It was a Monday morning in August of 2003. I stood at attention, stared straight ahead, and focused on one single brick in the wall in front of me. Maybe they won’t see me.
As the footfalls of who knows how many uniformed cadre crossed the parking lot from the building to where we stood, my heart rate increased in proportion to the diminishing distance between them and us. Moments later, the yelling started, but I didn’t budge.
Out Of My Element
Somehow I had ended up at the front of the line after a scramble to form up in rows and columns. I much preferred to have been somewhere in the middle, blended in like a shadow among the others — some 70-odd recruits at the State’s Police Academy. But there I was; tall, skinny, fist in line, and completely out of my element.
The shouting became a blur and my senses were overwhelmed as I tried to keep track of where everything was happening around me without turning my head or shifting my eyes. Sir-yes-sir! and Sir-no-sir! punctuated the chaos like exclamation points echoing from every corner. Duffle bags were dumped out, belongings scattered and inspected, and all were met with instant condemnation. By design, this was not a day in which anything would go well — at least for us.
No Idea
After the initial verbal bludgeoning we were herded into the main building like frightened cats where we awaited further instructions. After getting my recruit ID number, squad number, and room number, I received permission to leave the check-in table and head for my room where I was to stow my gear. Lugging my duffle bag that was the size of a Smart car I made my way through the gauntlet of cadre and maze of hallways where I called a ma’am a sir, did my share of push-ups, and then finally found my room. It was the second to last room, a further journey than all but one. When I finally found it, I stepped through the threshold and had an instant sense of relief — at least for the moment. No one was yelling at me. That relief of getting away from the chaos was immediately replaced by bewilderment since I had no idea what I was supposed to do once I got there. If they had told me, I couldn’t remember.
I started unpacking and then figured I should probably at least make my bed. I had never made a military-style bed before; the kind with hospital corners and exact measurements for folds. Being the resourceful person that I was, I had come prepared (or so I thought) with a printout on how to make hospital corners from a Martha Stewart website. Yes, you read that right, Martha Stewart. My attempt at following those directions was a comedy of effort and of errors.
That was just the beginning of day one.
During my time at the Academy I learned some important things — things that I still remember to this day.
1. A Bed Is A Rack
A bed is not a bed, it is a rack. You don’t make a bed, you make a rack. You don’t go to bed, you hit the rack or you rack out. Either one, it doesn’t matter. I do not know why this is. The only solution I can come up with is that the medieval torture device known as the rack was much like a bed except for the ropes and pulleys at the four corners designed to tear one’s limbs off. Ours didn’t have those. We also didn’t have the large shirtless executioner with hairy arms wearing a black hood over his face ready to pull the lever.
2. A Door Is A Hatch
I agree, a hatch is a door and a door can be a hatch — much like a square is a rectangle but not all rectangles are squares. Sure, submarines have hatches but calling all doors hatches seemed funny to me since the Academy wasn’t a submarine lurking around beneath the surface of the ocean. Why did we call doors hatches? It beats me, but that’s what they were and that’s what we did.
3. A Bathroom Is A Head
During my time there, we didn’t go to the bathroom, we hit the head. We didn’t clean the bathroom, we cleaned the head. And though I can make a guess as to why the men’s room was called the head it didn’t make sense to call the ladies room that as well. So I’m not entirely convinced that’s the reason.
4. A Hat Is A Cover
Yes, hats cover your head, but they’re still hats. Interestingly, the word cover is a noun and a verb which makes sense because that’s what they do and what they are. A hat is only a noun which I guess makes it a lesser word. Whatever the reason, a hat is not a hat, it is a cover.
5. A Unit Is Only As Fast As Its Slowest Member
I don’t remember being taught this directly; it was learned more by experience than anything. What was that experience? you ask. During our morning runs it was the constant running in circles until the stragglers caught up — over and over again — that instilled this lesson. We started as a group, had to stay together as a group, and finished as a group. That meant if someone fell behind the rest of us ran in circles until the athletically challenged caught up. Even though that was an important lesson to learn, I probably ran 400 miles more than the stragglers so I’m not sure they learned that lesson as well as the rest of us did.
So What?
What does all that have to do with anything? you rightly ask. Here’s my takeaway:
- Make your bed. Don’t know how? Figure it out. Pay attention to detail. Not even Martha Stewart has all the answers.
- Doorways are fatal funnels. Proceed with caution and don’t linger. They can get you killed.
- Bathrooms are to be used whenever the opportunity presents itself because in this line of work you never knows what happens next and how long you’ll have to hold it. Also, they should be spotless and never use your foot to flush the toilet.
- Uniform hats (or should I say covers) project authority and a command presence. If worn improperly, they don’t, and you’ll look like an idiot.
- A unit is only as fast as its slowest member, a chain is only as strong as its weakest link, and a department is only as good as its worst officer.
__________________________
- How did your first day at the Academy go?
- What kind of things did you learn that were not taught?
- Which of those lessons still sticks with you today?
__________________________
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