The Return of the Brigade

As Plebe Summer drew to a close with the reunions and celebrations of Parents Weekend, the First Class had one final reminder waiting for us on the heels of our final goodbye to family – Hell Night.

As it sounds, it was a flurry and fury of uniform races, physical demands, and, of course, a lot of yelling. It was our detail’s way of making sure we didn’t get too comfortable after seeing our families because the Brigade was about to return.

Up until then, our world had been small. Hard, but small. Just us plebes and our first-class detail. Same people, same expectations, same shared confusion.

That changed overnight.

The upperclassmen returned, and suddenly everything felt bigger. Louder. More complicated. They had privileges we didn’t. They knew how things worked. And most importantly, they could tell us what to do.

Suddenly, everyone was “sir.” Sir this. Sir that. Constantly.

Which led to one of our first dilemmas: what should we call the female upper class?

They were only one year ahead of us, but that year mattered. A lot.

Do we call them “ma’am”? Do we call them “sir” like everyone else? Would they fall in with the rest of the Brigade’s customs, or would they even acknowledge us at all? It was one more layer of uncertainty in an already disorienting transition.

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Toward the end of Plebe Summer, we took placement tests to determine our academic standing. I had come from a high school with a strong college-preparatory curriculum, and I benefited from some truly excellent teachers. As a result, I was able to validate a semester of English. The exam required writing an essay based on a quote from Francis Bacon: “Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested.” It’s funny the things you remember.

I also validated two years of French, which I credit entirely to my very strict French Canadian teacher, Sister M. That validation placed me in a classroom with all-male upperclassmen, an unusual setting that offered a kind of equality, and even a small freedom to speak, if only in another language, in the midst of plebe year.

Within our platoon, the academic structure mirrored the class hierarchy: First Class (seniors), Second Class (juniors), and Third Class (sophomores). The First Class served as our squad leaders, but it was often the Second Class who took on the day-to-day responsibility of training us. It was to them that we reported for “come-arounds.”

A come-around was usually a mandatory meeting in which a plebe reported to an upperclassman’s room to be quizzed on professional knowledge, rates, memorized facts, and current events. While intended for development, they could also serve as punishment for some perceived shortcoming. More often than not, they were scheduled right before meal formation.

Formations themselves took on a new scale with the return of the Brigade. Because of my company’s location in Bancroft Hall, our noon meal formation, weather permitting, was held in Tecumseh Court, or “T-Court.” It was one of the main places visitors would gather to watch.

You could always hear the crowd, a low murmur rising from the edges. And in those early years of women at the Academy, every so often a voice would cut through the noise, louder than the rest:

“Look! There’s a woman.”

It was said with surprise, as if we were both expected and unexpected at the same time.

And that, in its own way, was part of the adjustment too.