the gym and the comfort of our mothers and fathers toward the barracks which would be our home for the next four years. I remember worrying about my mother. This did not seem too bad to me, but I know she will be worried about me, I thought.

Then we entered the basement of the barracks, and instantly, I too was worried about me.

Lining the hallway on both sides were dozens of kids my age. Some wore jeans and T-shirts; others slacks and button-down shirts. Some with long hair down to their shoulders, others, like me, who had made the first cut with the barber back home. It was not a white privileged school, but there was certainly plenty of that. It was decidedly white and all male although that has fortunately changed since 1977.

Buzzing around them like a swarm of angry hornets were a bunch of guys in white uniforms screaming unintelligible insults and commands. One of them jammed a little red paperback book, three by five inches in size, into my face and shouted. “This is your rat bible. Read it! Memorize every word! God help you if you lose it.”  Then he pointed at the wall and said, “Stick your nose there and start reading!”

My poor brother rat who was standing next to me made the mistake of looking at my tormentor, drawing his attention and wrath away from me and toward himself.

“What are you looking at me for? Do you think I am pretty? Do you want to fuck me?”

I learned over the next several minutes that there really is no good answer to that question. I found myself praying for him to stop trying.

Pay attention, Chris, I thought, or you will be on the next bus home, with your tail between your legs. These guys are serious. There are rules in every game and the faster you learn them the better your chances. In situations like that, you learn when to shut up and make yourself a little smaller, less noticeable. If you do not you find yourself getting a lot more attention than you bargained for.

The one thing I was certain of was that they couldn’t kill me, and I was hopeful that seriously injuring me would be frowned upon as well. The truth was, I was more afraid of failing than any physical or emotional harassment I might have to endure.

The hazing continued for another 196 days, until the 1st of March 1978 when we “broke out” and were finally recognized as the class of 1981. Until that point, we were referred to as the rat mass. For six and a half months, even uttering the words, eighty-one in front of a first-classman, or senior, would result in you being face down doing pushups until you could no longer lift yourself off the ground. If asked, “What is nine times nine?” You had better answer, “Sseventy-eight plus three, Sir!” The number 81 just did not exist.

Eventually, you learn you can only do so many pushups no matter how loudly they screamed or threatened to rip your heart out and eat it in front of you, which I am pleased to say I never witnessed. There comes a point where you do what you can do, and you learn to accept whatever comes after that. If you cannot do that, I am not sure how you survive an experience like rat year at VMI. It is specifically designed to push you past what you have always thought was your limits.

What that first year taught me was that I am far more capable, physically and mentally, than I realized. That is true about all of us. Over the years I have watched people fail to even try hard things because they feel they “Can’t do it.”  What a shame.

The only way to understand what you are capable of is to try. We cannot be afraid to push ourselves until we fail. That is where we grow the most. If nothing else, the experience of trying and failing teaches us that we have far more mental and emotional strength than we realize. That knowledge has served me well for much of my life. It has been particularly helpful in dealing with my visual impairment. It is not a path I would have chosen but the one thing I am certain of is. “I can do it!”