Very few people in the world can say they have undergone a trial similar to hell week at the Virginia Military Institute. Having spent a full week waking up with a red-faced corporal, living bathroom break to bathroom break and standing in the sweltering southern sun for hours on end I could probably write a novel filled with every little punishment, every little victory, every insult and every time I wanted to roll over and scream “I AM DONE”; but that’s not what this essay is about. In fact, this essay is about the after effects of that nightmarish 168 hours, when I finally could rip open the letters I had received from home and write back to all of them just like I promised when I had a full head of hair and chuckled at the concept of straining. So there I sat, about 15 minutes into my life as an ‘independent’ rat. I was still covered head to boot in grime, dirt and soaked thoroughly in sweat and the murky off-green water of the Maury River. I propped my boots up on my desk and opened my drawer revealing various scraps of crumpled papers. Resting gently on top were four pristine envelopes all marked beautifully ‘Pennsylvania’ in the corner. They each had been sitting there for several days now, I never had the time to pull them open and the thought of finally being able to do so was one of my main drives to get through the week. Now I finally could.
Around me my roommates roamed around the room, other rats popped in and out all smiling ear to ear, laughing at the things that had driven us near tears only hours before. But rather then joining them, I sat scrolling through the thick envelops with an eagerness no one could imagine. I started opening them, careful not to smudge the writing with the sweat and muck on my hands and smiled through brown, dirt-stained teeth as I paged through them.
The four letters were for the most part, written how I expected them. The first one I read was from a girl, well, the girl to put better. She wrote in a long drawn out cursive on a thick cardboard card. Although the shortest, it took the longest for me to read. She started with a joke, told me what she was up too and how much she missed me and sealed it with her name and smudged up lipstick. The next was from my parents, which was essentially all inspiration, kind words and lots of signatures. The third, from my best friend since diapers who had gone off to Penn State Main Campus, he wrote everything he was doing, all the parties, the classes, he told me stories of all sorts of things that had happened and wished me the best.
The final letter was one I did not expect, it was from another close friend, but not one I would expect to go out of his way to send me a letter. He also went to Penn State, but started his letter with “However you’re feeling, I hope it’s better than how I do.” I immediately felt shock and even a little selfish anger; after all, I had just passed the most grueling week of any college student in the country and he’s complaining about Penn State? But I kept going, and went on to learn he has been suffering some fairly severe depressive episodes after getting to college, he had been attending counselling and even opened up about having suicidal thoughts. Essentially, not at all what I was expecting to get here; especially after reading the other letter from Penn State.
He became my top priority, I was obviously very deeply concerned and wanted to help, so I pulled some paper out and began scribbling away while my roommates continued reminiscing back and forth. I wrote everything I could that I thought would help him chin up and get through this, every little detail I had picked up since for the vast majority of hell week I had been feeling the same way he described; scared, alone, helpless, tired and as if the whole world was against me. I wrote about all the incredible things we did despite it all, the motivational stories and speeches we had heard and a few of the funny ones to lighten the mood. I finally sat back, satisfied that I had done my best for him and moved on to the next hopefully easier to write letter to my best friend.
This letter did not take much time at all. In it I described all the crap of hell week, the stuff I could go on for days for; all of the yelling, how deep down I kind of wished I had gone to a regular school and how missed all the guys. I wrote less and less to respond to him and more about getting all of the repressed anger and exhaustion out of my head. The letter turned from a chat with my oldest friend to a therapeutic punching bag in about 3 paragraphs. It was certainly less motivating then the one I had just written; filled with how I was climbing mountains and pulling through all these absolutely absurd events. I quickly filled up a few pages giving the impression I was living life in some sort of hilarious, hellish nightmare.
My parents on the other hand, received a version much like my other friend. I told them how much I loved my company, roommates and even cadre at times (something my best friend would be very surprised to hear after reading the letter to him). I wrote about how my older brother was helping me, how I wasn’t even thinking about going to another college, how motivated I was to push through and study all the time. Essentially, the antithesis to what I had just finished writing maybe 15 minutes before.
Finishing that I reread my girlfriend’s, which killed my mood faster than any cadre’s insults could. When I started writing to her, my hell week turned miserable, lonely, homesick and give off the impression I would make a break for a bus station at the first opportunity I could. No mention of all the motivation I had five minutes prior, nor the funny stories or absurd ramblings of cadre from 20 minutes and especially no uplifting words of wisdom from whenever I finished the first letter. To her, I just wanted to be home and keep doing all the things we usually do. I finished it wishing I hadn’t saved it for last.
I sealed all four of them up and then looked at the letters, realizing as I put them down that these may as well be describing completely different experiences in each one. In some, I had just passed through a mere challenge, helped along the way by the support of my brother rats, finding inspiration in the little things and putting forth all possible effort to become a better person despite the nightmare around me. In the others, it seemed like I would be ready to bolt off post and into a W&L house at the first possible second. Were these really describing the same thing?
Never before have I noticed how different one can write when put under different contexts. Within maybe an hour, I had created four incredibly different versions of hell week in order to appeal to four very different audiences. It’s similar to how people have different personalities or mannerisms in different surroundings, what is the real you? It makes one wonder if there really is an ‘actual’ series of events that transpired or if the details of an event depend on the context one is retelling them in
I would have to agree with the latter. My experience writing my letters home only cemented that view. Retelling exactly how an event transpired is only possible if one can make a pinpoint list of everything that occurred as it happened, and who honestly writes like that? Writing requires one knowing their audience and changing their story to fit that context; my friend suffering depression obviously got a different story then my parents received. Which retelling is more real than the other? Neither, they’re both true, both contained actual events, they’re simply tailored to fit different contexts.