“My Sister Delivers Amazon Packages.” His Ceo Patted My Shoulder And Said, “Honest Work,” Then Turned Away. A Few Minutes Later, The Ballroom Doors Swung Open. An Officer Stepped Inside, Stopped, And Saluted.
“General Jablonski, Your Vehicle Is Ready, Ma’am.” The Room Went Completely Silent As Everyone Realized He Was Talking To Me. My Name Tag Said It All: U.S. Army.
I Just Smiled. “Well, My ‘Amazon’ Is Here.”
‘She delivers Amazon packages,’ my brother laughed at his gala. Then my ‘Amazon’ arrived.
My name is Lisha Jablonsky, and my brother once told his country club friends that I drove around all day while he actually contributed to society. This was three hours after I’d authorized a counterterrorism operation in Yemen that saved 200 lives. The thing about being a twostar general in Joint Special Operations Command is that nobody knows what JSOC actually does, and I prefer it that way.
When civilians hear “military,” they picture parades and salutes. They don’t picture encrypted satones at 3:00 a.m. or authorization codes that can redirect entire carrier strike groups.
My family certainly didn’t. My brother Trevor worked in pharmaceutical sales. He made good money, the kind that bought a McMansion in the suburbs and a BMW with heated seats.
To my parents, this was success incarnate, something visible, something they could brag about at their bridge club. I’d been in the army for 22 years. “Lisha does something with the government,” my mother would say vaguely at family gatherings, her tone suggesting I processed paperwork at the DMV.
“Very stable. Good benefits.”
The benefits were excellent. The presidential helicopter was particularly nice.
It started when I was 30, fresh off my promotion to major. I’d come home for Thanksgiving, still jet-lagged from Kosovo, and found myself seated next to Trevor’s new girlfriend, Stephanie, who worked in marketing. “So, what do you do?” Stephanie asked brightly, reaching for the cranberry sauce.
“I’m in the army.”
“Oh, like recruiting? My cousin thought about joining once.”
“Something like that,” I said. Trevor leaned over.
“She’s basically middle management staff, government work. Can’t really get fired. You know how it is.”
I’d spent that morning in a secure video conference with the Secretary of Defense discussing the insertion timeline for a hostage rescue in the caucuses.
I’d had three cups of coffee and authorized the deployment of $60 million in assets. “Sure,” I said. “Can’t get fired.”
The pattern solidified over years.
Every promotion took me deeper into the classified world, further from any conversation I could actually have with my family. When I made lieutenant colonel, my father asked if that meant I’d get one of those little offices with a window. When I pinned on my first star at 38, becoming one of the youngest brigadier generals in JSOC, my mother’s main concern was whether the ceremony would conflict with Trevor’s engagement party.
It didn’t. I flew in from Qatar, attended both, and flew back out. Nobody asked where I’d been.
“Government travel,” I’d said. “Training thing.”
My mother had patted my hand sympathetically. “Well, at least you get to see different places, dear.
Even if it’s just military bases or whatever.”
I’d been in the royal palace in Riyad the day before, briefing the Saudi defense minister on a joint operation. But sure, military bases or whatever. The mockery was never cruel, exactly.
That was the insidious part. It was condescending in the way that only family can manage, a kind of pitying dismissal racked in concern. They weren’t trying to hurt me.
They genuinely believed I’d settled for less. At Trevor’s wedding, his best man made a toast about everyone finding their path, glancing meaningfully at me. “Some people climb mountains, some people guard them, right?”
Everyone chuckled.
I smiled into my champagne. I’d literally climbed K2 during winter warfare training, but who was counting? When I made major general at 41, the second star, the one that came with joint special operations command in my official title, I simply didn’t tell them.
What would I say? I couldn’t explain what JSOC did. I couldn’t mention the operations, the task forces, the direct action missions coordinated across 17 countries.
I couldn’t tell them about the situation room or the secure facility at Fort Bragg or the fact that I reported directly to a fourstar who reported directly to the president. So I didn’t. “Still doing the army thing?” my father asked at Christmas.
“Yep.”
“Good for you, honey. Stability is important.”
Stability, right? Nothing more stable than planning special operations missions in active war zones.
By 43, I’d accepted the absurdity of my double life. At work, I was General Jablonsky or Ma’am. I had a security detail, a staff of 40, and authorization codes that could scramble rapid response teams anywhere on the planet.
I’d briefed presidents plural. I’d made decisions that altered the course of regional conflicts. At home, I was Lisha, who never quite lived up to her potential.
The cognitive dissonance should have bothered me more. Instead, I found it darkly hilarious. My mother once tried to set me up with her dentist’s divorced son because “you’re not getting any younger and he has a stable practice.”
I’d taken the call in my office at Fort Bragg beneath a wall displaying the joint service commenation medal and two defense superior service medals.
“Sure, Mom,” I’d said. “Give him my number.”
She never did. She later told me she decided against it because “you travel so much for work and he really needs someone settled.”
I’d been in Germany that week coordinating with NATO commanders on a Baltic security initiative.
The really spectacular part was how confident they were in their assessment of my life. Trevor especially had constructed an entire narrative about my career that bore no resemblance to reality, but that he defended with absolute conviction. “Lkesha is fine with the simple life,” he told his colleagues once when I’d stopped by his office to meet him for lunch.
“Not everyone needs the stress of real responsibility, you know.”
I’d smiled blandly. Real responsibility. I’d authorized a drone strike that morning.
The target had been neutralized with zero collateral damage. 17 analysts had spent the night confirming the intelligence, but sure, no real responsibility. “Must be nice,” one of his colleagues said.
“Having a job where you can just clock out.”
“It has its moments,” I agreed. I couldn’t even be angry. The gulf between their assumptions and my reality was so vast it became abstract.
They weren’t mocking me. They were mocking a fictional character they’d invented, someone who barely resembled me at all. The fiction solidified into family mythology.
I became poor Lakesesha in their narrative, the sister who’d never quite figured things out, who joined the military because she didn’t know what else to do and just stayed, who probably pushed papers and attended the occasional meeting and called it a career. At my father’s 70th birthday, Trevor’s father-in-law, a retired insurance executive, cornered me by the dessert table. “So, Lkesha, Trevor tells me you’re still in the service.”
“I am.”
“And you’re what?
Some kind of administrator, something like that?”
He nodded sagely. “Lot of good people in those support roles. Important work keeping the machine running.”
He patted my shoulder.
“Unsung heroes really.”
I’d flown in from a NATO summit. The French defense minister had requested a private briefing. The German chancellor had asked me to dinner, but yes, support roles, unsung heroes.
“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate that.”
The irony sustained me. It became a kind of game.
How much could I deflect? How vague could I be? How thoroughly could I hide in plain sight?
My family’s absolute certainty about my mediocrity became the perfect operational security. Nobody suspects the family disappointment of running covert operations. Then came the gala.
Trevor had been promoted to regional vice president of sales for his pharmaceutical company, a genuinely impressive achievement that he’d spent six months telling everyone about. The company was throwing a celebration at the Meridian Hotel downtown. Black tie, open bar, 200 guests, a string quartet.
My mother called three times to make sure I was coming. “It’s so important for Trevor,” she said. “All the executives will be there.
You should try to make connections, Lakesha. Network a little. You never know what opportunities might come up.”
“I’ll be there, Mom.”
“And please wear something nice, not your uniform.”
I’d been planning to wear my dress blues, actually, the formal uniform with the medals and insignia that would have answered every question they’d never asked.
But there was a certain poetry in maintaining the charade. “I’ll wear a dress,” I said. “Thank you, honey.
And maybe try to seem successful. I know your job isn’t glamorous, but you could at least pretend to be doing well.”
I’d been in the Oval Office that afternoon briefing the president on a situation developing in the South China Sea, but sure,
