Camouflage

I’m not going to deny it: the first time he walked into the classroom I wanted to punch his lights out. No, that’s not really true. It’s only a figure of speech, because I don’t think anything could force me to hit someone in the face. Still, I knew instantly that I wasn’t going to like him, that already I didn’t like him. As a professor, that reaction to a student is unprofessional and can’t be justified, most people would say. I suppose I ought to explain.

He didn’t have a chip on his shoulder and he hadn’t said a word yet, but I knew from his appearance that there were going to be undeniable problems with this student and I really didn’t want him in my class. I didn’t like his voice, which was clipped and strong, not harsh, but it seemed like he was pushing his maleness to the limit. That’s a characteristic, an attitude, I’ve never liked.

It was more than that, though. He had a buzz cut, which doesn’t have to be a problem with a student, whether male or female. Yet in this case, it was. His hair, what little there was of it, was accompanied by a hard, set jaw - still not really a problem - and a hello ma’am that immediately sounded off kilter. He didn’t want to respect me with that ma’am. He wanted to throw me off or maybe was just following orders. It seemed like he wanted to salute me because his commanding office had told him to be polite in classes.

His camouflage pants and jacket told me he was in the military and I have always found it nearly impossible to deal with people who choose service as a career. Soldiers are just potential killing machines in my mind. They think they’re better than everyone else, or at least they’re convinced they’re saving the country by choosing to enter the military when they’re really just tools of the country’s imperialism. That may sound wrong of me on our initial meeting, but it’s the truth: I pretty much hate soldiers for what they’re willing to do. Which is to go out in the world and beat on people in other countries, believing the lie that they’re somehow saving us by their service.

So I’m a pacifist? Yes, I am. I despise the war rhetoric and its untruths. I was desperate to have him drop the course, but he stayed. I wanted so badly to kick him out, but I couldn’t; he hadn’t done anything wrong except being a soldier. I was afraid he had signed up for Spanish in college so he could speak it while torturing prisoners. I didn’t think I could force myself to teach him so he could accomplish his goals in a Central or South American country without ever knowing why he was there.

No jury in the world would support me in my disgust and desire to kick him out, and to make him take his camouflage with him. It occurred to me I might be able to get rid of him by staring deep into his narrowed eyes, making him uneasy.

A useless thought. He informed me he had to take the class and yet he seemed interested in learning the language out of unmilitary interest. We were stuck with each other, so it was a case of my either not looking at him, ignoring him, or using my professional power to make him uncomfortable enough to drop my third year Spanish course on film. He didn’t appear to notice my feelings and never missed a class. It was so stifling. He looked at me with clear, light blue eyes, an easy grin, and a lot of attention. Naturally he must be faking it. I had to face the music, all the while undressing him in my mind.

Don’t, oh don’t get the wrong idea; I only had the idea of mentally stripping him in order to get rid of the fatigues, down to the clomping boots, in order to dress him properly, like the rest of the students. He might have been fit and polite, but I only wanted him gone. Nevertheless, he was not going anywhere, so I focused the best I could on my teaching.

Slowly, but surely, I found little ways to look past the clothing and not allow him to ruin the course for me. I focused on the intent eyes, which were light hazel, the correct answers he gave with every raised hand, and the fact that he wasn’t rancid smelling, like many military people are. His scent was slightly lemon and he was very concerned about focusing on what was being taught. I was already worried about grading him.

It was very slow going, but I managed to keep my eyes and thoughts away from the gutter. I thought only about his effort, good group work, his perfect attendance. He was a model student, I had to admit, much as I resisted doing so. All his homework was on time, neat, with few corrections needed. He worked well in groups, either following or leading the others in the groups, and got As on the tests.

He wasn’t perfect, but his performance was solid. Still, I kept thinking about the heads I was sure he wanted to blow off in Honduras or El Salvador, Chile or Argentina. At some point, he began to ask questions that made sense, as if he really wanted to know the history of our involvement in Spanish-speaking countries. I told myself he’d begun to show real concern about the countries and was asking why we were always doing certain things in other countries and if they they were the wrong things to do. I said yes and assigned him readings on the horrendous events in Chile on their 9/11, which had been in 1973. I had him read about the Dirty Little War in Argentina and our actions against any democratically elected governments in Guatemala and other places.

His expression began to change; it varied between simple confusion and serious anger. The anger was not directed at me, which was a surprise. The questions never stopped coming and once or twice his eyes seemed to gleam, as if he were upset. Suddenly I realized that he was the best in the class and the military garb had disappeared. I had not stripped him of it; he had done that himself. 

Now this might not be a very long or very interesting story, but it doesn’t need to be. The semester was over, and he got the highest grade by far on the final paper. He had worked very hard to document was must have been a very challenging assignment: the School of the Americas and its prisoner treatment in Bolivia, Colombia, and Nicaragua. It was well documented and sincere.

The semester was over. He came to retrieve his A+ paper and I found myself in easy conversation with him. He hinted that he was planning to go to Central America, and I frowned. He shouldn’t have known what I was thinking, but he said: “Don’t worry. I’m not going to do what you think.” Then he smiled a huge, friendly smile and thanked me for a great class.

A few months later, word got back to me that he had been shot while trying to protect villagers in Honduras from mara gangs or maybe it was while rebuilding a bridge in Honduras. He might have defected from the Army, if the rumors were true. I couldn’t have been more upset with myself, but was also proud. Not that he’d gotten killed, but that he had gone over to the other side, following his conscience, refusing to fight the people and instead helping them.

Obviously, he had been paying attention in class.

 There was a funeral. I could hardly get through it, but managed to refrain from sobbing as the final eulogy was delivered. At the cemetery, after everybody had left, I placed a letter, all in Spanish, on his grave, on the newly turned dirt, under a small stone. I ended it with “I’m so sorry for assuming what you were like.”

Then I went home and planted a witch hazel tree on the back edge of my yard. It was a healing tree and it felt healing to me. Teachers need to believe in their students. I would never see him again, but I would never forget what he had taught me. 

I’m sure it’s not necessary to spell it out. That’s a good thing, because I can only shake when I recall the way I’d started out wanting to punch him in the face. Who, after all, had taught me to think so badly of him?

And I had believed it.