How I Was Welcomed Aboard by the U.S. Navy

Any moderately informed individual could probably produce a long list of shocking deeds committed by the United States military against the various peoples of the world. I put forth that the greatest American military crime of all time is the damage inflicted upon the English language by the good men and women in uniform. It is some kind of tribute to the overwhelming influence of military culture on our society that so many of us knowingly or unknowingly speak the language of battle and readiness in our daily and professional lives. Even the most basic search into American-coined terms, phrases and vocabulary will reveal that nearly all stem from the world of business / finance and the military. The French gave the world je ne sais quoi and fin de siècle; the Germans produced gestalt, Sturm und Drang and Bildungsroman; America has offered "collateral damage" and "fragging" (and, it must be added, "boondoggle" - a great word).

I recently accepted a student work position at the Navy hospital in town, working in the center's library facility - a paid position, largely focused on searching for articles and medical literature. It will be the first library job I've held since leaving upstate New York several years ago and beginning my slow pursuit of the MLIS degree, and my first job period here in what our local politicians have dubbed "America's Finest City". Any attempt to re-enter the workforce after a prolonged absence is bound to experience a few bumps and sputters. But after going through the months-long process of beginning work for the U.S. military - the paperwork, the applications process, the faxing, the Q&A, the online training, the orientation, the wandering lost through cavernous interiors, and the realization that These People Do Not Speak English - I suspect that I chose the single most painful and frustrating route to becoming gainfully employed available on these fair shores. I don't mean physically - I wouldn't compare what I've been doing to construction work or slaughterhouse details. And I certainly haven't been put in any danger, which is obviously not the case for many military employees. But mentally, emotionally, intellectually - it's been bad, BRAVO-ALPHA-DELTA bad.

I seem to recall getting my first library job back in Albany after literally walking off the street and asking a librarian about any part or full-time positions that might be available. If memory serves, I was collecting my first paycheck within the week. I first inquired about possible internships within this military library sometime last summer - late June, early July. After a bit of back-and-forth, and a few visits to the facility, it became clear that most of the intern spots were already filled. However, a non-credit yet paid student work position was available, and it sounded like a decent opportunity, so I made the appropriate noises, sent on a resume and was told to wait for Human Resources to get back to me. This went on for the rest of the summer - the waiting for Human Resources bit, that is. A few more visits to the facility and many more emails later, I heard some encouraging words. Messages featuring the cryptic statement that I had been "tentatively selected" for the position appeared in my inbox, followed by ominous silences. Sometime in late September, a new individual sent me a message with another tentative selection promise and a firmer offer. I was also given electronic links to two massive online files. These files, helpfully labeled Employment Part A Forms and Employment Part B Forms, consisted of instructions to complete all forms marked with a check. Part A featured twelve different forms, Part B roughly the same. Each form was several pages long. They were to be filled out and faxed to a specific individual within three days. This individual would peruse them for errors, email me back if things looked all right, and the files were then to be printed out and mailed to the individual. That was Part A. Part B Forms were to be completed and printed out, and then brought with me to my first day of work, which was scheduled for October 26th - nearly a month from the date I first heard from Human Resources. I dutifully printed out page after page of required documents, filled them out as accurately as possible, and attempted several different fax attempts, all of which failed. I even went to the library I'd be theoretically working at and attempted a fax, which also failed. Eventually, I was told to just send the documents through the mail.

This was all just for Part A. Part B proved even trickier. Stupidly waiting for the evening before my first day, I stared incredulously at the mountain of paperwork and red tape I'd need to plow through before being accepted for this seven-month student work position. The most comprehensive was a pair of background checks, both of which had been checked as required, even though I later found out that this had been a mistake and that I shouldn't have filled out either one. Every single example of anything I'd ever done needed to be verified independently by somebody I'd once known. Attended Lawrence University between 1996 and 2000? Give the name, address and phone number of somebody who knew you there. Lived on Henry Johnson Blvd. in Albany, NY for a few years? Give the name, phone number and address of somebody who knew you well at that address. And on and on. I apologize to any friends or acquaintances who may be surprised by ominous late-night phone calls from Navy INTEL. They mean very little harm.

My first day at work consisted of being handed a two-page "check list" of various stops across the hospital that needed to be made within a single working day, from Pass and Decal for my vehicle to numerous InformationTechnology stops. Most of these consisted of somebody lifelessly signing my check-in sheet and sending me on to the next station. None of them were next to each other. I needed to phone the wife to figure out where Building 26 was (the layout of the hospital includes buildings 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, but I couldn't imagine where Building 26 was located. I also couldn't figure out how or why the building numbers ran from 1-6 and 26). I also needed to get a skin poke for a TB test (my second - the first TB test had been conducted several weeks earlier). One of my final stops was supposed to be the security office, which took me several attempts to locate. I was buzzed in and confronted with a small waiting room and a uniformed man literally speaking to me through a hole in the wall set with thick metal bars. I was told to put my name down and have a seat, and the man slid shut a marbled glass panel to completely cut himself off from me. When I attempted to hand in the required two background checks. I was told that this was not satisfactory. I was informed that HR continues to misperceive the required documents and has yet to correct the problem. I was told that what I really needed to do was complete a longer online program to complete the background check, and that this program needed to be conducted at home. I was also told I needed to get fingerprinted. I was told the fingerprint office was closed for the day. I was not told how I was supposed to get all of the required steps completed before the end of the day, as spelled out within my check-in packet. I was given an apology for any inconvenience I might be experiencing.

Dejected, confused and sporting what must have been an impressive blood pressure reading, I returned home to chew the situation over and attempt my online background check. An effort to phone Human Resources and let them know I'd be completing my check-in process a day late resulted in nothing more than me leaving a phone message. When I started the online program later that night, I quickly saw that I would not be able to easily breeze through the 40+ pages of questions and details included, and when, hours later, I came to the section that required my father's passport number, I gazed towards heaven and mumbled impure thoughts about our creator. It was approaching midnight.

I'm rather skilled in the fine art of bullshitting, but I suspect I would have had a hard time faking my father's passport number, and seeing how it was nearing 2 AM back in Wisconsin, I wasn't about to pursue the matter any further. I switched off the computer and attempted sleep. When I finally managed to contact HR the next morning to explain away my second failed attempt at concluding my check-in process within the allotted single-business-day perimeter, I was blithely informed that it didn't matter and I should just try to get it in before the weekend. I suggested that such flexibility might in the future be indicated somewhere on the packet.

With my father's passport number in hand and no visible signs of TB spreading across my left arm, I confidently made my way back to the base, gave up my fingerprints freely, and handed off the completed paperwork to security folks. All that was left, I was told, was a visit to IT and the turning in of my check-in sheet. I skipped over to IT, where a woman with a grudge against the entire world looked at me as if I had dried vomit caked across my shirt. I apologetically gave my name, prostrated myself before her for requiring her services, asked her meekly to help me set up my account and commence work. I managed to make it out of her office with my hide, if not my pride, and hurried along to receive the Holy Grail of Navy access - a CAC card.

It was only after sitting for one hour and twenty-three minutes in an extremely uncomfortable chair that I was informed by the bemused man behind the desk that CAC cards were not created until twenty-four hours had elapsed from my IT visit. I was told to make an appointment for later in the week. I suspect that my lady friend in IT was well aware of this situation. Seeing how she had actually given me directions to the CAC office, I smelled foul play.

When I returned to the hospital later in the week for the CAC baptism, I was informed that the computers were down and I should return on a later date. Luckily, I took my time and did not storm out of the office, because I was called back as I reached the door and informed that the computer system was "back up for now". I left with my CAC card burning a hole in my pocket.

Now, there were further CAC adventures this past week, requiring several treks across the entire hospital grounds and an additional visit to my IT nemesis, who concluded our second encounter with the hopeful phrase, "If that don't work, I can't do anything else for you." Two days were spent at Command Orientation in the Building 5 Auditorium, in which every single new hire, from physicians and nurses to the cleaning staff and yours truly, listened to endless presentations, viewed numerous PowerPoint disasters, and grew very familiar with the phrase "so, let me tell you a little bit about myself". What was the low point during these hours of captivity? Impossible to narrow down, so I offer a few candidates :

- two separate presenters building speeches around the phrase "Success is judged by those we serve"

- being told to stand up, stretch and rub the shoulders of the person to our right (the preeningly homophobic dude in uniform to my right told me he didn't need his shoulders rubbed, in case I had any ideas)

- breathing in wafts of the most foul-smelling chicken-salad sandwich on earth from somebody seated a row down for the entire afternoon session on Monday

- breathing in the equally foul smells emanating from the product-slathered heads of two prior-military chumps sprawled in front of me

- witnessing a representative from Facilities Management refer to a PowerPoint slide of arrows representing budget numbers as his "Circle of Excellence" (this same individual later tossed out the term "readback," as in a paperwork type of feedback)

- a nearly incoherent union representative who managed to confuse everybody in the room, refused to answer any questions and referred to the woman who asked her for clarification as an "interrogator"

- a testosterone-reeking representative from Morale, Welfare and Recreation (MWR) who forced us to stand up and do calisthenics and referred to himself as "Mr. T"

- the woman who sounded like Rachel Ray after a sugar binge, who attempted a disastrous presentation including a seeing-eye dog that actually involved the dog falling off the stage and being unable to find a way back up, much to his distress

Oh, enough. You get the idea. There were moments so ludicrous this week in the auditorium that I kept scanning the side exits to see if Peter Sellers was about to be pushed out in his Dr. Strangelove wheelchair. On Tuesday, I was handed my Command Orientation Graduation Diploma and welcomed aboard, sent off to commence work, to do good, to make my country proud, to be employed for seven months as a student. I climbed the steps to the medical library, ready to show off my CAC card, wave my diploma around a little, set the world on fire.

I was handed a 5 sheet packet with links to the twenty-nine different required online training courses I'd need to take before I could start work. Later that afternoon, I was told I'd been given the wrong packet (I needed the "Initial Training Sheet for Civilians, Contractors and Volunteers" rather than the "Annual Training Sheet for Civilians, Contractors and Volunteers") and that I should start over. They apologized for any inconvenience.