like to run. We like to watch movies together and we like to sit in the same room together and read books. We like to take road trips to New England and we like to go to the museums in New York. Karin likes to hear about the Army. I like to hear about her time at Lehigh University. Karin and I have much in common, but I fell in love with her in the pew at First Presbyterian Church when she refused to applaud during the sermon about homosexuals and rapists.
In April 2001, Karin agrees to marry me. There are terrible days ahead of us. We will survive them because of Karin.
2.6
At KidsPeace there is an orchard. In July, the kids pick peaches and sell them at a local stand. I work the overnight shift. In the evenings, I park the security vehicle in the orchard and listen to the Philadelphia Phillies on the radio. I get a call to help restrain a kid who is acting out. Itâs from the sexual abuse house. I think about grabbing small arms and legs and pinning them to the ground. I donât want to do this. I feel nauseated. I hide in the orchard and ignore the calls on the radio. I work on an application for the City of Bethlehem Police Department.
In August 2001, I attend a panel interview with the City of Bethlehem. They ask me about my strengths and weaknesses, my skills and experience, and my education and training. One of the panel members says, âI wish youâd studied Spanish instead of Arabic.â They ask me why I left the Army. I tell them about all the time wasted training for a war in the swamps and forests of Tennessee and Louisiana. They hire me. In September, Al-Qaeda flies planes into buildings.
The day after 9/11, I meet with our wedding coordinator. She says the chairs in the fellowship hall are old and unattractive. Slipcovers will fix this. I donât think itâs worth the money. Karin does. Her mom does, too. Karinâs father insists we rent a limousine to deliver us to the reception but I think thatâs too fancy. In the wake of 9/11, when Al-Qaeda has finally figured out how to start a war, when there is finally a reason to be a soldier and an Arabic linguist, when there are people to protect, I find myself talking about limousines and seating arrangements.
Â
3
In January 2002, I begin a six-month training course at the police academy. We receive training on handguns and shotguns, and we talk about the proper use of force. We learn how to use handcuffs, Tasers, and extendable batons. We dress up in big red padded suits and take turns resisting arrest.
But much of the time at the academy is spent fulfilling state training requirements. The state requires that every police officer in Pennsylvania be familiar with the vehicle code. The vehicle code is thousands of pages long. It looks and reads like a phone book. State training standards require us to read significant portions of it. The windowless, wood-paneled classroom is adorned with the class photos of the students who have come before. There are pictures from the 1950s. In the pictures, the students are sitting in the same desks, their heads down, their books opened. We sit in the desks and take turns reading aloud about taillights, stop signs, and exhaust manifolds. When we fall asleep, the lead instructor at the academy, who served in the Marines, puts us in the electric chair.
At night, I fill out applications for other law-enforcement agencies. The mind-numbing monotony of the police academy has convinced me that local law enforcement may not be my calling after all. There is a war in Afghanistan. There are weapons inspectors in Iraq. I could be there, too. I could be using my Arabic.
I speak with a friend of mine from the Army about the long days at the police academy. Heâs heard about a new program at the CIA. Theyâre looking for prior military with language training and security clearances. He sends me a link to the CIA employment website. I check the boxes that designate military training,
In April 2001, Karin agrees to marry me. There are terrible days ahead of us. We will survive them because of Karin.
2.6
At KidsPeace there is an orchard. In July, the kids pick peaches and sell them at a local stand. I work the overnight shift. In the evenings, I park the security vehicle in the orchard and listen to the Philadelphia Phillies on the radio. I get a call to help restrain a kid who is acting out. Itâs from the sexual abuse house. I think about grabbing small arms and legs and pinning them to the ground. I donât want to do this. I feel nauseated. I hide in the orchard and ignore the calls on the radio. I work on an application for the City of Bethlehem Police Department.
In August 2001, I attend a panel interview with the City of Bethlehem. They ask me about my strengths and weaknesses, my skills and experience, and my education and training. One of the panel members says, âI wish youâd studied Spanish instead of Arabic.â They ask me why I left the Army. I tell them about all the time wasted training for a war in the swamps and forests of Tennessee and Louisiana. They hire me. In September, Al-Qaeda flies planes into buildings.
The day after 9/11, I meet with our wedding coordinator. She says the chairs in the fellowship hall are old and unattractive. Slipcovers will fix this. I donât think itâs worth the money. Karin does. Her mom does, too. Karinâs father insists we rent a limousine to deliver us to the reception but I think thatâs too fancy. In the wake of 9/11, when Al-Qaeda has finally figured out how to start a war, when there is finally a reason to be a soldier and an Arabic linguist, when there are people to protect, I find myself talking about limousines and seating arrangements.
Â
3
In January 2002, I begin a six-month training course at the police academy. We receive training on handguns and shotguns, and we talk about the proper use of force. We learn how to use handcuffs, Tasers, and extendable batons. We dress up in big red padded suits and take turns resisting arrest.
But much of the time at the academy is spent fulfilling state training requirements. The state requires that every police officer in Pennsylvania be familiar with the vehicle code. The vehicle code is thousands of pages long. It looks and reads like a phone book. State training standards require us to read significant portions of it. The windowless, wood-paneled classroom is adorned with the class photos of the students who have come before. There are pictures from the 1950s. In the pictures, the students are sitting in the same desks, their heads down, their books opened. We sit in the desks and take turns reading aloud about taillights, stop signs, and exhaust manifolds. When we fall asleep, the lead instructor at the academy, who served in the Marines, puts us in the electric chair.
At night, I fill out applications for other law-enforcement agencies. The mind-numbing monotony of the police academy has convinced me that local law enforcement may not be my calling after all. There is a war in Afghanistan. There are weapons inspectors in Iraq. I could be there, too. I could be using my Arabic.
I speak with a friend of mine from the Army about the long days at the police academy. Heâs heard about a new program at the CIA. Theyâre looking for prior military with language training and security clearances. He sends me a link to the CIA employment website. I check the boxes that designate military training,
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