seen the program. I hadn’t paid it much attention.
I went back to my tray.
Admiral William Carter.
Even in a school where most students divided the world into things that directly affected them and things that didn’t, Admiral Carter’s name had a gravitational pull. He had been in the news — not in the constant breathless way of celebrities, but in the way of someone whose actions had consequences that reached beyond the immediate, who had made decisions in rooms where decisions mattered and whose name appeared in the kindsof sentences that also contained words like command and operations and distinction.
He was tall in the way that some people are tall — not just physically but in terms of the space they occupy in a room, the quality of presence that registers before they speak. Silver hair. The posture of someone who has worn a uniform for decades and whose body has incorporated its requirements so thoroughly that the posture persists into civilian clothes. He sat on the stage during Principal Harris’s welcome address with the still attention of
someone who is always listening.
I was in the freshman section, halfway down, in the middle of a row. I had chosen the middle deliberately because middle seats don’t attract attention from either the front or the back, a calculation I made automatically in large group settings.
Principal Harris was talking about courage and community and the importance of recognizing the people who serve.
I was looking at my notebook.
Admiral Carter was looking at the program.
And then he stopped.
I didn’t see it happen in real time — I
