Cease Fire: One Woman's Search for Self in a Culture of War

University of New Orleans ScholarWorks@UNO University of New Orleans Theses and Dissertations Dissertations and Theses Spring 5-18-2012 Cease Fire: One Woman's Search for Self in a Culture of War Christine R. Wettlaufer Ph.D. UNO Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.uno.edu/td Part of the Nonfiction Commons Recommended Citation Wettlaufer, Christine R. Ph.D., "Cease Fire: One Woman's Search for Self in a Culture of War" (2012). University of New Orleans Theses and Dissertations. 1493. https://scholarworks.uno.edu/td/1493 This Thesis-Restricted is protected by copyright and/or related rights. It has been brought to you by ScholarWorks@UNO with permission from the rights-holder(s). You are free to use this Thesis-Restricted in any way that is permitted by the copyright and related rights legislation that applies to your use. For other uses you need to obtain permission from the rights-holder(s) directly, unless additional rights are indicated by a Creative Commons license in the record and/or on the work itself. This Thesis-Restricted has been accepted for inclusion in University of New Orleans Theses and Dissertations by an authorized administrator of ScholarWorks@UNO. For more information, please contact [email protected]. Cease Fire: One Woman’s Search for Self in a Culture of War A Thesis Submitted to the Graduate Faculty of the University of New Orleans In partial fulfillment of the Requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts In Film, Theatre and Communication Arts Creative Writing By Christine R. Wettlaufer, Ph.D. B.S. Regents College, 1999 M.A. Chapman University, 2001 Ph.D. Walden University, 2004 May, 2012 Table of Contents Abstract ........................................................................................................................................... iii Chapter 1: Accidental Soldier ......................................................................................................... 1 Chapter 2: Fresh Meat .................................................................................................................. 31 Chapter 3: Weekend Warrior........................................................................................................ 64 Chapter 4: The Suicide Years ........................................................................................................ 87 Chapter 5: Lucky Number Three ................................................................................................. 105 Chapter 6: Remodeling ............................................................................................................... 121 Chapter 7: Equilibrium ................................................................................................................ 133 Chapter 8: Cease Fire .................................................................................................................. 149 Chapter 9: Summer of Reconciliation ......................................................................................... 176 Vita: ............................................................................................................................................. 201 ii Abstract Cease Fire is a war story told from one woman’s perspective. It’s about a farm girl and her battles fought as young soldier serving on a remote nuke site during the Cold War. It’s the interpretations of lived experiences, highs and lows of a military career fused with family life, and spanning over three decades. Like true war stories, Cease Fire has little to do with actual war. It is a sometimes humorous, but often tragic attempt to make peace and to make sense of the places, comrades and enemies that graced and plagued a career. First names and nicknames were used to protect the privacy of a few and render respect for the surviving children of a fallen two. Women in the military; Army; Coast Guard; Post traumatic stress disorder; Meniere's Disease; Military sexual trauma; sexual harassment; woman warrior iii Chapter 1: Accidental Soldier “And in the end, of course, a true war story is never about war. It's about sunlight. It's about the special way that dawn spreads out on a river when you know you must cross the river and march into the mountains and do things you are afraid to do. It's about love and memory. It's about sorrow. It's about sisters who never write back and people who never listen.” ― Tim O'Brien I accidently joined the Army. Sounds ridiculous, I know. There’s no way to slip, trip, and slide into the military, but that’s how I remember the whole thing going down. It was 1985, and concerns over the endangered spotted owl threatened livelihoods of Oregon loggers and slowed timber harvesting to a near standstill. Local sawmills closed, again. Folks from my logging town often struggled with depression, but the gouge seemed deeper that year, personal. I was a senior in high school with no plans. School guidance counselors wasted no time on girls like me, farm girls with uneducated parents and insufficient funds. Oh, I’m sure my last name drifted across desks, and I received a pause, a double-take. It was a common name. My parents and grandparents attended the same school in a town were family name seals fate. I imagine the school counselor rubbing his stubble, “Ah yes, the little Wettlaufer girl, smart kid, ornery but pretty. She’ll make someone a suitable wife. Such a pity...” I dreamed of escape, escape from an unwanted destiny of teen pregnancy followed by a hasty wedding, and a life as a logger’s wife stuck in Molalla, Oregon. I imagined an ugly future, probably the same image seen by my educators. I’d like to tell you how patriotic I felt, how the desire to serve pumped in my blood, how if you cut me, I’d bleed Army green. These are lies for another occasion. I don’t recall giving 1 consideration to enlistment, to my future as a soldier. Instead, I contemplated reasons not to enlist. There were few. Military recruiters feed on depressed towns like Molalla, places where money and dreams are tight. The high school offered the Armed Forces Vocational Aptitude Battery or ASVAB, proctored by service men. I didn’t plan to take the test, had not entertained the notion of military service, but like a bird attracted to shiny objects, I admired the uniforms and the recruiters wearing them. Sparkly insignias, badges, and awards lured me into the testing room. Hypnotized, I eyed men of the Army, Navy, and Marines – three different services, three different ethnicities, none Caucasian. The men seemed exotic. Molalla was nearly homogeneous at the time. There were one or two Hispanic families, but everyone else pretty much looked the same. I struggled to imagine a life of diversity, a life far from my family, and an actual future. With test booklet and number-two pencils in hand, I stumbled into action, irreversible change, a way out. A month later, a recruiter called wanting to talk about test scores. I agreed to meet at school during lunch, but only if he picked up food at Taco Time. I loved mexi-fries, tater-tots sprinkled with zesty seasonings. He bought me a TaB, a soft taco, and a large order of tots. We sat across a round table in the corner. I tried appearing aloof, but I gushed on the inside from the personal attention of a lunch meeting with someone important. I waved a hand across the test results. “So, what does this crap mean?” “Young lady, it means you can be all you can be. You can be a military police woman in the United States Army.” He had me at the first “you can be” 2 I shipped off to Fort McClellan, Alabama on the 29 th of October, 1985. The goal was to survive eight weeks of Army boot camp and an additional nine weeks of Military Police Academy. The first week was a blur, but I remember standing outside the armory, listening to rifles crack into opened palms. Girls of Alpha-11 received issue. A big deal damn deal, a coming of age, the macabre communion uniting soul with steel, I wanted no part. I never wanted a rifle, never wanted to kill. For three hots and a cot, the New GI Bill, and a one way ticket out of No-where-ville, I raised my right hand, swore to defend, signed my name, sold my ass, but not my heart. I’d wear the camouflage, march the cadence, and mark time. I’d never buckle to brainwashing, and never fall for that, Be All You Can Be, Army bullshit. I rolled my eyes as Connors, Janc, Vegas, and Little Rivera lifted M16 automatics overhead, barking out, hard core, hoo-ah, psycho, airborne, and kill a commie for your mommy . Soft peachy faces contorted in anger. I planned to throw out a little “woo-hoo,” to keep the drill sergeants off my ass. A polite yelp, and nothing more. The girls with rifles huddled, hugging an ugliness I refused to embrace. I thought about Dad’s words, that nasty comment, “Goddammit, kid. There are only three kinds of girls in the military: Sluts, dykes, and women far too ugly to catch a man.” “Who am I?” I wondered. Clobbie shoved me from behind, pushing me on before I formulated an answer. I stood with feet apart, hands spread wide, ready to catch a football. I heard the metallic clank, felt the clap and sting of smooth butt-stock and cool hand-grips meeting warm skin. Nostrils flared with gunpowder. Teeth clamped. I tasted blood. Electric jolts pulsed through rigid muscle. Thrusting the weapon skyward, I released, “Kill, kill, kill.” 3 Shocked, I leaked a nervous laugh. Thrilled but terrified, I caught a glimpse of unfiltered truth. Behind the gun, identity pierced the skin. I joined

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