Why Chivalry Still Matters

To balance out my last post, I have always been an advocate of a modern chivalry, going so far as to write a book and a surfeit of blogs about it. Despite the fact that it is no longer a primary focus of mine, I still think it is both good and necessary. Make no mistake, the need for chivalry, for protection of women by men, is still very real in this world. However, a fake chivalry that thinks its duty fully discharged by having held the door or paid for a meal is not going to cut it. The only solution for a crime against women like that pictured to the left, is a real chivalry, with brains and balls, muscle and a soul of steel, and the willingness to suffer (or perhaps inflict) violence if necessary to protect the innocent. 

That  picture is an extreme, although not at all uncommon, example. Perhaps acid throwing and nose cutting happen only in Afghanistan or India or Timbuktu or some such outlandish place but I can almost guarantee that on your street, right now, there lives at least one battered woman or abused child. If you are a public school student I can promise you, you walk past a half dozen scenes of bullying every week. If you work in an office you probably witness at least one or two incidents of verbal abuse, sexual harassment or oppression a day. This is the field of modern chivalry.

Most of your cardboard armor "knights," whining and complaining that no damsel wants him to be her savior, endlessly going on and on about how chivalry is dead and feminism killed it, they are just not up to that challenge. Unless they stop living in a fantasy world and open their eyes and train themselves long and hard, they never will be.

Chivalry and Charity

Recently my cousin posted a link on facebook to an article about chivalry which sparked a bit of a long comment thread on the subject. There were numerous pro and con arguments, but the only con argument against chivalry that seemed any good to me was the question my cousin had, that if chivalry is simply a matter of courtesy and serving other people, then how is it any different from Christian Charity? It is a just question, and I have been thinking about it quite a bit in the weeks since. Most of this post comes from that thread, but some is the result of those weeks of thought.

First of all, it is important to understand that they are not the same thing. Charity is supernatural, and the culmination of all virtues at their essence. Chivalry is a humanly defined collection of virtues. An analogy would be the difference between “Star” and “the big dipper.” “Star” is a concept which includes all possible aspects of the true essence of star, from the scientific to the poetic, discovered and undiscovered. “Big dipper” on the other hand, is our word for a specific group of stars which bear a certain relationship from our two dimensional view, but which would be meaningless viewed from nearly any other point in three dimensional space. This does not mean that the concept of “big dipper” is useless, especially for someone trying to find polar north without a compass, but if we ever go to another solar system and search the night sky for directions we may find ourselves hopelessly lost.

Chivalry is the same way. It is a human concept with a specific historical origin and evolution. It is also a word for a specific collection of virtues. These virtues differ from one time and place to another, but they historically have always included at least these three: some martial or at least athletic connotation; the idea of scholarly excellence in a general, non-specialized sense; and a certain mannerly and respectful way of treating others, with an emphasis on those in positions of vulnerability.

Chivalry is not about holiness; it is about self-improvement. It will not get you to heaven. (See John Cardinal Newman’s “Idea of a University.”) It may make earth more enjoyable but it will not save your soul. If diligently followed it will make you respectful, athletic, a respectable fighter, interesting, sophisticated, dignified and a great conversationalist (already we are far removed from the idea of chivalry as a portable doorman for highly manicured ladies). These are all good things, and well worth pursuing if you have the time and inclination. However, chivalry will not make you humble or compassionate. It is no guarantee that you will ever learn how to love.

Chivalry is particularly interested in the relation of men and women because of its origin in the middle ages. It originated (according to Brad Miner in “The Compleat Gentleman”) specifically as a means to teach big, rough, tough, skull-crushing, Saracen-gutting, half-barbarian warrior types to regard women as people with rights, rather than merely as property. The element of service to women is an attempt to subdue the aggressive, lawless and particularly masculine to service of order, beauty and peace. Holding doors for women is a somewhat pathetic remnant of that.

Since it is a man-made concept, it must evolve with the times, something that most of the “bringin’ chivalry back!” (BCB) crowd does not realize. A lot of BCB-ers lament the absence of damsels in distress because they feel that distressed damsels are necessary for them to be chivalrous. As long as the damsels get through life steadfastly refusing to be distressed, you can’t blame the boys in cardboard armor for being a little put out. 

 The fact is that somehow or other, women do in fact manage to get through doors, get into and out of cars, and procure food items for themselves, even when men are not around. They seem to do it rather well. Therefore, if holding doors and paying for dates is seen as the measure of what chivalry is, well, thanks but I have better things to do

A more mature chivalry sees women with a critically balance poetry. He sees what is, namely, that women now-a-days are not as exaggeratedly vulnerable and crying out for a rescuer as Sleeping Beauty and his behavior towards them respects that. On the other hand he also recognizes that the vulnerability that the Sleeping Beauty fairy tale symbolizes is not a bad thing. Vulnerability is worth fighting for. It is worthwhile to cherish and value that side of a woman, while recognizing that it is not her only side. She is a fellow shipwrecked passenger, just like I am, and her ability to be vulnerable and beautiful is one of the most powerful strengths she brings to this lonely island. It would be a shame if that were lost because there was no one around to value it.

You see, a truly chivalrous man knows that it is a good thing to treat a lady like a lady, and knows also that a “lady” is not a euphemism for spoiled brat. A true lady is a very dangerous and powerful person indeed. She is not a Disney princess. She is not a tame lioness.

But that is the long way round. At its best, chivalry like all other virtues must first resemble and then finally be drawn into charity if it is not to become obsolete. Charity is better. While chivalry is an exclusive virtue in that some people can develop it and some people cannot, charity requires only that you be willing to know and love the other and be known and loved. It is open to man, woman, child, old person, scholar and day worker, athlete and invalid, fat, skinny, strong, weak, genius or dunce. It is better to be even the littlest of lovers than it is to be the greatest of knights. 

However, in the last year or so I have not thought about practicing chivalry at all. I have gradually been shifting my focus towards striving after charity. This does not mean I think that my previous focus on chivalry is superseded. I think it was valuable and worthwhile, for several reasons. 

Firstly, it was the search for chivalry that brought me to the point where I could recognize that charity is superior. That was the most powerful draw for a man of my personality, and I think it could draw other men just as strongly. That is why I will certainly teach it if I ever have sons, or am in any way in charge of the education of boys.

 Secondly, I do not think that concentrating more on charity will make me less chivalrous. Quite the contrary, I believe it will fulfill and make complete the chivalry that I have been practicing for years, but, alas, have still not mastered.

And thirdly, charity is as individual as people are. Every human's love is different from every other human's love. Chivalry was the most influential part of the raw material, and it imparts a strong flavor or color to the shape that my charity will take, when by God's grace it is full grown.

Tacloban, Part III

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I got an incredible opportunity recently to go to the typhoon disaster zone in the Philippines to help with relief efforts. The next few posts are going to be a series, things I wrote to kind of decompress after returning to my regular mission.  This is a long post, but I felt it was worthwhile to tell the whole story.

It is rare to meet someone who is truly unselfish. It is the most humbling thing in the world, and, hopefully, once you have seen it you will never be the same.

At the end of our second day on the airfield, as we were trying to load up one of the last C-130’s that would be landing during daylight hours, we almost lost control of the crowd. In fact, we did lose control. 500 people pushed through the main gate, onto the tarmac and began moving in a vast, desperate wave, straight for the front of the airplane. The police managed to run and form a cordon around them and box them in before they came anywhere near the running engines, but it was clearly too dangerous to continue loading planes, especially once night fell and we could no longer see the people. No pilot would even land with that many people on the tarmac.

We had to do something. The police tried to push the people back, outside the main gate, but they wouldn’t go. They had been standing in line all day, most of them, with no food or water, and now, having finally reached the front, the tarmac, with freedom and safety in sight, they could not bear the thought of spending the night there. Even worse, they refused to be pushed back outside the main gate where they would lose their places in line.

A Filipino lady named Gigi stepped out of the crowd at this point, and said to me in excellent English, “Sir, I know I am just a passenger, but these people do not want to go back out into line because they are afraid of losing their places. Can you at least tell us when the next plane is going to be here? We need to manage their expectations.”

“I do not know when the next plane is going to arrive, and I do not know if we are going to be allowed to load people. It will be too dangerous in the dark.” It was not a very convincing answer, but she passed it back, and began working to try to convince the people to cooperate. Another woman, named Didit, came out of the crowd to help, along with a man whose name I did not get. Between the three of them, they did more than the police to get everyone backed up. I found a room that used to be part of the terminal complex, perhaps 40’ by 40’ and we convinced the crowd to back into it. They didn’t all fit, and it must have been stiflingly hot and claustrophobic inside, but at least they were off the tarmac.

I went to take care of a bunch of other things, and when I came back, Gigi and Didit were busy organizing the people, trying to get them to collect together by family and sit quietly. They updated me on how the people were doing, (“Hungry, tired and thirsty,”) and then introduced me to another civilian who had volunteered to help. They yelled her name over the engine noise, so I didn’t quite catch it, but it had an “M” and an “R” in it so I thought it was “Marina.”

She was a tiny Filipino lady in a red cross shirt. She had been working her way through the crowd, organizing the crowd into families and getting feedback from them on what they needed, who had family or other contacts in Manila, and so forth. She was short. When I say short, I mean she was short even for a Filipino lady. The top of her head was about on a level with my chest, and she was completely invisible until she stepped out of the crowd. She came right over to me, grabbed my sleeve and pulled me down to her level so she could yell in my ear, “Sir! These people need water right away. They are very thirsty.”

I had to laugh. I am not used to being bossed around by people half my size, but she was taking their cause so completely to heart she did not hesitate. I thought to myself, “Good Lord, Woman, you are awesome.” Little did I know just how awesome she was, but I was going to find out.

I promised to get them water, and then had to break off to help unload the Malaysian planes that had just arrived. I talked to the Malaysians about getting the people some water, and they agreed to help, but they were taking their own sweet time about it. They came up with a plan to provide biscuits for the people, but it took them fully an hour to figure out that they had not brought any water in any of the pallets they had brought. At that point I decided to take matters into my own hands. I talked to the young US Marine Sergeant who was in charge of the forklift operators, since he knew where all the supply pallets that came through the camp went and had a solid idea what was on each one. I tell you what, that was a good kid. He knew right where to find a mostly used pallet of water, and he sent his forklift operator to go get it.

I talked to Gigi and explained that water was coming, but that we could not have people charging out onto the tarmac when it arrived. I needed her to come up with a system for distributing it in an organized manner, so that everyone can get some water, all the way to the back of the room. She said she would handle it, and she did. It was a thing of beauty. After standing in the sun all day, most with no water of their own, they passed the jugs all the way to the back first, disbursing them through the crowd before anyone took any water. Then each person took one of the gallon jugs, took what he needed for himself or his family, and passed it to his neighbors.

The Malaysian planes did not take anyone. When the two American planes arrived we tried to get permission to try to load some people, but it was denied. The camp commander still felt it was too dangerous. I passed the word to the civilian volunteers and they passed it to their people, that everyone should just get some sleep. I cut a deal with the Malaysians to get them some food, and they assured me they would get it very soon. I went to sleep.

When I got back at about 6:00 in the morning, Gigi and the other volunteers were gone. I don’t know where they went, and I never saw them again, but I am grateful for their help. We could not have gotten that crowd under control without them. Only one remained. The first person to greet me was the tiny volunteer in the red cross shirt, with the words, “Sir, these people still have not gotten any food.” I told her that the planes were going to start coming in a few hours and then I bullied, coaxed and coerced the Malaysians until they got food.

All the rest of the day I was running back and forth, back and forth across the flight line, trying to find Americans and other ex-pats, triaging the sick, wounded and elderly who wanted to get priority on flights, arranging people in order to get on airplanes. Every time I ran past her and her group I just saw more and more evidence of her awesomeness. She pulled some of the older people and some ladies with breastfeeding infants out of the crowd and constructed a little awning for them to sit under. She asked me to take her family out on the next plane because her sister’s baby was vomiting, but she assured me that she would stay behind to help organize people. Sure enough, that is exactly what she did. I put her family in the priority lane, and they were on the first plane out. She put together the groups who would board the plane and sent them up by line of ten when I asked her to.

The craziest rain I have ever seen hit without warning, sometime around mid-morning. It was so thick you could not see the planes on the tarmac. She simply stuck her purse (which was her only luggage) under her shirt and kept working.

After the rain she made a deal with the parents in the crowd. If they agreed to stay behind the gate and wait patiently she would let the kids get out on the open cement where they could have some fresh air and room to stretch their legs. Have you ever seen a group of forty or fifty children sitting cross-legged in rows of ten, smiling and happy, just because they can breathe freely? Sitting in one spot and not moving, kept in check by just one tiny woman they have never met before in their lives?

As the day wore on it became obvious that she had taken those people to heart, literally. They were her family and she took responsibility for them with all her might. Every group she sent out to get on the airplane was a victory for her and somehow she made it a victory for all of them. They were no longer fighting for their own survival. They had become a family. I don’t know how she did it. She just did.

About 5:30 PM, just as the sun was going down, she had another group of 40 people all set out in front of her gates, squatting in rows of ten, waiting for their turn to board the C-130 that was idling on the tarmac. Suddenly it happened again. The people at the main gate panicked, broke through, pushed past the police and flooded the tarmac. They completely swept past her and her group, blocking them off from the airplane. I was moving in trying to find some police to help me restore order, and she came rushing out to me with tears in her eyes. “Sir!” she cried. “Sir! These people!”

It was as if that was all she could say. She eyed the huge crowd spread out between her people and the airplane they had been waiting for for days and she looked on the verge of breaking down. Looking behind her I could see her people still waiting, squatting in rows of ten, frightened looks on their faces, but still waiting patiently, trusting her to get them out.

I yelled in her ear. “I know. I am sorry but there is nothing I can do about that. There are too many of them now.”

She shook her head in desperation. “Sir, my families?”

“Marina, there is nothing more you can do tonight. I need you to find a safe place to rest for the night. We probably won’t be loading any more planes, but you have been going all day and you need some rest. I will try to find you later, and make sure these people get food and water.”

She looked at me with a wry, half amused look on her face. “My name is Marilee,” she informed me.

Well don’t I feel like a doofus!

She fell back to her people and the crowd surged around her, and I lost track of her. For the next four hours we were all busy trying to regain control and impose some sort of order on the loading process. By the time I was able to look for her and her people again the whole area was hopelessly crowded and finding one short lady in that whole crowd was impossible. I simply had to pray that she was all right and leave her to her own devices.

That was the night we finally cracked the code and figured out how to load people at night without losing control of them. There were some scary moments, but it went really well. It was almost 1:00 AM before I got to bed, and then I was up again by 5:00. I had some food and did some work around our camp, cleaning up trash, reorganizing the makeshift latrine (Oh, the glamorous life of an SF Medic!). About 6:00 AM someone came to get me to tell me there was a local woman looking for me.

Sure enough it was Marilee. She was wearing a different outfit because she had gotten the police to give her a place to stay for the night and they had lent her some sweats to replace her old clothes. She thanked me for getting so many people out last night, and asked if more planes were coming in today. I said there were and told her that she was going to be on the first one. “Go back to the flight line, and walk about a hundred yards past where you were yesterday and you will see a gate marked arrivals. That is the American passport line. You are going to be in that line.”

“What if they don’t let me?” she asked.

“Tell them Sergeant Kraeger sent you,” I told her. “I will be along in an hour or so to make sure you get in that line.”

She thanked me and headed back to the airfield.

I headed back there about an hour later, but to my surprise, before I got to the American line I saw her standing at the same spot she had been standing yesterday, with a familiar looking group of 40 people seated in rows of ten around her.

“Marilee,” I said, “I told you I could get you out in the American line? What are you doing here?”

“Sir,” she said, “I found these families.” She gestured to the people waiting expectantly behind her. “They are the ones from yesterday. Can I stay and make sure they get out?”

I tell you, my jaw nearly hit the concrete. I don’t know if I have ever felt more humbled in my entire life. Here she was after a full day and a half of taking responsibility for the well-being of strangers she had never met before, coaxing them, encouraging them, bossing them, caring about them. Now she had an opportunity to get out, free and clear. She had earned it, as far as I was concerned, but she was willing to give it up, just to stay with the people that she had adopted.

There and then I vowed to myself that she and her whole group would be on the next flight if there was anything I could do about it. I grabbed up the Marine Sergeant who was now running the operation and introduced him to her and told him, “I don’t care what it takes, this woman and this whole group with her get on the next flight. I don’t care who is in the American line. She takes priority.”

That’s what happened. I was transitioning to other missions, but I took a break to come back to the flight line when the next American C-130 landed, to make sure she got on. That was the only time she almost broke. When we loaded the first group of twenty, she was left behind with the second group and a look of panic crossed her face. She started to argue with the police, telling him that she had been promised, she was with that group. When I came over to reassure her she was staring desperately at the plane and she said, “Sir, I cannot do this another day.”

“You won’t have to,” I promised. “You will be on that plane.”

The crew chief signaled, they sent the next group, and she boarded with the last of her people.

It was strange. At one point the day prior she had said to me in bewilderment, “I am not this kind of person. I don’t like to speak up to people. I do not know how I have the nerve to do this. I don’t know why they do what I tell them to. I am a nobody.”

I wish I had had time to explain that I feel the same way. Most effective leaders do. Deep down inside we are all faking it, pretending we know what we are doing, bewildered and intimidated by the weight of expectation and trust placed on us, wondering how the hell we ended up here. Why me? Why here? Why this job? Why not someone more dynamic, someone better trained, someone more confident?

I did not have time for that. All I had time to say was, “You care about them. People follow people who care.”

Sore Feet

Posts are going to be few and far between for a while. Right now there are three big things going on in my life. They are work, school and social life. Blogging may just fall by the wayside a bit.


Once upon a time I was out doing a long cross country ski movement with a group of army guys. We had done a similar movement the day prior, and were still feeling the effects of it. In particular, because of the new boots we were wearing, myself and one other guy had developed blisters. I had a blister the length and breadth of my thumb on the inside of my left ankle, just below the ankle bone. The other guy had a blister about an inch and a half across under the ankle bone on the inside of both ankles.

In addition to the blisters (which really weren't that serious, as blisters go), there was extensive bruising underneath the skin. Any pressure from ankle bone to heel was excruciatingly painful, and inversion of the foot was likewise painful.

As we were moving through the snow he kept falling farther and farther behind until finally I (being the medic) told the NCO in charge, "Hey, his feet are pretty torn up."

The NCOIC replied succinctly, "Faggot!" Just like that he dismissed the whole thing. Keep up. Do not be the slowest guy or else. We won't do anything to you, really. No adverse consequences, no paperwork, no punishment. We'll just ridicule you. Call you a pansy. Make jokes about your girly feet and your week genes.

At first I was irritated. I knew what the movement was doing to his feet. It wasn't damaging them permanently, but it was preventing them from healing. Any granulation tissue that had formed the night before was getting rubbed off with every step. The bandage he had put on wasn't the best and it was forming wrinkles and hot spots which might eventually turn into more blisters. Was it going to break a bone? No. Do nerve damage? Unlikely. Get infected? Probably not.

We were not out on patrol, we were just conducting a ski movement, for the express purpose of learning how to ski cross country and try out the new equipment. No one's life was in danger, there was no mission, no enemy, no legitimate reason why we had to keep going. Why do it? Why not just stop?

But we didn't stop. I rebandaged his feet at the next stop, and we kept going for hours. And he made it. He couldn't break snow, but he didn't fall behind.

Sometimes as a medic, or even as a human being, it seems pretty intuitive. If something is causing your patient pain, you stop doing that thing. But this event reminded me of the fact that my feet were hurting too, but I wasn't quitting. I didn't even want to ask. It reminded me of all the times I had wanted to stop, but would never have asked for it. There were so many times when I would have been half-insulted and half-overjoyed to have been told, "That's it, you've had enough. Sit this one out." On the one hand who are you to tell me when I have had enough? You don't know what I am capable of. On the other hand, I don't want to do this anymore. It hurts. Wouldn't it be amazing to have a legitimate excuse to stop?

But I didn't. I would not be who I am today if someone had had sympathy on me and taken me out when I wanted to be taken out. Instead they left me with two options; keep going or quit. For some reason I kept going. God only knows why. It made me into the person that I am.

When I wanted the NCOIC to let that guy off, I wanted to show him mercy, give him a way out. He wanted a way out. He didn't get one. And he got through it and became stronger.

In a way sore feet are a microcosm of my job. I deal with human sinfulness and evil. If it weren't for them I would have no job. There would be no war. God grant I see the day when there is no war and soldiers are all out of work, but on the other hand, what will we replace war with? The hell of war and the purgatory of training the readies men for war are ugly things, but they can bring out greatness. Without adversity, there is no greatness, it seems. But is there adversity without evil? How would Adam and Eve have acheived greatness?

It is an acedemic question only, because the fact is that there is evil and we have to deal with it. But on the other hand maybe there is something there. The NCOIC's ridicule didn't sit well with me, although I knew what he was doing, and he was right about it. That guy did make it, and it was better that he did. I like the virtue of courage and discipline that makes such men who they are, but I don't like the way it comes through. There should be a way to be tough and courageous without being unsympathetic. That is part of my lifelong pursuit of the Way of the Warrior; finding that way.