Petty Officer Lee was 21 and a month from getting out. He is buried in Arlington now. I knew him from saying “hello” in the hallway and from rounds when I had the watch. He struck me as a Sailor with a decent attitude, especially for someone with so many tattoos. He was quiet but seemed dependable, goal oriented. Like he had it under control.
I was one of the people who got to help care for his body after he committed suicide. The police thought it happened in the very early morning. He did it in the parking lot of a waterfront park. Some time passed before they found him. Tides rose and fell along the shore and clouds passed overhead.
When you go to inspect a body at the morgue, you bring the uniform that someone carefully prepared for him. In this case, it was his roommates. His buddies. You make sure it looks right. And part of your job is to make sure he looks right, too.
It is easier than you might think, in some ways at least. It is harder than you think it would be in others. You cannot help but think: we failed him. If only I had taken more interest. If we had done something . . . else. If he had just called someone. If he had picked up a phone instead of a 9mm that morning.
But that’s the thing. They don’t call. They don’t go to websites. They don’t care about your fill-in-the-blank suicide prevention logo or your internet prevention videos. They don’t “ask the Chief.” And it doesn’t matter that most of the people in the command, always the commanding officer, would bring the whole thing to a halt if they could help them. “They” are beyond that.
I can relate. While I have never felt acutely suicidal, perhaps in another version of this world, I could have been a “they.”
Years later, as a casualty affairs officer, my profound sense of duty to—and sympathy for—Petty Officer Lee made me remember those times. I am certain that what kept me going during my at-risk moments was other people.
When you cut right down to it, when someone doesn’t care anymore about the platitudes or the gentle lies and incentives that drive us, it is people that still matter. As Marine Reserve Force Commander Lieutenant General Rex McMillian said to my classmates once, “It’s not just about relationships, it is all about relationships.”
Real relationships represent people who know you and take the time to care about you—even a professor or mentor who might never suspect it—and for whom you do the same. It is more than respect, even admiration. It is an unspoken “deal” that keeps us going. It is the people who we know would have lifelong holes in their lives were we gone. Sometimes, it is the unwavering love and support of a service animal, who knows our trauma-informed triggers by heart.
Part of the burden of leadership is having the courage to share openly with others. To guide, using your own judgment and experience, your own misgivings and mistakes, even when it might diminish the “perfect image” leaders are supposed to project. Even when you are unsure how it will come across to everyone. Even when you are certain that some people will hold it against you.
Leadership is not striving for an impermanent standard of perfection, for yourself and for others, and then expecting others to reward you. Leadership is having the honor and courage to say, however embarrassing, “Something isn’t right and we need to fix it.” And it is the commitment to each other—and not just to ourselves—to say “Me, too.”
I applaud the members of both the military and other communities in our country and around the world who have done this in the last year. The naval services have a tradition of embracing, and must continue to embrace, the enduring wisdom exemplified by this movement, even when it comes to our own dark issues, such as suicide, sexual assault, and other behaviors that run counter to our purposes and service commitment.
When I think of Petty Officer Lee, I wonder who was there for him as he prepared to leave the service. If anyone told him how scary it can be, even for those who have everything under control, to get close to “getting out” only to find out your plans and opportunities weren’t as certain as you thought they might be. And to no longer be a petty officer in the U.S. Navy, a specialist in your trade, someone who had trained with Marines and Sailors and wore the proverbial Cloth of the Nation. To face just being “John” or “Bill” or “Jenny” again. To put on regular clothes, go home, and ask civilians for a job. At 21.
How being scared is okay. How sometimes, soon after the darkest days of our lives, we see clearly an opportunity that changes everything. I wonder if anyone told him how amazing his life would be someday.
I am no one to lecture, but I humbly submit that #metoo is about all of us; it is about putting honor, courage, and commitment on the line even when it is embarrassing, even when it isn’t the “smart move.” And that compromising with people who think differently from you is not a loss; it is a victory; it keeps things moving. We must learn to share of ourselves again. It is service that matters: what we do for others, for our country, our families, our fellows. And not what we do for ourselves.
As an organization, the Navy must learn again that perfection should not be the putative standard for promotion or retention. That there are multitudes of great leaders in the Navy, and they can’t all be #1 all the time. That leadership is not just out-competing others and avoiding the appearance of impropriety. That a Sailor receiving counseling for a deficiency or health condition (or who has a service animal) is a better Sailor.
We must get back to emphasizing that personal, familial, and community health are the primary objectives of our professional lives, not the other way around. That taking care of others is taking care of ourselves. That the unconditional love of a loved one, a pet, a preferred deity is as important as any website, the latest “numbers,” or personal possessions. And that service to our communities, organizations, and institutions is what continually makes us great.
I wish I would have talked to Petty Officer Lee a little more, and I certainly wish he had felt like someone else understood what he was going through. Perhaps if I told him about the ups and downs of being in and out of the service and how life changes after one form of service comes to an end. If I or someone had told him he doesn’t have to be perfect, that feeling like you are sinking to the bottom is a horrible feeling, but there is a bottom and sometimes you find it. And you use it to jump back up—as hard as you can. That life is so worth it.
In the end, I suppose it is only human to miss opportunities, ones where we could have made a difference. But it also is important to see that it is human to fix ourselves and to recognize leadership opportunities, too.
So as leaders, veterans, retirees, academics, friends, I hope we can remember to think about our service commitment each and every day. In addition to avoiding high-risk behaviors, this means supporting those who love us, personally as well as financially, taking a genuine interest in others, turning off the competitive instinct in certain situations, and letting . . . things . . . go.
When we are so intent on looking out for our own interests, or those within our faction or party, we fail to recognize those who are disenfranchised around us. And we fail to perceive the profound sense of loss we will feel when they are gone.
Get someone in trouble help, and if you are feeling terrible, know lots of people are there who can relate. Remember that people in crisis usually don’t reach out; it is up to us all to look out for warning signs. We have to serve and support each other, otherwise the enemy (in all forms) has won. And, service has always been what has made us great.
Lieutenant Schneider currently serves as a health manpower systems analyst and is stationed with the Navy’s Bureau of Medicine and Surgery at NAS Jacksonville, Florida. A 2018 graduate of the Naval Postgraduate School and Naval War College-Monterey, he previously has served as a line officer, reservist, and was the Navy’s 2012 Active Duty Officer Recruiter of the Yea