The Tolerance Paradox and Why You Need to Care About It

June 20, 2019June 22, 2019 / glennt97 / Leave a comment

For those of us who grew up in the United States, particularly those who attended public school, you will recall that one kid (or perhaps more than one) in your grade school class who wielded his/her minimal understanding of our Constitution like an impenetrable shield. They would shout the words “FREE SPEECH” or its corollary, “…it’s a FREE country” with the sort of fervor reserved almost exclusively for the ignorantly overconfident. Many of us grew to understand that the extraordinary freedoms we enjoy as American citizens are not without limitation. We began to understand the unique “social contract” that democracy and freedom require – where we submit to certain, universal limitations on those freedoms so that we all can continue to enjoy them. Of course, from time to time, these limitations are expanded, contracted or otherwise revised to accommodate the growth and change of American society, but in the end we remain aware of the fact that one of the prices of freedom is some of that freedom, itself.

I come to the need to write about this because of a pervasive and wildly ignorant trope which appears to have infected much of the modern (i.e. post-2015) conservative movement in the United States – and that is, the faux indignation of noting how “intolerant” the “left” has become. This usually includes a sigh of feigned disbelief over just how much “hate” is spewed at them for the simple act of “having a different opinion.” These missives are universally determined to claim the moral high ground from those who actually sacrifice to have it, and it is (always will be) insane and wrong. What’s more, the reason it’s wrong is the kind of concept that is not easily packaged into sound bytes, memes or other modern propaganda – and so it remains largely inaccessible to those who need to hear it most. However, I have come to believe that any concept, if taught well, can be accessible by almost everyone. I have been teaching complex corporate legal concepts to business owners from all walks of life, and I have never come across anyone who, if I stuck with it, couldn’t understand. So, rather than remain frustrated and disappointed, I would like to see if I might properly “break it down” for those who find mid-20^th century philosophy inaccessible.

Importantly, this is not my innovation. In 1945, philosopher Karl Popper published “The Open Societies and Its Enemies” which details the philosophical case for why intolerance of intolerance is not only not inconsistent, it’s actually required for any measure of tolerance to exist. Dr. Popper’s erudite prose and innovative approach is something I’m neither qualified to or interested in attempting to recreate or improve upon, as such would be a fool’s errand. Dr. Popper’s explanation is worth reading, and you can find it here. It is, however, not the type of reading that is accessible by everyone – despite the fact that it has never been more necessary. Inasmuch, I believe that I can provide a more practical and accessible version – in the perhaps misguided hopes that at least one more person can change how they behave as a result.

Imagine there is a small, midwestern farming town where five farmers each live and own their own, separate farms. It is the intent of the town, and indeed it is set forth in the town’s charter, that each farmer be free to grow whatever they like on their land, without restriction. In fact, that freedom is the reason that each farmer determined to buy land and set up their farms in town. To wit, each farm is permitted to consume twenty percent (or its fair share) of the available (finite) water supply, and each farmer is permitted to exclude whatever and whomever they choose from their land. Initially, this works out. The farmers may not all like each other, but they respect the freedom the town’s arrangement provides.

Suddenly, one of the farmers decides to plant an exotic coterie of fruits from all over the world. They grow in a wild variety of colors, shapes and smells, many of which are, even objectively offensive (particularly the large eggplant). Of course, when the other farmers complain, the fruit farmer points to the town charter and notes gleefully that she is free to plant what she likes, as its her land and it’s a “free town.”

Alternatively, imagine that two of the farmers decide to plant a new type of corn which yields twice as much crop, but grows expansive root networks which render neighboring land infertile. These two farmers are pleased to have twice as much corn, and are even willing to share a small part of their bounty with the remaining farmers – provided they don’t make any noise about not being able to grow their own crops any longer.

The town fathers are deeply committed to maintaining the “freedom” of each farmer to grow what they like on the land they own. After all, land ownership is the quintessential American right, and the town takes great pride in the freedom it provides. However, it is clear (or it should be) that they cannot continue to provide freedom without limitation to everyone, equally. The town fathers simply never imagined that by permitting every farm to grow whatever they like, they might be limiting that very right.

The difference here, however, it quite obvious. For the farmer growing the wild fruits, the fact that their crops offend the sensitivities of the other farmers offers no consequence to the town charter. Indeed, the remaining farms are unaffected and a little discomfort is a small price to pay to grow what you’d like. Further, anyone of the farmers who loudly refuses to “tolerate” the wild fruits should rightfully be considered “intolerant” and objectively less moral than her neighbors. However, for the farmer with the insidious corn, it’s not so simple.

She bought her land with the expectation that she could do with it what she pleases, and she rightfully wants to produce as much as she can from that land for herself and her family. On this, all the farmers agree. However, for the corn farmer to fully enjoy her freedom, the rest of the farmers must sacrifice theirs. These farmers objectively and rightfully should not tolerate the corn farmer’s actions, and this is not inconsistent with their membership in the town. Here’s why: the corn farmer’s “freedom” necessarily includes the inability for any of the other farms/farmers to even exist in that town. If the town were to “tolerate” the corn farmer they would similarly tolerate themselves out of existence. The corn farmer’s implicit intolerance of other farms highlights the tolerance paradox.

Certainly, any tolerant society should seek to include as much diversity as it can. However, the one thing it cannot tolerate is intolerance. This is as true for opinions as it is for farm policy. If your opinion reduces or eliminates another person’s right to exist, then it is intolerant and should not be tolerated. In terms of the farmers (and farm policy), every farm in town is free to plant what it likes no matter how offensive, provided that it does not threaten the other farms’ right to exist and exercise their freedoms. What’s more, in order for the town to be consistent, it remaining members must not tolerate the corn farmer.

In calling for consistency (as they often do), the alt-right dooms itself, as the only way that a tolerant society can be consistent is to be intolerant of intolerance. Even thinking about it for a few minutes can tie your mind in knots, but it comes right down to simple farm policy. If the other farms refuse to tolerate your wild fruit, they’re bigoted, but if they refuse to tolerate your corn that renders their fields infertile, they’re doing exactly what they’re supposed to do. And you’re an a**hole for planting that corn.

Got it? Good.

The Bonfire of the Divinities

January 21, 2019 / glennt97 / Leave a comment

martin-luther-king-photo As Alexander Pope originally opined in 1711, “to err is human; to forgive, divine.” Of course, I am keenly aware of the irony of publicly-declared Atheist aspiring to (or even referring to) divinity but indulge me a moment longer if you will (NOTE: For those that won’t, feel free to check out Pope’s epic work: An Essay on Criticism, he’s far more erudite than I am). Nevertheless, Pope’s reference to divinity is arguably secular – inasmuch as it provides an aspirational moral position rather than suborning the supernatural, one where an individual’s humanity might be (momentarily) transcended by forgiving the errors implicit in the human condition. Further, it is hard to find anyone who opposes the moral value of, or even imagine a higher ideal to aspire to than, forgiveness. Who of us hasn’t marveled when the loved ones of a victim of violent crime publicly state that they forgive the perpetrator? What’s more, who hasn’t felt the waves of benevolence and peace when forgiving what you previously thought to be unforgivable?

Unfortunately, forgiveness has fallen into modern disfavor. The storied moral high ground once exclusively occupied by absolution now accommodates an imagined moral “consistency” instead. The greatest ideal to which thought leaders now aspire is to have lived consistently with the same set of convictions that you have now since time immemorial (or at least since the age of reason); with absolutely no inconsistent statements or actions in your past – no matter how distant. I submit to you, that this is insane.

The greatest human aspiration has been, is, and always should be to grow. If we’re lucky, we’ll get eight decades or so on this beautiful rock. That’s it. No matter what you believe happens after, you know that you’re not going to get another go as you. What makes us human is our big, beautiful brains – and the abilities they give us, to learn, to adapt, to improve. We improve on all different scales: from day-to-day, year-to-year, generation-to-generation and so on. Of course, this improvement is not as consistent as it may appear in hindsight. Our progress often requires that we take a step back in order to take a step forward. In some cases, we go charging back so forcefully that it appears we might be changing directions, altogether. But a little perspective always demonstrates the implicit truth of President Obama’s favorite Martin Luther King Jr. quote – especially important today: “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”

The most common criticism of that sentiment is an important caveat – that these things do not happen by magic. We must work to grow, and that can start with the work required to forgive. I was moved, most recently, by the recent story regarding Kevin Hart, and more locally by the candidacy of Congressman Ruben Kihuen for Las Vegas City Council. For those that don’t know, about ten years ago (circa 2010), well-known comedian, Kevin Hart, regularly posted (via Twitter and other social media) grossly homophobic sentiments as humor. He doesn’t tell those jokes anymore, because he shouldn’t, they’re not funny, and from what I can tell, he’s grown. Further, he’s apologized, but none of that was enough for the Internet. Within 48 hours of the hosting announcement, he stepped down from his hosting duties rather than bow to ongoing pressure to continue to apologize. Congressman Kihuen was the subject of sexual harassment allegations from multiple women, amidst a flurry of similar allegations made against dozens of elected officials prompting investigations, resignations and a party-wide reckoning (at least for one of the major political parties). He almost immediately apologized, denied the most serious allegations, announced he wouldn’t seek re-election and the “mob” moved on – having obtained the proverbial “scalp” they sought. Despite the fact that Ruben was at the time (and still is) a single man, and his public soul-searching, he was “branded,” thrown in with the lot of rapists and sexual aggressors and the balance of his public service career left for dead.

To be clear, I am wholeheartedly in support of the #MeToo movement and their previously unthinkable takedowns of Bill Cosby, Harvey Weinstein, Matt Lauer, Bill O’Reilly and more. It was long overdue and just in its goals and its gains. But like anything else, too much of a good thing can quickly turn not-so-good. Public figures, while largely “owned” by the public, are not similarly obligated to each member of that public. Everyone is not entitled to an apology – no matter how rightfully offended they might be. Mistakes in judgment, no matter how egregious they might seem in the harsh light of hindsight, cannot obligate someone to endless shame and atonement – especially at the bequest of “victims” whose connection to the wrongful conduct consists exclusively of following via social media. This does not minimize the very real impact that may be visited upon these individuals – but it does minimize the culpability of the accused. Put simply, just because Kevin Hart and Congressman Kihuen did something bad, doesn’t mean they did it to you just because you’re impacted by it.

More importantly, if we are not willing to forgive these past sins and let these individuals grow, then the proverbial “sentence” for any crime of moral turpitude is necessarily death. I know that sounds extreme. It should. But, if we refuse to let people rise above the aggregate of their past sins, then aren’t we essentially condemning them? This modern condemnation is made possible by nearly unlimited and wildly inexpensive digital storage, combined with our seemingly endless appetite for self-indulgence – which has resulted in the vast majority of us voluntarily publicizing most of our previously private lives. It’s hard to find a more universally beloved human pastime than passing judgment on the lives of others, and in our relentless pursuit of convenience, we’ve even outsourced this banality – content to let others pass judgment for us, so we can enjoy all the prurient schadenfreude, with none of the associated guilt. Unfortunately, this commoditized version must satiate the greatest number to survive, and as a result, quickly becomes indiscriminate and destructive. There is simply always someone to be offended – no matter how benign your activity or your associated intent. In reality, there are no perfect people – and the fact that we have come to expect such perfection as the standard for those looking to come back from mistakes – is as disturbing as it is disappointing.

So, what is the relevant standard? For me, it’s a matter of genuine contrition. While this can be evident in words, it is most effectively communicated in deeds, and most commonly evidenced by time. To be clear, the simple passage of time does little to mitigate past sins. Just because they loom less large or that my personal concern has diminished in the face of other things to be concerned and/or outraged about, doesn’t mean they are forgiven. But when combined with public apology, reasonable explanation/accountability and the passage of time without incident – or even more importantly – with remedial action, education and/or growth – there appears to be more than adequate opportunity to forgive. After all, if we expect an opportunity to grow and move beyond our own past transgressions, how can we hold others to a different standard? To do so is the apex of hypocrisy – and something we ought to avoid by any means.

Forgiveness isn’t easy. It shouldn’t be. Our long and contextual memory is the source of much, if not all, of our humanity. It allows us to understand this world like no other living creature(s). But with this great power comes the responsibility to learn how to use it for the greatest good. It’s fine to never forget – but as associated failure to ever forgive is an abuse of this extraordinary capacity. I remain a fan of Kevin Hart, and I hope he will get the chance to host the Oscars, or other important awards show. Of course, there’s no way for me to know what’s in his heart, but after nearly three years of exposure to actual bigots – I feel like I’ve got a pretty good sense of who’s just going through the proverbial motions. What’s more, I’m supporting Ruben Kihuen for Las Vegas City Council. Having had the opportunity to sit and speak with him, personally, and at great length, I’m quite convinced that he learned from what happened to him, and that he’ll treat his second chance with even greater conviction and resolve than he did his first. I’ve made mistakes of my own, most of them private but many of them quite public. For those who have forgiven me and given me the opportunity to remake and rebuild myself, I am eternally indebted and grateful. And for those who haven’t, I remember who they are, too – they constitute my mental mailing list for the notice of each accomplishment since they left me for dead.

Of course, as an Atheist, I don’t believe in a judgement day, where my life is comprehensively called to account, and if the balance is more “good” than “evil,” then I will be granted heaven over hell. But I do believe in morality, accountability and the words of the man whose life we celebrate today when he said: “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” For there is no greater love than to forgive, and no greater divinity available to us than that.

Just Move

January 13, 2019January 13, 2019 / glennt97 / 1 Comment

One of my best and oldest friends, also a Naval Academy alumnus, has a way of shouting the word “MOVE!” in the kind of way that only military personnel do, that all at once surprises, terrifies and, as luck would have it, moves you. He’s so good at it, in fact, that I often try to imitate it – if for no other reason than to get him to correct me with the real thing. As much as I enjoy the visceral sensation and memories it engenders, it is also a reminder of the most important lesson I learned in my ten years of military service: to move. As children of the Information Age, we have access to more information, more quickly than at any point in human history. As I’m want to say, the vast majority of Americans walk around with a pocket-sized computer that gives us access the collected works of humanity, on command, for pennies a day. Of course, most of us use it to publish flattering photos of ourselves and self-indulgent commentary on the everyday banality of our lives, but that’s a topic for a different day. Nevertheless, in our better moments, we can access almost any/all of the world’s knowledge – which is a tempting way to delay nearly any decision. After all, with more information, we could make less mistakes and better decisions, and shouldn’t we do that? In a word, no.

There are a great many lessons that one can take from life aboard a ballistic missile submarine and apply to real life, but few are as important as the first rule of submarine tactics: it’s better to move in the wrong direction than not to move at all. For submariners, this isn’t philosophy, it’s physics. You see, it takes more time and energy to get the boat moving than it does to turn it completely around. In other words, it’s better to go in any direction, including the completely wrong direction than it is to just sit there. Keep in mind that this is the rule when the stakes are about as high as they can go. U.S. Navy Ohio-Class Ballistic Missile Submarines carry enough destructive power to eliminate a small nation from existence, and their survival and value are predicated primarily on their ability to remain undetected. These vessels are not nearly as quick or maneuverable as their “hunter killer” counterparts, including the version sailed by the few foreign navies that operate submarines. They have reasonable defense capabilities, but they aren’t going to “outrun” much of anything serious. So, tactical mistakes aren’t just potentially deadly for the crew, but for all of us. Nevertheless, we are all taught the same first rule: move.

Of course, even the slightest consideration renders this advice sensible. Most things are more difficult to start than they are to continue. For writers, the “fear of the blank page” is far more imposing than a mid-work “writer’s block” and any fitness enthusiast will tell you that the hardest part of any workout is getting to the gym. There is almost certainly some cognitive explanation for this, but my knowledge of neuroscience, behavioral economics and psychology is colloquial, at best, so I’ll leave that to better minds. What strikes me about this particular advice is the striking frequency of starting paralysis in a time where it’s never been easier, less expensive or faster to start almost anything. Want to start a new business? Write a book? Compose a song? Travel to exotic locales? There are apps, sites and even brick and mortar storefronts to help you do all of that – even all at the same time! But we’re starting less and less. In 2008, for the first time since they were measured, the “birth rate” of new businesses dropped below the “death rate” for closing businesses. College applications are down, fewer books are being written and marriage and birth rates are nearing startling lows. So what gives?

Modern American life is lived under an extraordinary microscope. The rise of cheap and nearly unlimited data storage has given rise to social media which has given rise to self-publication of nearly every notable detail (any many not-so-notable details) of our lives. Of course, as we are each the heroes of our own stories, we desire to tell those stories in the most flattering light. As the distance between what we actually experience and what we publish grows ever shorter, the pressure to editorialize our lives to perfection gives way to the far more insidious pressure to actually live a perfect life. This pressure now commonly manifests itself in the paralysis of deciding what to do. For even the most mundane undertaking, you can find an endless stream of advice on how to do it better, cheaper, smarter, sexier, and more. With anxiety poised to wash away the fragile confidence of starting something, a frenetic notice that you might (or are probably going to) do it wrong is often all it takes turn a strong first step in a pensive reconsideration.

Of course, these pressures are all wholly contrived. These fears are not only stoked but manufactured to produce that same paralysis. This painful uncertainty reliably turns doers into consumers, which is why it is so commonly inspired by marketers, tastemakers and other influencers. The simple fact is that perfection is only an idea, something that doesn’t naturally occur – especially in the exceptional collection of cosmic probabilities that constitutes a human life. Every mistake looms less large in the rearview mirror, while stagnation fails to age nearly so well. In the time you take to carefully consider your first move, those who know better have already made a few wrong moves, corrected themselves, and built a lead that you’ll likely never overcome. Now that’s something to be afraid of. It turns out that the best way to think about what do next, is to stop thinking about it, and just do it. Or as Jason would say: MOVE!

Happy Returns

January 7, 2019January 7, 2019 / glennt97 / Leave a comment

A writer I know once told me, when he was asked about how to start writing something and the fear of the blank page, just start writing, you’ll figure the rest out as you’re going. Like most things you lose, I can’t recall exactly when I stopped writing, but I can recall why. Writing was, like much else in my life, a casualty of circumstance; when rebooting my life and my career from catastrophe became a full-time affair. There simply wasn’t time to for anything that wasn’t work or survival, and survive, I did. At some point, I’m quite certain I’ll give greater treatment to those particular circumstances – but that’s not for today. Today, I’m coming back to writing.

So… what am I going to write? That’s a good question – but I think it comes to the two things I like writing the most – humor and opinion. Deep down, I’ve always known I’m an essayist. Of course, in the world of writing, the essay does not hold a particularly popular (or fiscally beneficial) place. But, try as I might, nothing else really took, and it’s time to give myself to the craft that chose me – and not the one I chose. I’m going to write essays. Most will be short – but I’ve always wanted to write long-form essays, and while I’m not quite sure how they’ll happen, I expect them to happen.

I’m also going to try to find my old catalog and publish it, here. The best part of writing is reading it again. Writing for me (and I suspect most writers) is catharsis. The words are wrapped with emotion – even if they aren’t transmitted to the reader. To read them again is like looking at an old photograph or watching an old home movie – you get to feel it again. So, I admit, I go back and read my own stuff – just to feel it again. Some make me laugh (Three Things), and some make me cry (Requiem for a Jack), but they are exquisite feelings, each of them. This effort wouldn’t be complete without them.

One last thing… what we’re gonna call this whole new thing. So, always one for cheeky titles along with a little personalization and pun work, I’ve settled on: Says Tru. This (obviously) my last name woven into one of my favorite news clips of all time:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EBLokraThgY

Why is this my favorite? Because no other words encapsulate why I’m writing (again). Ignorance is a disease. Watching a grown man invest in an easily debunked conspiracy theory about martial law instructs why education is so important. The idea that once presented with the facts you can simply shake your head, mutter “says you” and wander off and continue to believe the nonsense is symptomatic of this disease. I understand the discomfort of calling people ignorant – but I’ve never been one to stand on manners, when the truth is sacrificed for their benefit.

It’s time to find a voice again. My voice. Welcome back, everyone. For the new folks, buckle in. The going here isn’t always easy, but I like to think it’s always worth the read.

P.S. That wise old writer that said to just start writing? Yep, that was me.

Five Minutes

September 11, 2013February 19, 2020 / glennt97 / 1 Comment

For five minutes, we thought we were going to end the world. I took just that long for the cold reality of the 24 intercontinental nuclear weapons we had been blithely driving around the ocean for years to set in. This world’s peace, one we had long assumed as permanent, seemed a memory we regretted not enjoying for just five minutes longer. Five minutes underwater. Five minutes in the dark. Five minutes with only our well-practiced procedures for guidance and awkward solace. Five minutes.

September 8, 2001

I was 27 years old, a Lieutenant on board the fleet ballistic missile submarine, USS Tennessee, and getting underway for what would be my last patrol. The promise of shore duty and/or law school loomed on the not-too-distant horizon. The end of a JO (“Junior Officer”) tour on a submarine is about as good as it gets for sub duty. By that time, you’ve learned just about everything you need to know about the boat, you’re in with just about everyone on board, and you’ve mastered the delicate art of staying out of the way of the crap that seems to endlessly rain down from above. The “JO” job actually has two parts: first, you’re a watchstander, and second, a division officer – so you spend six hours out of every 18 driving the ship around (or keeping the nuclear power plant from melting down), and in your “spare” time, you’re in charge of a whole division of sailors. But despite being the lesser of the two responsibilities, the division you lead is what really defines you onboard: the Electrical Assistant (EA) has Electrical Division, the Damage Control Assistant (DCA) has the A-Gang, the Assistant Weapons Officer (AWEPS) has the Missile Techs, and so on.

I was getting underway this time with the division that I had always wanted: Radio. Which made me the COMMO (“Communications Officer”). There were a lot of reasons I wanted the COMMO gig. First, when my dad was in the Navy, some thirty years earlier, he was a Radioman, and I think we were both secretly hoping that I’d find my way into the radio room (though we had never mentioned it). Second, one of the few things I truly enjoyed about my tour on a missile boat was the strategic communications; the complexity all of the procedures and safeguards surrounding the nuclear weapons on board. If you’ve seen Crimson Tide, you know what I’m talking about. As a mathematician, I enjoyed the puzzle-type nature of the process – all the scenarios and ways to test the rules to their edges. I had, even prior to becoming COMMO, taken to helping draft practice exercises for the wardroom, and had gotten quite crafty at it. And at long last, for this patrol, the radio room was finally mine.

But that was where my luck ended. Even on September 8, this wasn’t an ordinary patrol. The Tennessee was going to be participating in a global communications exercise (“COMEX”) just after we got underway. And my chief had wasted no time in recalling the horror stories of previous COMEX: messages at all hours of the night; countless hours sifting through traffic that wouldn’t even apply to us and visions of a harried COMMO just trying to survive it all. I chestily assured him that I’d be just fine.

We got underway without incident – and as routine as it had become in the preceding two and a half years, the rush of taking the world’s largest submarine to sea was still tangible. The pending dread of spending nearly 90 days underwater suddenly dissipated with the bustle and anxiety of getting over 18,000 tons of deep-drafting warship out into the Atlantic. Maneuvering that much metal from the docks of Kings Bay Naval Submarine Base through the intricate waterways of south Georgia and north Florida is the sort of thing which required the focused attention of every man on board. And after we’d finally gotten the boat far enough out to safely submerge it, there was always still plenty to do. But, since I knew that once that global COMEX started, sleep would be hard to come by, I was keen on getting as much rest as I could. So, I snuck off to my stateroom and slept like a baby.

Between sleep and well-practiced routine, the first 48 hours of the patrol passed quickly and uneventfully, and before I knew it I was awake and in the midst of my first global COMEX. I settled into the grind and had internally braced myself for the three day onslaught. But less than 24 hours after it started, and utterly without warning, it was canceled. My chief noted, it was the first time in his 20 plus years in radio, had ever seen a global COMEX terminated before its completion. But the surprises and firsts were just getting started.

It was September 11, 2001, and just as I was heading back to my stateroom flush with the unexpected good fortune of the cancelled exercise, the 1MC (the ship-wide announcing circuit) began to blare “Alert One, Alert One”.

* * *

By the time anyone hears about it over the 1MC, many steps have already been taken with a strategic message: its initial receipt by a radioman, its verification by a radio supervisor and the first part of it decoded to tell what kind of message it is. It’s only after all of this when the radio supervisor can call to the ship’s Control Room with the recommendation that the Officer of the Deck call away “Alert One” ship-wide. But just as the procedures for these messages are strictly controlled, so are the procedures surrounding the drills through which the crew masters them. And the two people who always know about these drills are the Captain and the COMMO. So, when I heard “Alert One” called away just as the COMEX was cancelled, I thought either the CO had picked a shitty time to run an exercise, or that my radiomen had screwed up the start time for one planned later in the week. There was, of course, another possibility, but, at that time, it didn’t even cross my mind.

The cancelled exercise had kept me up for most of the previous 24 hours, and I had only stolen an hour of two of sleep in the preceding 36. So in the middle of the ship’s “afternoon” on September 11, I was already fraying around the edges. I stormed into the Radio Room with my “What the fuck?!” face, but never got the words out of my mouth. My chief was holding a message from the teletype (not from the laser printer like an exercise message would be) that I recognized immediately to be an actual EAM (Emergency Action Message). After countless hundreds of exercise versions, there it was, the real thing. The nation’s nuclear machinery had slowly, impossibly, begun to turn, and I was staring at the first bit of it. My chief noted quietly that it was the first he’d ever seen. He needed no such assurance from me.

A submarine is an island, in the purest sense. There are no televisions, no newspapers and (normally) no commercial radio. There are no windows, there are no cell phones and certainly no 24 hour news. So, when the first Emergency Action Message that any of us had ever seen notified us simply that “a plane [had] crashed the World Trade Center” any perspective or visualization was left solely to our imaginations. Our only real reference was the 1993 World Trade Center bombing – and although that was certainly a calamity, where six had died and over a thousand had been injured – it certainly didn’t seem like the kind of thing that would warrant activating the nation’s nuclear arsenal. The few of us who did bother to guess opined that it was just a small plane, like a Cessna, that had accidentally flown into one of the iconic towers.

The shock of the first “real” message quickly wore off, as they began to come in one after another, each with a small addition to the facts, but only a couple sentences at a time. Soon, the “plane” become a “passenger aircraft” and soon after, it became a 767. Not long after that, a second plane had hit the other tower, and yet another was reported having crashed into the Pentagon. It didn’t seem real, even then, and in my mind, I still imagined small planes and few casualties. I thought of scenes on the evening news, and a few weeping widows and still wondered why they were sending this kind of news via the world’s most secure network. The U.S. military hadn’t been to below DEFCON 4 since the Bay of Pigs. Even through the entire arms race and Cold War, we had never gotten even halfway to pulling the trigger on our missiles. But a precious few minutes after the notices of the attacks came, we got word to set DEFCON 3, and things started to get very real very quickly, as the long unused but well oiled machinery of nuclear response had begun to turn in earnest.

* * *

There are a lot of things not to like about how the business of shooting nuclear missiles from submarine is handled. But the security and redundancy of the process is not one of them. The infamous launch “keys” that used to hang around the Captain’s neck (and as you may have seen in Crimson Tide) were, by that time, locked in a safe in the Missile Control Center; a safe whose combination would only come, encoded, with an execution (launch) order. Each message is decoded three times independently, once by two officers working together, once by the executive officer and once by the captain. Unless and until they all agree, no message can be acted on. Messages are authenticated with sealed code keys that are never seen by human eyes, and replaced by the National Command Authority for each patrol. The officers on board train on message procedures daily when on the boat, and weekly when off of it. It is safer and more reliable than any process I have come across, or have even heard of, since. It is designed to be mistake free, and yet to catch any and all mistakes. It is foolproof. But that’s only from the outside. On the inside, the process is intense and unforgiving, even during practices. There are disagreements, arguments and angry references to the governing documents; miscommunications, misunderstandings and sometimes, misinformation. But in the end it works. It always works.

* * *

One of the procedural steps taken by the young radio operators who sit at the terminal “stacks” in the radio room upon receiving strategic communications is to decode the first few characters. This to let the processing officer teams know what type of message they’ll be handling – since the procedures for each are slightly different. Speed is essential to the process, and while accuracy can be assured by the processing steps, the speed at which they are performed cannot. So the small heads up given by the radio operators is invaluable as the seconds tick away.

I hadn’t left the Control Room (the “Con”) or the attached Radio Room for anything other than eating or going to the head (bathroom) since the messages had started coming. Many of them did not have to do with us, but still required the same diligent procedural attention as if they did. I wandered out to the Con, where the CO was, by then, also waiting out the message barrage. The announcing circuit from the radio room suddenly crackled to life and announced to the Con that they were in receipt of yet another valid message. This time, when they announced the code of the message, the room momentarily fell silent, it was one we all knew to be an execution order. We were launching missiles. The number seemed to hang heavily in the air, and for a moment, the bustle of the Con was replaced by a complete and terrifying silence. As they closed the announcement by recommending the Officer of the Deck call away “Alert One”, the Captain curtly ordered me to get into Radio and find out what was going on. It was as serious as I had ever seen him, his impenetrable joviality finally laid to waste by the gravity of the moment. An execution at this point was premature. We had been trained on how a nuclear attack would escalate, and knew that certain expected precursors were absent. As I bolted (or at least whatever version of “bolting” I could muster in my then-fatigued state) into Radio, the CO got on the 1MC and spoke to the crew.

“Attention Crew Members of the USS Tennessee, this is the Captain speaking. Over the past few hours we have been receiving messages which indicate that a number of planes have been flown into the World Trade Center towers, the Pentagon and rural Pennsylvania. These may be attacks against the United States. We know very little at this time. . . . We have just received what may be an execution message, which may authorize the release of nuclear weapons. You have all trained for this, and I expect that you will remain calm and do your duty. Stand by for further information as it becomes available.”

It was difficult to ignore the Captain’s announcement, even as I frantically sought to get and decode the “shooter” that had unexpectedly arrived. I realized that I had never previously assigned a great deal of gravity to my years of training both on and off the boat. It was a job. And although it was an important job – it was still just a job. I had learned the procedures, the equipment and the art of it all. I had gotten proficient and then I had gotten fast. I sought perfection in the details of my performance, without paying any mind to exactly what it was I was doing. Here I was, a part of the process which would launch city-destroying destructive power half a world away, and to me, it was of no greater consequence than the burger flipping I had done six or seven years earlier.

The images of airplanes and buildings that my mind had been trying to piece together without reference were suddenly replaced with images of cities burning and laid to waste, pulled from countless comic books, post-Apocalyptic movies and historic world war footage. I thought, for the briefest moment what it might be like to come back to a world literally on fire. But, the paradigm they taught us over and over again while learning how to process these messages was to “get the birds in the air” if at all possible, and my mind snapped back to the task at hand. After all, there’s little use for a gun with a conscience, and that’s what we were – just an extension of the gun and trigger, with no more responsibility for the shot than the internal mechanisms of the few sidearms we carried on board. And I realized, as I placed a piece of paper that could end the world on the small desk in front of me, that I would do my part, without hesitation, just like the firing pin in the gun – and, if there was a way, any way at all, those birds would fly.

As soon as I saw it, I knew something was wrong. It was too short; incomplete. But we hadn’t lost communications – there was no reason for a truncated message. I hoped against hope that the message type had simply been mistakenly decoded. Before I could finish that thought, the Navigator bolted into the small anteroom between Radio and the Con that was used for strategic message processing just as I put the message on the desk. His normally friendly demeanor had vanished, and he actually pushed me out of the way to see the message for himself. Although we knew that two other officers would need to actually decode the message, we wanted to know, we needed to know what was going on. After all, this was our area of responsibility – the NAV and I were the two people the CO and XO relied upon to know strategic communications forward and backward – and we had never had a more important moment.

In a moment, the NAV and I had decoded the message, determined it was not a “shooter” and handed it over to the two officers who would be doing the “official” processing. A moment later we were out telling the Captain that we were not, in fact, on the brink of nuclear war, and explaining how the mistaken decoding had occurred. He waited for the official process to catch up and confirm the conclusion we had come to, and got on the 1MC to tell the crew that although we were not going to launch nuclear weapons, that we all needed to stay ready. In between the two announcements, the time we had all taken to contemplate the grim reality of just what type of warship we actually were, the time when “reality” took on a whole new meaning for 165 men, and the time when our many of our short lives had passed before our eyes, only five minutes had elapsed. Five minutes.

Despite the Captain’s warning, the collective relief was palpable. I felt as though someone lifted a fifty pound weight from my shoulders, and a sense of well-being that I had previously reserved only for those joyful days when we pulled back in from sea warmed me from head to toe. Over the next few hours, the messages kept coming, but seemed anticlimactic at best. Before we knew it, the messages stopped, the cogs of the world’s largest destruction machine ground to a halt, and we were left “steaming and dreaming”, “3 knots to nowhere” for another two and a half months with just as many missiles on board as we had left with.

* * *

A few days after, I learned that two members of the crew had to be relieved from watch after those five minutes, unable to hold themselves together. One whose wife had given birth to their first child just a few weeks before we had gotten underway, and another who was on his very first patrol, having only joined the Navy a few months earlier. I can only imagine what was going through their minds as I was busy ruminating on my cold adherence to procedure and imagining the end in the abstract. They each had something very real to lose, a child and a childhood, respectively; it’s little wonder they had a tougher time than I did. Amidst a sea of steel, rubber and sweat, they had each broken down into tears. Two men who had been extensively screened and specially selected by the Navy for this duty, both found themselves unable to do their jobs or even remain on their watch stations, when finally faced with the reality of what we all trained to do, every day we were assigned to the boat. The next day, they returned to their watches, and in a world where normally nothing was off-limits for ridicule, not another word was said.

Over a month later, we took on an a team for a routine inspection. They brought a bounty of items that traditionally accompanied such a visit to engender themselves to the crew for an otherwise adversarial visit: fresh fruit/vegetables, mail from home, magazines, and, this time, something extra: one VHS videotape – recorded from CNN a month before. The tape played almost 24 hours a day for a week, in the wardroom, Chief’s quarters and crew’s mess. Some watched in groups during meals, others watched alone in their limited free time. Very little, if anything, was said. For five minutes we had believed in hundreds of thousands of deaths, cities on fire and a world changed by nuclear war. The death of thousands and the horrible images of diving suicides, even on our own shores, actually seemed, impossibly and terribly, a relief.

On the tape, there was over four hours of coverage, but little mention of a call to arms, and no mention at all of the cataclysmic response that had been slowly rolled to readiness behind the scenes. There was shock and confusion, and a shared sense of vulnerability as the fight had been brought to not only to our front door, but right into our living rooms. But there was no mention of how a few of us might be ordered to retaliate with a force infinitely more terrifying. Though only a month old, the footage and commentary seemed historic and disconnected.

The world often changed while we were away at sea, but we had always been able to catch up upon our return. This time was different. It was months before we would even think about home, and yet we knew that the world had changed in a way we would never really be part of. As well, we knew we had all changed in a way the rest of the world would never really understand. Before that five minutes, I had never thought of “standing at the precipice” as an overused metaphor. But I still do today. Today’s generations will mark their lives with a milestone, exactly where they were on 9/11. A precious few of us will mark it differently. 165 of us couldn’t show you on a map but know exactly where they were; 165 of us didn’t watch it on TV but will never get the images out of our head; 165 of us only really remember five minutes of that whole day.

One of the things I remember most clearly was noticing that as the tape of the CNN coverage was played, rewound and played again, over and over, it began to blur and distort, and the sound became muddled; almost like watching it from underwater.