These days I eat in strange places. Places where rows of flowers stretch down dining hall tables. Where the chandeliers look down on me with a confident glow. A foreign land. As I enter the dining hall, a worker greets me with a smile. “Thank you”, I say, being sure to show my appreciation. I take heaps of food and maneuver my way through the crowd to an empty seat. It’s just so busy. I claim space at one of the many padded chairs along the long stretch of tables. My meal and I are accompanied by the conversations that surround us. I overhear stories of traveling and current events as my mind reaches out to take refuge in the familiar rhythms of conversations.
The presumptions about the dining hall are what stand out the most to me. It’s just another day. Another meal at university. Yet, the orderliness is overwhelming. The great hall is kept spotless, as workers dutifully complete their tasks. The mahogany paneled walls, hundreds of years old, divide us from the outside world. The sparkling water’s need to be on tap. It’s a spectacle. Only silverware clinking on branded plates cuts through the chatter. How can seemingly endless food be an unperceived notion? I guess it’s supposed to be casual.
My grandmother taught me how to eat. “Please, please, sit!” she used to say, “let me get you some tea from the fridge!”. She said it nicely, as if the tone of her voice made it seem as though you had a choice in the matter. The South is a place of warm welcomes, a culture of kindness. You will respect her generosity. You will be comfortable. You will take your food and show gratitude. And I did. And I was.
In true Southern fashion, at get-togethers, each party in the family would bring a dish: chicken-fried steak, corn bread, mashed potatoes, and pecan pie. The intimacy of sharing homemade dishes carries a weight unlike much else: a signal that you can trust them, that they are here for you. The feast would stare, ready to be eaten, as hands join to pray. When eating began, we would sit in the living room, and they would stuff their bodies until belt lines resembled the overstuffed furniture. The green corduroy loveseat was my spot. I could deal with its uncomfortable buttons, but it was too hard to settle into. At least I didn’t become a human band-aid to it. It’s always the same conversations: How is work? Who got married? Why don’t I have grandbabies yet?
After the meal, I try to leave but I must stay; it’s a prolonged process. I feel uneasy being so cared for. But so goes the duties of being born. At grandma’s house it’s always the same. The same comfort. The same values. The same uncomfortable promises of peace. It’s like I am being pulled in somehow. The gravitation of compassion and tradition leading me away from the outside world. What if I need more? There are always other things on my mind. My family ensures I have leftover food to take home. Large plates packed full of the assurance of their generosity. We give everyone hugs. It’s what I am supposed to do. We were doing our best to get by. A communal check-up.
***
Belonging in some communities is not a given. Maybe that’s why I wanted to join the Army. Maybe I just watched too many action movies as a child. But maybe I needed purpose. I needed to feel more than coincidence. I needed to feel a sense of belonging that was earned. Something tangible.
There is something calming about the preparations for a military mission. The security of feeling boots grasp your ankles. The reassuring promises of metal pieces sliding against one another. The intimate ambiance of uncertainty.
I put on my gear. My back bows from the weight; this is the familiar body position of 700 rounds of ammunition. We walk onto the helicopter. The repeated hum of the rotor is all I can hear. The familiar white noise. We sit silently in the dark on our commute. Nothing else needs to be said.
We arrive at our landing zone and abruptly exit the helicopter. We settle into the ground as we listen to the hum of the rotor slowly dissipate into the night. We lay in the familiar silence, scanning our surroundings. We pick up and begin to move. The reverberating sound of air now replaced by the quiet crunching cadence beneath our boots. We walk through the night. We listen for miles. My eyes are always scanning; always watching the same shades of green night vision.
Nine miles of mountainous terrain later we arrive to our target. I sit dutifully in the ridgeline. It overlooks another green valley in the mountains of Afghanistan. I sit on a perfect rock. It’s not too high, or too low. It’s not too sharp, but just big enough to be what I consider spacious. Sturdy enough to hold me as I try and catch my breath. As a machine gunner it is my job to watch for any runners as my teammates clear through the group of buildings. No one escapes.
While waiting for further orders, I grab my emergency rations and tear open the bag. My eyes always alert, always scanning. My gloved hand rummages through the bag’s unknown contents to find what feels like the main entrée. Regardless of whichever meal it was, it’s always the same texture: somewhere between dog food and vomit. I peel open the bag just as I have before. I slow down my breathing and feel my heart rate lower; you don’t want to choke on your food. I squeeze the unknown contents into my mouth. Goosebumps ripple over my skin and I feel my body recoil as the salt rushes through me. The reliable decadents of watch duty. The liquid wets my mouth. My vision stabilizes as I feel it course through me.
***
I don’t think it’s strange to find comfort in eating. But is that how we know we belong? Because I enjoy putting a dead animal in my mouth? There’s something that can be said about the comfort of knowing what’s coming next. The same comfort of the day before, the same comfort of tomorrow. But it seems to bear a striking resemblance to entrapment. Regardless, the hearty promises of purpose always manage to satisfy me. So, I run to them.
Now, I sit on a comfortable, padded chair. My clothes are ironed, presentable. I peer up to the paintings of those who have come before me, curious of their importance. I wonder if they knew of their belonging. I sit in a hall of laughter. Isn’t that what we are supposed to want? Isn’t this some sort of finish line? I have worked to be here. It is not an accident. I’m so warm. My back is straight, and my feet, flat on the floor. I hear more laughter. Everyone gets nervous on their first day of university. Maybe I’ll be carefree soon enough. But is that the goal? Or am I supposed to care? Maybe I am just too rested. I’ve always worked well with little sleep. I have always known more direction, more dictation, more dissonance in my life. Maybe the chairs are just too comfortable.
