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I had been a company commander for more than four years by 1993, and I thought I was a pretty good one. But as it turned out, I had a lot to learn.
As a senior Army National Guard captain, my time to “up or out” was running thin. I loved the logistics company I commanded, and if it were up to me, I would have stayed there for the rest of my career. But the Army had other ideas.
Consequently, I was assigned as the commander of a large adjutant general corps company that managed personnel for the 26th Infantry Division. The command carried with it a promotion to major. While I was happy that someone saw fit to save my career, I was ignorant about personnel procedures.
The new unit’s leaders had justifiable doubts about the transportation corps commander who had been abruptly dropped into their company. The situation was compounded because the executive officer, or XO, was a highly respected and beloved leader, and the soldiers had looked forward to him becoming the next commander. However, the demands of his civilian job and some health issues meant he had to soon end his military career. He offered to be my guide to the unit until his retirement request was processed.
Unlike the logistics company I had just left, where many of the soldiers were suburban Irish-Americans like me, most of the soldiers in the adjutant general company came from inner-city neighborhoods. As such, the unit was made up of people from various ethnic backgrounds and nearly a third of them were women. Although I probably didn’t realize it at the time, it was an incredible stroke of luck that the XO, who was Black, was also a diversity coach for a major corporation.
During my first week, the XO and I were leaving the dining facility when he asked, “Did you notice anything strange about the KP crew today?”
“No, were they using dirty mops or something?”
“All the soldiers working in the dining facility were people of color,” he gently observed. “What impression would that make on someone visiting our unit?”
“Oh, come on,” I shot back. “I’m certain the first sergeant’s duty roster is organized fairly.”
“That’s not the point,” he responded. “We don’t get the chance to explain after someone has formed an impression.”
He was right. Appearances carry powerful messages.
Later that month, as the XO and I chatted with soldiers, I remarked how welcome I was beginning to feel in the unit. “I don’t mean to make you self-conscious,” he later asked, “but did you realize that you called the white soldiers by their first names, while you addressed the black soldiers by their ranks and last names?”
“I didn’t even notice,” I replied quickly.
“They did,” he replied softly.
“I guess I was just trying too hard to be respectful by addressing them by rank,” I offered with some chagrin.
He explained, “Even if your intentions are positive and honorable, the most important thing is how your words and actions are perceived by others.”
That XO taught me many other lessons, always in private, away from anyone else’s earshot. He was a truly gifted teacher who pushed me to become more aware of how others perceived my words and actions without making me feel guilty or ashamed. We all wished him well at his send-off party. I was sorry to see him go.
I soon learned that the company was wonderfully effective in accomplishing its mission, which depended on high morale, pride, and a can-do attitude. However, I realized that these values were only maintained by the first sergeant and noncommissioned officers’ constant vigilance to enforce high professional standards and stamp out any hint of sexism, racism, or disrespect.
But the company’s cohesiveness was about to be tested.
The unit had just finished its annual field exercise to refresh basic soldier skills, and we returned to garrison eager for a warm shower, a soft bed, and a cold beer. The officers and noncommissioned officers were billeted in old family housing apartments that shared common rooms with couches and a TV.
It was June 17, 1994, and we planned to watch the NBA playoffs, but on that day, every television network carried another drama. A warrant had been issued to arrest football legend O.J. Simpson for the murder of his wife. His “slow chase” evading police on Los Angeles highways was one of the most-watched events in television history.
Once I could tear myself away from the sad spectacle on the television, I took stock of the company and was troubled to see that the unit had divided itself by race. White soldiers gathered by the television in one apartment as they sipped drinks and laughed aloud. In their view, Simpson was obviously guilty and was foolishly trying to avoid the police in his white Ford Bronco.
But in another apartment, there was only silence. I stopped by to see a somber group of Black soldiers quietly watching television with grim expressions. I believe they saw an all-too-familiar drama repeating itself as a Black man was pronounced guilty by the public without considering all the facts of the case.
The next day, I braced myself for friction that could divide our unit. Instead, I saw soldiers cheerfully working side by side as they cleaned rifles, dried tents, and stowed equipment. I don’t know if the first sergeant, who was a wise man, gathered the noncommissioned officers together and declared the O.J. Simpson matter off limits. But I heard no discussion about the topic raging around every water cooler in America. I know that our soldiers held passionate opposing opinions, but they kept them to themselves.
I thought hard about what made our company stay united amid this controversy. In the end, I concluded that, although soldiers may have disagreed with other team members, mutual respect meant that they could give the other side the benefit of the doubt. Because respect was a bedrock value in this organization, soldiers could disagree but still work together as a team.
Later in my career, the DEI lessons I learned in the adjutant general company served me well as a battalion commander and brigade commander when I needed to forge much larger teams of soldiers from different genders, races, ethnicities, and generations. Those skills had the greatest impact when I led an initiative to develop a UN Peacekeeping company in Paraguay, a South American democracy that was emerging from decades under a brutal dictatorship. I traveled there eight times between 2007 and 2011.
After months of instruction and personnel exchanges, our U.S. team organized a field training exercise for the Paraguayan company. We conducted the exercise in a village located in what we called “bandit country,” where antigovernment insurgents captured hostages, attacked police outposts, and terrorized landowners, then melted away with the help of the local population. We wanted to show the villagers that their military was a trustworthy partner.
When the military convoy arrived in the village, the streets were empty. It was clear that the villagers feared the soldiers who had brought intimidation, arrest, and destruction under the former dictator's iron rule. When it became apparent that villagers were more willing to engage with the U.S. team than their own military, we realized we needed to help the Paraguayan military gain people’s trust.
We invited military leaders to accompany us as we met with locals and asked about their village and lives. This soon led to invitations to visit their homes, join pickup soccer games, and other gestures of friendship. I must admit that I balked at first when offered a sip of mate, a tea shared through a common straw dipped into a gourd. However, I swallowed my reservations along with a mouthful of the pungent brew. Eventually, the villagers began to interact with the Paraguayan military and even opined about necessary government resources.
One of our engineering projects was located near the village’s central plaza, where older women and young girls gathered in the afternoon to weave nanduti, an intricate lace that is part of the nation’s handicraft tradition.
In an effort to model respect for all community members (and out of genuine curiosity), we visited with the ladies and girls almost every day. We chatted with them as best we could, but our poor Spanish and even worse attempts at the native dialect led to improvised sign language and lots of laughter at our expense. More than once, I noticed one little girl glancing at the right shoulder of my camouflage uniform. When our eyes met, she would quickly look away with a giggle. I thought nothing of it.
After two weeks, the field training exercise closed with ceremonies and speeches.
Once the ceremonies were over, the schoolmaster thanked me for the village improvements and said one of his students had made me a gift. Then he handed me a small U.S. flag tied to a stick and set into a base fashioned from local wood. I realized that the little girl on the plaza had been studying the Stars and Stripes on my uniform as she spent hours weaving a little flag in nanduti lace.
I’ve received many grand versions of Old Glory over the years, but there’s one little U.S. flag that sits on my desk as a cherished reminder of the power of DEI.
This War Horse Reflection was edited by Kim Vo, fact-checked by Rosemarie Ho, and copy-edited by Mitchell Hansen-Dewar. Hrisanthi Pickett wrote the headlines.
Editors Note: This article first appeared on The War Horse, an award-winning nonprofit news organization educating the public on military service. Subscribe to their newsletter.
