How did I become who I am? What cultural, familial, and sociological factors shaped my values and personality? I am not a completed project. I am, and hope always to be, a work in progress. My life’s history is a complex one, and I will discuss several experiences that I believe have had the greatest effect on my life; an abusive stepfather, culture shock from moving to a major city and becoming a minority, and, most recently, getting to know Army Rangers, on their terms.
              My parents divorced early on in my life, before my first birthday. My earliest memories are of visitations with my father. Although my father never remarried, my mother did, sometime when I was approximately 7 or 8. While I genuinely believe Lester did care about me, in his own way, his brands of punishment were often swift and harsh, and often for seemingly minor infractions.
              One afternoon, for example, instead of coming straight home from school, I took a two block detour to the ice cream shop for a small cone, for which I had won a gift certificate. This caused me to arrive two minutes after the designated time to be home, which was three p.m. For that I was lectured for 20 minutes and made to stand in the corner for one hour.
              Frequently, the punishments involved beatings; bare-bottomed, with a leather belt doubled over. School authorities were concerned, and watched with hands tied as I withdrew into myself. I changed from a happy, smiling, engaging child, to a quiet, depressed, and fearful one. Reports made to children’s protective agencies were followed up on but, sadly, the one time I was questioned by an investigator at school, the black eye that prompted the call truly was of my own doing
              An aunt stepped in, and told my mother that if she (my mother) did not permit me to go live with Aunt Mary, my aunt would seek a custodial order. My mother relented, and I went to my aunt’s care, temporarily, until custody could be transferred to my father.
              It was because of the abuse I learned the difference between the words victim and survivor. I also learned the difference between the worlds of the two. I survived child abuse. I am not in jail, dead, or abusive myself. I am a productive member of society, determined to help any child who appears to need it. Additionally, I am more willing to help women who are being abused.
              For an example, I take you back to late 1999, in Bangor, Maine. The Old Appleton House is now a rooming house, where I rent a small room, hardly more than a furnished closet. I am friends with a former Army Ranger Field Medic, Doc, because we had medicine in common; I am studying to be an EMT. I frequently go downstairs to visit him, because he is one of the most interesting people I know, and we are in the same situation, broke, desperate for nicotine, and unable to buy much more than Ramen Noodles or macaroni and cheese for dinner. Often, we pool our meager resources which, even collectively, are pitiful.
              This particular day, I head downstairs because I am, again, out of cigarettes, and know Doc has a pack. I sit and start visiting for a bit and an argument erupts outside the door. Mike, yet another boarder, is having a loud argument with his girlfriend. Doc goes out in the hallway, and informs the couple that the hall is not the place to air dirty laundry. The couple head back to Mike’s room, but are back less than five minutes later.
              “My turn,” I say to Doc, an evil glint in my eye. Not only do I despise men who run down their girlfriends verbally, as Mike is doing now, but Mike and I very recently exchanged words over his monopolising the telephone, which is a party line. I step into the hallway, and make eye contact with Mike. I am not pleased, and he can see it.
              “Not one word!!!” Mike screams at me before I open my mouth. Since he isn’t wasting time, I follow his lead, lighting into him like a firecracker on the 4th of July. Wasting no time in responding, Mike is soon screaming in my face. Because of the abuse I survived, I have a clearly defined personal territory which is not to be invaded.
              Survival instincts kick in and I shove Mike back. High on adrenaline, and possibly an illicit substance or two, Mike charges at me, so again instinctively, I take a swing at him. I don’t succeed in deterring him from his intent, which appears to be causing me bodily harm. He fist connects with my left eye and sends me stumbling back against Doc’s door. Like a shot, Doc is out of his room restraining Mike. During the next few adrenaline charged minutes, little is accomplished, save some screaming. Admittedly, I don’t help matters by kicking Mike while Doc is restraining him, but I am furious. Not only has this loser abused his girlfriend, he gave me a black eye!
              Order is finally restored, and Mike is sent back to his room. Once my anger abates, I look around and realise that my objective, helping Mike’s girlfriend, was achieved, as she is nowhere to be seen, having apparently fled the premises once I intervened. I wore that black eye proudly, having earned it helping another.
              Looking back now, I realise that my intervention, 5 years ago, was decidedly not the smartest course of action. However, in all honesty, I would do it again, without thought. That is one effect that child abuse has had on me, and for that reason alone, would not change my childhood.
              Another event in my life, in July of 1997, is described best as culture shock. I went to Lynn, Massachusetts, a suburb of Boston, for what was supposed to be a three week vacation with my boyfriend Bryan, who lived there (I wound up staying three months). When I got to Boston, I was picked up at South Station, the bus terminal, by Bryan’s sister, Trish. We took the T (bus) back to Lynn, about 30 minutes away. I had been to Boston before, so the size of the city was not a shock to me, and my first few hours were relatively uneventful.
              Later that night however, I am to walk to Bryan’s worksite, at the Lynn Transfer station, where he was a security guard. As Trish is giving me directions to his worksite, I do a double take at her words, “watch out at the big warehouse on the right-hand side of Commercial St, it’s a crack house.” The words are said matter-of-factly, as though she is simply telling me to bring an umbrella, it looks like rain.
              With my head spinning, I head downstairs, out to South Common St. It doesn’t take me long to discover that whites are most definitely a minority in this neighborhood! At the end of the block, I discover a Vietnamese-run bodega, which shatters my illusion that bodegas are exclusively Latino affairs. On my right hand side, across the street, is the park, in Massachusetts called The Commons. A high energy game of soccer is winding down, and I notice that while some players are light-skinned, there are none that could claim a Caucasian heritage.
              Turning onto Commercial, I scurry past the aforementioned crack house, head down, feeling intimidated. This is a very dark part of town, very run down, almost forgotten. Several sad looking houses, unkempt and saggy, are plopped amongst warehouses, diners, and a variety of small shops. I can see my boyfriend, but one final obstacle separates us: traffic. More specifically, traffic on the Lynnway, a divided highway, with 4 lanes per side. Hmmm, how to make my way across? I decide that in this case, following the walk signal is most decidedly in my best interest. I am aghast when, half way across the first 4 lanes, the light changes! My God, Bostonians sure move fast!
              Having survived the crack house, the derelict neighborhood, and killer traffic, I am united with my boyfriend, which is another oddity for me, as he is black. Not just chocolate brown, but black like the jack of spades! In my existence in WASP Upstate NY, white girls and black men did not date each other!
              Having survived my first couple days in Lynn, I am unfazed when Bryan tells me he will see me later, and goes out. He doesn’t return within the appointed time frame, one hour, as he said he would. He doesn’t return again for nearly 5 weeks. Having then been forced to get around on my own, after 3 days, I spend more and more time in Lynn Commons, trolling for cigarettes. I walk the park, over and over, bumming cigarettes. While not a great way of getting cigarettes, it is a fantastic way of meeting people, as the same people frequent the same areas of the park at the same time every day.
              I learn early on that the best way of protecting myself is to bring our pit bull, Tequila, to the park with me, after dark. Eventually, I become much more confident, and no longer need the dog. One of my first nights without the dog, a young man stops me to bum a cigarette. Not having one to give, I apologise, and he starts a conversation. Being the first white I have seen that I was not sharing a residence with, I pause to chat. During the course of the conversation, I learn that, should I need a “pharmacist” this young man can help me out. I end the conversation quickly, with the realisation I had just been offered a drug supplier’s acquaintance. Shaking my head at the brazen way in which he brought it up, I continued on my way.
              During the course of my time in Lynn, I met many decent and honest people, including Qais. He was the first Iraqi I had ever met, and was the first person to buy me a full pack of cigarettes, instead of just giving me one or two. He was generous in many ways, and became a good friend, and influenced the way I felt at the time about Iraqis.
              Additionally, I had my “therapist in the park” and older, Cuban man, who also smoked, and frequently shared his cigarettes. He listened to my problems, and on occasion offered advice, always wise, and usually blunt. I never knew his name, but I knew where to find him and when.
              I became so acclimated to life in the city that, on my last night in Lynn, when I walked past 9 Lynn Police Department squad cars, I knew there was a drug raid. Most surprising to me was the fact that I was completely unfazed by the fact. It turned out to be part of a three-city raid that was, at that time, the biggest drug bust in Massachusetts history.
              Moving back to Glens Falls after life in the city was difficult. The pace of life was slow, and in a stunning irony, people were more reserved than and nowhere near as friendly as those in Lynn. I had never realised it, until I had experienced life in a larger urban area.
              As a result of life in Lynn, I am more aware of my surroundings when I am out. I seem to take a lot of risks, at least to those who have lived in Glens Falls all their lives, but am actually less likely to find myself victim of a crime, because of the street smarts I learned.
              The final area of my life I want to review is the most recently occurring. I was searching the internet for any sign of my friend, Doc. Doc is the Army Ranger I became friends with in Maine. One search, on Google, leads me to ArmyRanger.com. I scan the message that matched my search query, but come up empty. Instead of just leaving, however, I look around. I am intrigued by Rangers, and have been since I met Doc. I post an introduction on the site, as required, and start exploring. It doesn’t take me long to realise there is a wealth of information on the site, and I start reading and learning. I learn quickly that while I am on their site, I am subject to their rules, and justice. If you make a mistake, you, and everyone on the site, know it. The Rangers appear to be nasty, rude, or just downright mean. Maybe, sometimes, they are, but they are still good people.
              Now, Rangers will tell you they aren’t nice guys. They are good guys--honest (to the point of cruelty sometimes), trustworthy, and reliable--and there is a difference. And while most will deny to their death, I have learned that many of them are also nice guys, although they hide it beneath gruff attitudes and crude, sometimes boorish behaviour.
              If you can tolerate the verbal eruptions when someone screws up on the site, you will learn, as I have, that these people are a group unlike none other. They accept no excuses. If you make a mistake, you are expected to own up to it, state it won’t happen again, and move on. They are seemingly indestructible and say things like, “When you have given it all, you have to dig a little deeper to find more to give.” That quote has kept me going when I wanted to give up on something, several times. The words “quit” and “can’t” are not even part of a Ranger’s vocabulary. They are what they call high-speed, elite soldiers who endure more in 3 weeks than many Americans endure in their lifetimes. In training they exercise to the point of muscle failure; in combat they keep going when other soldiers quit. They never, never, will leave a fallen soldier, even if they know that they will sustain more casualties during the rescue.
              How can this relate to my life? After all, I am not a soldier, nor do I desire ever to become one. It’s easy. The lessons I have learned from the Rangers can be applied almost anywhere. Most people don’t have the fortitude to apply them, however. Broken down, the lessons look like this:
              *If you screw up, admit it, apologise, if possible, and move on.
              *When you think you have given it your all, keep going, you can do it.
              *Excise the words “quit” and “can’t” from your vocabulary. The only time you can’t do something is if it’s physically impossible, and even then there is often a way.
              *Never, ever leave your friends when they need your help.
              Those are the lessons I have learned from the Rangers, and it has made a huge difference in my life. I find myself offering excuses much less often than I used to, and often when I find myself starting to offer an excuse, I catch myself and shut up. I push myself to beyond what I used to think were my limits, and find myself doing more than I though I could, physically and mentally. The words “quit” and “can’t” have a lesser place in my vocabulary than before, and I am still working on cutting them completely. Finally, I will never leave someone who needs help. Friend or stranger, I cannot in good conscience leave someone who needs me.
              While I have covered three areas of my life that I feel have shaped me, there are so many more that I cannot even begin to count them all. Little gestures from strangers, kind words from old classmates, and deeds that I have witnessed others doing, each of these is its own long story. I hope I continue to learn from all things I see, and in doing so, will never be a finished work of art, but always, a work in progress.