Commencement
It's expected that I tell my little tale, at least my side of it, and I suppose I have a responsibility to do so. At least it's a chance to explain myself. Maybe, like the Roman Catholics, I have a need to confess my transgressions, and there have been many, both great and small, all of them avoidable, yet so unavoidable. Perhaps you've been there.
My name is Tara Watts and, at the time of these events, I was twenty years of age. Taking into consideration the law of cause and effect, it's difficult to pinpoint exactly where this story begins, so I suppose the most sensible beginning is to add a little background information to my name.
I was born in Toronto, but that's not my hometown. My parents were Salvationists, so they were moved around a lot, posted wherever Territorial HQ decided to ship them off to and me along with them so, as a result, I've also lived in Kelowna, Bermuda, Singapore and Iqaluit.
At the time, my parents were still posted in Iqaluit, still Captains and, because they tended to be outspoken critics of how they feel the Army has been losing its way, they'd have probably remain Captains, stationed in Iqaluit until they choose to retire or were forced to do so. Don't get me wrong, they're both dedicated Christians doing the Lord's work and always have been, and I think HQ sees that as well, but my parents see a more political, self-serving side to the Salvation Army which, in their opinion, 'taints' its works and HQ wishes they'd be a lot less vocal about it.
I was a lifer, a proud Junior Soldier when I was ten years old, a Soldier when I was fourteen, and even prouder when I enrolled at CFOT (College for Officer Training) at age eighteen. My parents were also proud of the decision I'd made to follow in their vocational and spiritual footsteps, but they (mostly my father) never stopped cautioning me about what they called 'the taint', that growing interest of the Army's upper echelons in hoarding more and more money, property and power while, at all costs, protecting its image. They warned me again and again, ingraining into my consciousness how easy it could be to unknowingly end up turning my back on The Lord and His Holy works through the deceptions of pride, glorifying self and the organization instead of Him. We are not to be glorified, these are not our works, but His.
Another thing they often cautioned me about was the uniform itself, advising me to wear it as little as possible as it promotes pride, especially when others see it. There's a reaction to it, an instant respect no matter how small, that people in our society are subconsciously conditioned to have when they see a uniform. No matter what organisation that uniform represents, no matter the individual wearing it, a uniform commands a strange deference that, according to my parents, often builds a spiritually destructive pride within its wearer. According to them, the uniform makes it too easy to begin seeing oneself as spiritually above others, separated from and somehow better than others and, as we in the Army often deal with society's most unfortunate, this danger of pride, any Christian's worst enemy next to Satan himself, is all the more real for us.
All that said, I loved my uniform. And, while I did harbour pride, it was a pride that I felt in my accomplishments, in graduating CFOT with flying colours to become an Officer, in being part of something bigger than myself, a pride in doing the Lord's work. My uniform represented these things and the lifelong commitment I'd made to them.
I love my parents, I value their wisdom and I was sure that their criticisms of the Army were, to some extent, true, but I myself had never seen evidence of these things they'd warned me about. Yes, I've met some upper ranking Officers who know of my parents and their opinions and who treated me a little differently than the other soldiers and cadets because of it. Often, especially at CFOT, I felt a certain amount of subtle pressure. Though I'd never felt any outright malice directed at me, my instructors would periodically ask me if this was really what I wanted for myself, if I was truly prepared to make the commitments required of a Salvation Army Officer, exerting a mild form of intimidation that my fellow cadets never received. For the most part, the other cadets themselves tended to leave me alone, though I don't think I could go so far as to say that they shunned me. But, no matter how I was treated within the ranks, I never took any of it personally. I knew that I had my parents' reputations to overcome, a familiar albatross around my neck that was to be expected but, in truth, it only made me study all the harder. And, apart from these personal examples, I'd never experienced any darker political side of the Army that my parents had always spoken of, certainly nothing that would make me feel anything but the righteous pride I did when I donned the uniform.
However, I do have to admit to another form of pride that the uniform brought, another reason, an admittedly shameful one, for why I loved my uniform.
I looked great in it. Really great.
At the risk of sounding vain, I'm quite attractive and, obviously, I know it. At five foot seven inches and one hundred seventeen pounds, my fit, well-proportioned body measures out at 34D-26-34. I hear a lot of comments about my tushie and boobs, always have and I suspect that they, along with my pretty face, long blonde hair and blue eyes, spared me from any more disapproval than I received at CFOT, at least from the male instructors. Attractive people tend to get further in life and that's not something I'm ashamed of. I can't help what God gave me any more than how people treat me on account of it. Besides, it wasn't like I was actively using my 'assets' for personal advantage. It's more like other people were doing that for me, and the way I look in my uniform only helplessly encouraged them all the more.
I graduated from CFOT on June twenty-fourth, twenty-sixteen and, upon commencement, was given my marching orders, so to speak. By Monday, the twenty-seventh, I found myself outside the Salvation Army Center of Hope in Regina, Saskatchewan, and I was presented with the first real-world example of how my uniform affects others. Two bedraggled looking men, undoubtedly patrons of the centre, sitting on the sidewalk with their backs against the building looked me up and down as I left my car, Bible in hand, and approached the front door. They were impressed with what they saw, but afraid to react, unable to decide how to out of fear that even a simple courtesy towards the pretty girl in the uniform could be misinterpreted as something that could land them in trouble and back on the street. With my hair neatly done up under the cute little bowler hat, my three inch regulation heels sounding like The Lord's purpose on the cement, I showed them a distant smile, one that respected them by acknowledging their existence while easily brushing aside their obvious lust for my body.
Inside, I ascended a short flight of steps and was about to address the man in the security booth when the remote, electronic lock of the door to my right was deactivated with a
"Clack!"
and a short buzzing sound. Like the two poor souls outside, the fifty-something man behind the plexiglass seemed unsure of how to treat me, letting the uniform in without a word exchanged and saying nothing from a neutral expression as he waited for me to proceed as though I'd been there before. There was nothing else to do but continue on so, pulling the heavy red door open, I left the outer security area.
I found myself at the end of a long corridor. Though this was obviously a staff area, the white cinderblock interior construction, despite efforts to warm it with inspirational pictures, had an underlying institutional feel that the freshly mopped, tiled floor reinforced. I could even smell the detergent, experiencing a sudden, inexplicable dislike for the place as I stood there. Not having been given any details of my posting, I only knew that I would be working under a Major Brian Hurdle, Executive Officer there, and that I was to report to him. Getting over my initial impressions, I turned to my left and walked through the open doorway, just inside what I correctly assumed was the security booth.
The attendant, a mustached man in his fifties with a slightly grown out, salt and pepper brush cut, looked up at me, his eyes doing a helpless 'up and down' of my body before his face showed a careful smile. This gesture showed his respect for me, his automatic superior. Above all others, Salvation Army Staff have respect for we Officers because they know who we are. We are ordained pastors, their uniformed, spiritual and vocational authority, and they know that their place is to facilitate our work, the Lord's work. If I told him to tell me what he was doing, he'd tell me. If I'd told him to give me his logbook, he'd give it to me. If I told him I wanted his chair, he'd give it to me and, if I'd then told him to leave the security booth, he'd do that too. This wasn't in question, and I didn't need his deferential expression to tell me as much.
"Lieutenant Watts," I greeted with a polite smile, transferring my Bible to my left hand so I could step forward and offer him my right.
He took it, shaking as his smile became a little more relaxed, eyes ever so briefly checking me out again as I decided that I didn't like this person. His visual survey of me wasn't just a chauvinistic expression, which I'd come to expect to a degree, but also suggestive of someone looking for some personal advantage. On his shirt, he wore one of those magnetic nametags, shiny gold with the Salvation Army shield and his name in black letters, identifying him as
Bob Marshall, Booth Attendant
