Deserving of Honor

I joined the Cape Henlopen JROTC as an itty bitty freshman. In my mind, I could do anything I chose to, so I did. My sophomore year I became the youngest and the shortest platoon sergeant. The following year I was promoted to platoon leader of not one but two classes! Over the years, I had been taught to open and conduct uniform inspections, open formation and lead physical training on Fridays, teach the curriculum, and mentor other cadets. I was directly responsible for many complex procedures. 

Now, I was the member of almost all JROTC’s extracurricular teams and commander of a few, and I had taken the lead in “most community service hours” achieved by one cadet (of my peers that year). At this point my uniform is decently decorated with shiny medals and beautiful ribbons. I always thought I worked hard for everything I achieved-- that every single thing on my uniform was a testament to my ambition, my knowledge, my dedication. Then, I entered my senior year, and that was all put into question by one of my “colleagues”. His cordial venom did not fall on deaf ears. 

In May of my junior year, the “top dogs” in JROTC attend what’s called the “Battalion Commander’s Board”; A room with a panel of Cape teachers randomly selected to ask you a series of predetermined questions to dictate whether you’re good enough to be in charge of hundreds of cadets: the Battalion Commander of the JROTC program. A small room with four walls, one window, a long desk, you, and the teachers. Before you enter, the teachers are briefed on your academic and extracurricular record. They’re given a rubric and the liberty to judge all your work up until this very moment. 

Before I took my turn in the lions’ den, Alan Fernandez and Maurice Sherry did. Maurice and Alan wanted to be Battalion Commander, were both platoon leaders and had impressive records, but mine had clearly shown evidence of more experience. They each went in, and came out with faces full of concern masked thinly with bravado. I can’t blame them, I would have --and ultimately did do-- too. It was my turn. I walked in exactly as the procedure was taught. I responded to their questions as confidently as ever and their faces seemed impressed and content. After I left, my face must have beamed elation. 

I was attending a community service event when my Senior Army Instructor approached me, 

“I’m terrible at keeping secrets Clara-Rosa. Oh, I’ll just tell you. I’m pleased to announce, the panel made a great decision--”

I cut him off.

“YOU’RE KIDDING, COLONEL!”

“I most certainly am not,” he chuckled.

This news brought me absolute euphoria. I aspired to be the Battalion Commander since I joined JROTC as that itty bitty freshman, and in my mind everything I did brought me to this moment. When it was announced to the rest of the staff, many of the men who hadn’t “seen me in action” questioned the integrity of the panel-- and they didn’t bother hiding it.

I worked with the Army Instructors to schedule and organize the Veterans Day ceremonies and many other events. At each event I planned, Alan and Maurice made it difficult for me to lead by revising my commands or ignoring them entirely. They circulated rumors that I had been picked to be the head of the program, because I was a woman, because I was pitied, or because I was “colonel’s favorite” and the panel’s decision was a hoax. Regardless, I continued to plan and lead with integrity, grace, and stringency. 

I won nearly all the national awards the Army Instructors applied with my leadership and service profile, but the rumors continued to spread like a mold consuming what once was my favorite food. I was supported by many inside and outside the program, but it was no use trying to extinguish the lies. All I could do was what I had been taught and commended for: exactly what I was doing.

I was scheduled to receive the JROTC 5th Avenue Jeweler Saber, a silver plated saber awarded ceremoniously at the end of the academic year to “top dogs” who have helped the program thrive. 

One Army Instructor went as far to tell me in confidence, “I like Alan, but if you look at the whole picture, no one deserves that saber more than you do.” 

If you haven’t quite understood the moral of this story yet: At the end of the day, I hope you notice like I did that those who know you best -- who witness your effort, growth, and success-- will not be the people who say you don’t deserve honor.