TOMMIE SAYLOR: OK teachers, its time to lead ...

“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.