Military Mentality?

Having written just two blog posts I find myself STUCK. I write a sentence and then delete it, write and delete, write, delete…It’s possible to lose an hour doing this, maybe even an entire evening, or – who am I trying to kid? – a whole week. So I have decided to just write. Anything that comes into my head. So that is what I am doing (and I apologise in advance).

I set up this blog as part of an MA in Professional writing that I am currently struggling through. I’m not the blogging type – whatever that is – but I will stick with this. It’s a slow, steady process this writing lark and not one that I’m particularly comfortable with.

I’m determined in a ‘I WILL finish this 10 mile run in under 1 hour’ sort of way, rather than a ‘If I just carrying on plodding through the countryside I’ll enjoy the sunshine and eventually reach the road,’ sort of way.

More is more and less is less.

Do not kid yourself that by sitting in contemplative reflection for hours on end you are one step closer to saving the world (unless you fly fighter jets for a living, head up Benson and Hedges or something of that ilk).

Of course that is my military side speaking. That is the part of me that has been marched, scrubbed and screamed into action.

If things aren’t working, try harder.

If you’re late, get a new battery for your watch.

If you’re tired, get down and gimme 20 press ups.

Although it’s been three years since I left the navy, I still have this mentality to an extent. A minute drill sergeant exists somewhere inside my head and he will not let me rest. That is why I am writing this ‘stream of consciousness’ or to put it more bluntly, drivel.

Now this can make me very productive, rather like a sausage machine. You can rely on me to produce consistent results, on time and on brief. But I’ve noticed that civilian employers tend to adopt a more vegetarian outlook; instead of just valuing reliability, efficiency and productivity, they value variation, colour and sustainability as well.

Securing a job after leaving the military is not easy. Adjusting to a civilian work environment is not easy. Remaining calm when a colleague doesn’t show up to a meeting, doesn’t respond to your email, takes the day off because of a ‘cold’, is not easy. The forces try to prepare leavers for the civilian working world; however the reality is rather different to the prep and can come as quite a shock. Yes employers will value the many skills a military veteran has, however nowadays companies are increasingly focused on ‘cultural fit.’ Basically, your interpersonal skills and general personality are just as important – if not more important – than the qualifications and skills you have carefully typed in size 11 Arial font on your CV.

Here lies the rub.

Qualifications and skills are relatively easy to add to, tinker with, down play if you must, but personality? I tend to think of personality as fairly enduring and besides, even if you faked your way through an interview you would probably end up hating your new job because you lack ‘cultural fit’.

The feedback I received in my last interview was that I was ‘too military’. My answers were too structured, too well thought out and delivered too calmly. My prospective employer wanted to catch a glimpse of the ‘real me’, the approachable me who is human and makes mistakes and can laugh about those mistakes, learn from them and grow.

Thankfully I still got the job, but this feedback made me think. When I was in the military I wasn’t military enough (I think ‘pink and fluffy’ is the description people used which is odd as you can be approachable without being sickly sweet like candyfloss) and now that I’ve left I am too military. Where does that leave me? Do I not properly fit into the military or the civilian working world anymore?  Am I destined to be a ‘military wife’ after all and join the choir whilst my husband pays for our food, our house and our lives?

I think it leaves me unlabelled. Uncategorised. Which, I must add, is a good thing. I have my own way of doing things and although I can learn and adapt, I can’t be melted down like chocolate and poured into a silicon mould.

It means I have choices.

It means I have an identity that is getting stronger each day.

And besides, I needn’t worry because I don’t believe in destiny.

Sweet Shop

I joined the Royal Navy in 2003, a month after my nineteenth birthday.  As the coach pulled up outside Britannia Royal Naval college I couldn’t stop myself from smiling.  This was to be my home for the next nine months or so.  This amazing building set high on the hill overlooking Dartmouth and the river.  It looked like a castle, or a boarding school from an Enid Blylton book, magical and full of secrets I was yet to discover.  As I marched across the parade ground in my civilian skirt suit and heels, I felt proud to be embarking on such an adventure.

I was sharing a room (or a cabin, as I was to quickly learn) with three other women and we bonded over bars of Dairy Milk, stories from our past and a shared hatred of ironing.  These women would laugh we me, cry with me and fight with me over the next few months but no matter what, we knew we were in it together.

None of my uniform fit me and I had to wear my own clothes for the first few days while everyone else paraded about in their freshly starched trousers and blue shirts.  It was clear that clothing stores weren’t used to catering for smaller sizes and the college staff weren’t used to seeing people wearing them.  I lost count of the number of times someone called my size 3 combat boots ‘cute’.

The officer cadets were split into four divisions and allocated a divisional officer who was a Lieutenant in the navy with many years experience.  This was the person who would guide us, encourage us, discipline us and ultimately mold us into officers worthy of a commission.  Knocking on Lieutenant Brown’s office door for my joining interview, I felt the first flutter of nerves.  I wanted to make a good impression.

He was older than I imagined because he had worked his way up through the ranks rather than joining directly as an officer.  His handshake was firm and he looked me in the eye with a confidence that comes from years of experience.  We chatted about my background and what I hoped to achieve.  He told me I was too nice to be a pilot and that I’d have to toughen up if I was going to make it in the Fleet Air Arm.  ‘Be more arrogant’ he said, which surprised me, and although I didn’t say it I thought to myself, ‘No, I can do this job without changing my personality.’  We  moved on to talk about expectations and again, I was surprised at what he said.  ‘You will be like a kid in a sweetshop,’ he said, referring to the majority of cadets being male, ‘Just remember you didn’t look like Claudia Schiffer before you joined and you still don’t.’   I’m sure he meant well giving naive nineteen year old me this piece of advice but at the time I just felt slightly put out.  Romance was the last thing on my mind; and of course I didn’t look like Claudia, she was a blonde and I was a brunette.  ‘You can look but don’t touch,’ he continued, giving me wink.

Sailor’s Hornpipe

I’m currently visiting my sister in Western Australia.  She lives in a new apartment block with its own private gym and Jacuzzi.  Her flat is minimalistic retro chic, with black marble worktops, a formica dining table and a pair of mustard bar stools.  It feels as though you are permanently on holiday here.

Yet impressive at it is, I am more in awe of the flat’s location.  There isn’t a view of the Swan river, Scarborough beach or bushland with kangaroos; but it is next door to the Western Australia Ballet Centre.  Every time I walk past and hear the crescendo of the piano and the shuffle of ballet slippers over a sprung floor I come to halt and listen.  As I listen I imagine walking up the steps at the front of the majestic white building and pirouetting into one of the studios.

Dancing is where my story begins.  My first memories are of sitting in a circle with my legs stretched out in front, pointing and flexing my toes in time with the other girls in pink leotards.  As I grew up, dancing was my one constant. I thrived on hairspray, fishnet tights, bright lights and sore muscles.  ‘A dancer’ was my answer when people asked what I wanted to be or who I was.  It was part of my identity.

As a teenager, I was plagued with self-doubt.  I am not special in that respect, in fact I think it is something most people experience as their body changes, their opinions form and responsibility beckons.  Preparing  to leave sixth-form, nothing made sense.  I had a place at university to study law but I had no real understanding of what this involved, other than it being seen as an appropriate choice for someone predicted a string of As in their exams.   After doing the rounds of careers advisers, university open days and psychometric testing, my hopes of making it on the stage as a dancer seemed childish and futile.

When the opportunity arose to join the Royal Navy  I saw it as a get out clause; it was a career with prospects which had accommodation, food, physical exercise and ready made friends thrown into the bargain.  I could earn money rather than saddle myself with student debt.  And to be a pilot, well that would show everyone I could be successful in life, wouldn’t it? So I thrust myself into a world where the lights were significantly dimmer and the shirt sleeve creases significantly sharper.  The colour pink was ridiculous, make-up was frowned upon and fishnet tights – well they were for hookers.

I danced as much as I could in the navy.  Constant relocation made joining civilian dance classes more difficult but not impossible.  I tended to go to salsa classes where I could just turn up as a one off and dance with whoever was willing.  Once during officer training, I arranged a hip hop dance class for my division as an alternative to an early morning run. There were a few dropped jaws, several nervous giggles and the odd obscenity when people realized that they  were expected to dance, at 6am, in the Royal Navy, without so much as a whiff of alcohol.  However, towards the end of the session when the sweat was dripping and hearts were pounding no one could deny that dancing was as exhausting as a cross country run but a lot more fun.