“A
genuine leader is not a searcher for consensus, but a molder of consensus.”
Martin
Luther King, Jr.
By
Tommie Saylor
Kennedy
High School Principal
It’s
zero dark thirty, early morning I think, but I don’t know for sure.
Leaning
hard against my rucksack, a backpack holding some 60 pounds of gear, I gaze at
the stars in quiet retreat. Little points of light by the millions, each an
individual entity, yet together a wash of sparkling glitter upon the blackened
canvas of a cold winter’s sky.
My
breath comes labored and deep, spilling little clouds of crystalline vapor into
the night, as I sit upon the cold December ground with my legs stretched before
me. Drenched in my own sweat and exhausted almost to the point of collapse, I
ponder upon the chain of events that brought me to this point in my life.
I
started school a little later than most, so a few days after graduation I
turned 19 years old. I set out to seek my place in life, wandering from job to
job, working at McDonald’s and at a factory that made tables, chairs and other
such products out of wood. I even washed dishes at a bakery.
I
took a few college classes. It was nothing serious, but enough to keep my
parents off my back. I did not do well in college, it was not a priority for
me. I was more interested in being young and having fun.
After
a few years of this, I came to the conclusion that working a minimum wage job
while taking a few classes was just not for me. I wanted excitement, I wanted
life to be fun. I joined the Army in hopes that I would find the fun and
excitement my otherwise boring life was lacking.
Now
here I sit upon the side of a road along with a Battalion of other men, on the
final leg of the final test of Basic Training, a 21-mile road march in full
battle gear. The distance and the gear was only part of the test. Yesterday we
were jarred from our racks at zero four hundred as always, pushed through a
full day of training by relentless Drill Instructors, geared up at twenty two
hundred hours (10:00 p.m.) and set out on a 21-mile road march.
So,
after a full 18-hour day, we were given our final test: Complete a 21-mile road
march or fail Basic Training and face having to start all over again with
another unit. I recycled. The march was well regulated in true Army fashion. Walk
for 50 minutes, rest for 10.
This
went on all night long, and now that we have been up for over 24 hours, with most
of the march behind us. This was perhaps the final rest break. We all knew what
lay ahead: The three most grievous hills know to man, Misery, Agony and
Heartbreak, each more torturous than the last.
From
out of the gloom came a mountain with arms, Drill Sergeant Cole. Well over six
feet tall, wide at the shoulders, narrow at the hip, and arms the size of tree
trunks, Drill Sergeant Cole barked out in his usual deep gravely voice, “On
your feet, on your feet.”
Doing
as instructed, one by one we climbed to our feet, checked our gear, and began
placing one foot in front of the other slowly moving forward in quiet anguish.
Almost
immediately the first of the three monsters appeared before me, the hill known
as Misery. As I gazed upon this hill that seemed to climb into the heavens, I
was startled by the sudden presence of Drill Sergeant Cole walking at my side.
The Drill Sergeant looked at me and said, “Don’t fallout. As platoon leader,
the eyes of the entire platoon will be upon you. If you fallout, so will they.”
I
responded with the usual ,”Drill Sergeant, yes Drill Sergeant”. I don’t know
why he picked me to be the platoon leader weeks ago, maybe it was because when
I entered Basic Training I was much older than the normal recruit. I was 22
years old and most of the others were only around 18. Maybe it was because I
was married, already had a kid, and had the most to lose.
Regardless
of his reasoning, I was the platoon leader and it was up to me to get my
platoon over these hills.
The
ascent began in earnest, and almost immediately I could feel the effects. My
breath came hard burning my lungs in the cold December air feeling as if my
entire chest was on fire. My back began to spasm in pain, and my legs screamed
for relief as every nerve fired with punishing vengeance.
Yet
I continued to climb this hill, for there was no way that I was going to fail
this test and start Basic Training all over again. As I crested the hill known
as Misery, I looked back only to see the eyes of every member of my platoon
looking up at me, Drill Sergeant Cole was right, they were watching me.
Though
the down slope was a welcomed relief, the next hill lived up to its name in
every way, Agony.
On
this hill I almost lost my nerve, I almost gave up. My feet hurt so much; it
felt as if I was walking barefoot on glass. I could feel the warm slipperiness
of blood between my toes that comes from blisters that have burst open and were
now bleeding, soaking my socks and filling my boots with a sticky slurry of
blood and sweat.
My
head pounded with fatigue, my shoulders rubbed raw from the constant jostling
of my rucksack, my eyes blurred from the strain, as my back shuttered in
anguish from little bolts of pain that would strike suddenly like lightening.
As I began to justify to myself why I should just give it up, I became aware of
other recruits that had fallen out of formation, and gave up the cause.
First
came a few; many followed. Once again Drill Sergeant Cole was correct, when a
platoon leader fell out of formation, the platoon became decimated with others
who followed his lead and gave up the fight as well. I could not do this to my
platoon, to my men, to my brothers who have suffered so many ills with me. I
could not do this to my wife and kid at home, to my mother and father who were
so proud of me for making the decision to serve my country. I could not do this
to myself. So I trudged on and crested the demon hill known as Agony.
Following
a very modest downward slope, we were upon the final hill, the hill that has
retired more people than Social Security, the hill known as Heartbreak.
As
I started up this fiend of a hill, carefully and meticulously placing one foot
in front of the other, my body now prickly and numb from nerves that could no
longer fire, I felt the eyes of my platoon upon me. I felt many of those eyes
pushing me, shoving me forward in defiance of this hill, giving me strength and
hoping that I had the fortitude to continue.
Yet
just as many of those eyes were latching on to me, allowing them to be dragged
up that hill by my stubbornness, secretly hoping that I would just give up so
that they had a reason to do the same. With every step the tug of those eyes
upon me became greater, overwhelming, almost impossible to bear.
I
prayed that I would not break, but I knew my breaking point was upon me. I
could not feel my feet; they were like two tubs of concrete attached to frayed
sinew. A tear rolled down my check, my soul screamed in frustration, I gave
this hill my final measure.
I
crested Heartbreak, the devourer of dreams, and as I stood upon her shoulders I
turned around to see the entire platoon, each and every man filing up to join
me at the finish line.
The
2015–2016 school year is now upon us, and we have three large hills to climb, the
first, second and third trimesters. Once again, I feel your eyes as teachers upon
my back as the principal, some pushing and others pulling. Yet together we will
stand upon the crest of the final hill in triumph, together we will make this
school year the best one yet.
But
keep in mind that upon your back are the eyes of your students. How and where
will you lead them?
Making
Kennedy the school of choice. Excellence by design.
