Picture This…
Having been defeated in battle, the solider barely was able to escape with his life. Playing dead isn’t for everyone, but the bullets 
and barbed whips had cut through the skin, the muscle, until it felt as if they were striking the bones of his back and thighs. He was bleeding profusely, able only to drag himself a few inches and with only the greatest expense of energy. Perhaps it was pity more than anything else that keep him alive. He was a shadow of his former self. What danger could he present?
The uniform he had donned, once pristine white, to adorn and perfect his appearance, to identify his stature, his power, his allegiance, was hanging off of his body, some of it torn and bloody, the other fitting so loosely he wondered if he had lost something greater than blood in the pit. That is what they called that dirty sand. It was a place people went in whole and came out lessened. He had no way to tell how much ‘lessened’ he was, the pain was indiscriminant, everywhere. He prayed to his savior for sleep, the bliss of unconsciousness, but it never came.
The inches gradually became greater, but each one at a tremendous cost to himself. He knew the wounds closed at some point, but the scars were raised and still an ugly red, striking a hot path over every inch of his back. He kept the reasons for those scars to himself; no soldier wants to announce that he wasn’t good enough to succeed where others had failed. He didn’t want to be one of ‘them,’ those people that seemed to be purely about the ends and not ethics that got them there.
The next time he went into battle, he dressed himself, but left off the banners marking his allegiance, didn’t display his bullets and kept the dress whites in the closet - they were only for those that want to make themselves a target. He left defeated again. The pit had gained another drop of his precious blood, renewed those angry scars on his back and he felt each on as he walked out. Walked out, and went home promptly and collapsed.
It wasn’t inches that he made this time, but feet, yards, miles, and he appreciated each one for the inches they held. Inches are, after all, precious - valuable- commodities. Eventually, they add up.
He was not defeated.
The scars were there, and would likely never fade into oblivion. It bothered him somewhat over the years and battles that followed that they were renewed from time to time, additions made to them, but he had learned to accept a certain degree of pain comes with making the effort. Showing up is always the first leg of any battle because, somehow, planning never prepared him enough.
He still battles, this soldier, yet sometimes he actually wins. Today, this soldier won, despite odds, his own doubts, his weariness, his fatigue and his rather obnoxious bright red button that proclaimed today everyone needed to ‘fuck off.’
Wearing dress whites is fun even if it gets you shot.
Tell me how you understand this post.
The uniform he had donned, once pristine white… In this allegory, in which you, Dae, are the soldier, the uniform is a set of standards, very high standards, that the soldier has set for himself.
…the pit. That is what they called that dirty sand. It was a place people went in whole and came out lessened. I was unsure if the pit represented a professional setback, a defeat, or the despair that followed a defeat. This soldier appears particularly strong-willed, so a setback, in and of itself, would not stop him. It would be the harsh self-judgment and accompanying despair that would cause him to be “lessened.”
The next time he went into battle, he dressed himself, but left off the banners marking his allegiance, didn’t display his bullets and kept the dress whites in the closet… High standards make one’s failings all the more palatable to the envious, and I think that may be what this phrase describles. But even if he does not publicly announce his high standards of performance, they are evident in how he approaches his work. And when he misses the mark, in his own judgment and perhaps in the judgment of others, he experiences defeat. But this time the despair is not so lengthy. The soldier recovers quickly enough to walk out of the pit, and that act of walking gives him hope.
…but he had learned to accept a certain degree of pain comes with making the effort. Showing up is always the first leg of any battle because, somehow, planning never prepared him enough. Any worthwhile human endeavor is going to involve disappointment, tedium, even loss. And there is no way one can really prepare for loss or defeat: the pain will still be there. However, one can learn not to be disabled by the pain, be it physical, emotional, or spiritual.
…Wearing dress whites is fun even if it gets you shot. There’s nothing like being vindicated, nothing like the high of being proven right, especially when you held high standards from the very start.
Now, please tell us what you meant when writing this post.
Kochanie said this on June 30th, 2006 at 3:39 pm