Prompt – What is something you inherited that is invisible.
Meeting new people is routine for me as an educator. Conferences, professional development sessions, even the pedagogy aisle of a bookstore invite brief conversations with strangers. If the talk lasts long enough, the question of where I am from eventually appears. My answer lands in an awkward nowhere. There is no single city or state to name. I follow it with military brat, and more often than not, the response is me too.
That is usually all it takes. From that short exchange, I can place them – NCO kid or officer kid. The distinction is not always visible, but it is all too familiar. For those that do not speak military, NCO stands for noncommissioned officer, while officers hold formal commissions granting authority to lead and command. In plain terms, NCOs resemble blue collar middle managers, while officers mirror executive leadership. The stereotypes of each military group carry over from the groups in civilian life all too well. I recognize the difference not because I am trying to sort people, but because I learned to read hierarchy long before I understood its cost.
As the conversation continues, my eyes drift where they always do. Look at the shoulders. Look at the arms. Look at the posture. I look for rank even when it is no longer stitched into fabric. Power announces itself quietly, through who stands at ease and who remains alert, through who speaks freely and who measures every word. Authority does not require a uniform. It lives in tone, in social standing, and in permission.
I carried that awareness out of childhood and into adulthood, from military structure to religious hierarchy to professional systems. Each one promised order. Each one insisted it was different. The symbols changed, but the sorting remained. Stripes became titles. Doctrine became policy. Obedience learned new language. What made each system dangerous was its invisibility. Power no longer lived on sleeves. It lived in access, approval, and exclusion.
I thought I was adapting. I thought I was growing. I did not realize I was just learning new ways to disappear to survive. By the time I saw it clearly, it had already shaped me. The reflex stayed. Even now, I scan for hierarchy, not because I want to participate in it, but because I know how quickly it hardens and who it leaves behind.
Throwing it off was not dramatic. It was an internal unlearning. A refusal to confuse structure with safety or authority with worth. I no longer measure myself by proximity to power. I measure myself by who I stand next to when belonging is being decided.
What I carry is invisible and indeed inherited from growing up in a military family, but it continues to show up whenever authority appears and decides who belongs and who does not. It keeps me honest. It keeps me watchful. It reminds me that seeing exclusion is already a kind of resistance. And now, I always make sure to stand with the other, if for no reason to make sure they do not feel alone – me as well!
Muddled Soma 