Museum Quality

I found out last week that the sail (also known as the “conning tower”) from the submarine I served on is going to be displayed at the National Atomic Museum. The ship itself has been decommissioned and scrapped, but the sail was salvaged and shipped to the museum in Albuquerque. It’s in pieces now (BIG pieces) in storage, but it will ultimately be put back together and put on display with the bombers and missiles from the Cold War era.

To my knowledge, this is the only part of any of the 41 original Polaris/Poseidon submarines that has survived intact. That’s rather sad, I think, but I was glad that the one that survived was “my” boat. (Just as a trivia item, submarines, regardless of their size, are the only warships that can correctly be referred to as “boats”.) That is, I was glad until my friend Julie pointed out that when something that one was closely associated with ends up in a museum – in one’s lifetime – then one is apt to be advancing in years. And while it’s true that I am getting older, I’m not yet ready to concede to being old. So, despite the fact that some of the computers I started with in this industry are in “Ancient Machines” exhibits, I decided to ignore her remarks.

The more I thought about that sail, though, the more I realized that there were a couple of lessons for me there. Although the ship that this big piece of steel was part of was originally a secret and hidden thing, someday it will stand tall in the sun as a reminder of former times that weren’t very peaceful. As such, it could be taken as an example of the fact that things are never constant, that they always change, and oftentimes the changes are for the better. It could also be taken as an example of the fact that some things do survive a complete meltdown of a former existence. Some things not only should, but actually can, survive.

A while back, my very good friend Peta Wilson proposed that all transgendered folks are transsexual to one degree or another. I propose that all transgendered folks are also liars, and damned good ones, to one degree or another. That is not necessarily a bad thing. In fact, for most of us, it is a survival trait that allows us to function in the world. We lie about who we are to everyone, but the one that we most often lie to – the one we spend most of our time convincing - is ourselves. However, at some point in our lives, we arrive at a place where we simply cannot continue to maintain the constant deception. Whether that’s because of external circumstances or because we simply get tired of constantly maintaining the façade, the day comes when the lies start to crumble, and then the life based on them collapses, too.

But while the lies may crumble, the life of the liar goes on. Hopefully, we can then put the sail of our former secret self in our personal museum of traps to avoid as we move on to something better. I miss the boat and the friends I made while serving on her. I’m glad some of her survives, and if I ever make it to Albuquerque, I’ll go to see what’s left of her and probably wax nostalgic. But no amount of money could get me to make another submarine patrol. That part of my life is over; I’ve moved on.