I wave my badge in front of the sensor. Beep. The light turns from red to green. I follow the curve of the sidewalk. I'm in step with the workers around me. The building gets larger as I get closer, the morning sun obscured as I enter its shadow. Into the security office. Beep. Red to green. I climb the stairs to the fourth floor, through the maze of cubicles, clock in, and sit down. I followed the same route every day, alongside five-thousand other workers. I was just a kid, my beliefs -- or lack thereof -- were elementary.

Initially I was exhilarated. I felt so important. I had access to a facility that the general public did not. I saw military officers. I saw workers carrying green folders labeled “CLASSIFIED.” I saw models of submarines. The documents I worked on and created were stamped with “NOFORN,” or No Foreign Nationals, and “FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY.” It was a complex yet fascinating operation that teenagers would drool over. The presence of these statements triggered sensations I've never experienced, having unprecedented magnitude.

My work was drawings of pipe hangers. Simple steel objects that could fit into my hands. I was a microscopic piece to a gargantuan puzzle. I saw so many different parts it all became pixels on a screen and black ink on a page. The work was real, but I was just drafting. The part was modeled by one department, approved by another, and issued to me by another. Draw, print, scan, send. 12 pages, one clip, one checklist, one folder. The days grew shorter. The weeks became indiscernible. I felt it was difficult to figure out my place, my function.

I began taking breaks and walking the halls. That's when I noticed the posters. A red, white, and blue graphic that read “THESE COLORS DON’T RUN.” A simple yet powerful statement, almost prideful. “Underwater Superiority Guaranteed by EB Quality” covered the walls. The lanyard securing my badge to my neck read “WE BUILD FREEDOM” with the General Dynamics Electric Boat insignia. It was cool at first, but then it became eerie. They stared at me every day.

It hit me one day that I live in the submarine capital of the world, that I learned what real life was like before I even graduated high school. I saw where my peers go into the workforce, if they do not pursue higher education. I learned what it meant to be a working class citizen. To me, it felt like a fever dream. A life that was fruitful, but lacking in excitement and exploration and in learning and understanding. A choice other than post-secondary education was presenting itself, and it was an enticing offer.

It took a while for me to step back and see what I was doing. Eight weeks of 7AM to 3:30PM, every day. We were simple people building the most complex machines humans ever built. I would gaze out of the office window and see the submarines coming down the river. My river, the one I swam in when I was little, right in my backyard. That's what I was building. A machine capable of complete and utter destruction. “Deterrence…” Each boat was loaded with twenty-four intercontinental ballistic missiles, each carrying eight warheads, and each thirty times more powerful than Hiroshima. For deterrence… right? To warn our enemies that if they ever attack, they should know that the consequences of our retaliation would be so unspeakably horrible that they should reconsider meddling with us in the first place…

The eight weeks were over quickly.

I realized I hadn’t had serious thoughts related to the death of human lives prior to this summer. The monotony of life in tandem with the substance of the work, made me realize that maybe I don't want to be a part of such a life.

A few days following the end of the internship, I came home to find an envelope addressed to me. It was rather innocuous in appearance, except for the bold letters in the bottom corner. “EMPLOYMENT OFFER ENCLOSED.” I opened the envelope and saw the familiar General Dynamics letterhead.

I smiled, folded up the letter, and tucked it into my desk drawer.

Onward.