I graduated from Yale College in May 2024 as an Eli Whitney student. I arrived at the age of 52 and graduated at 56. Before attending college, I served in the U.S. Special Operations Forces for over 20 years. My military career effectively ended in 2009 when I was wounded during a firefight in Afghanistan. After retiring from the service in 2011, I took on various jobs related to my previous work and eventually founded a nonprofit dedicated to caring for the canines that serve our country and communities.

Before my time at Yale, I had taken college courses online — a common practice for military personnel who travel frequently — and attended a semester at another university before finding my way to Yale and, just as importantly, into the Directed Studies program. It was there that I was introduced to the seminar. I was completely blown away by how we connected over books and philosophies. There were disagreements and tough discussions, but it was all done respectfully. It was everything I thought college should be.

Fast forward to January 2025. The Jackson School gave me the opportunity to lecture a class for undergraduates as a practitioner. I was both honored and humbled by the gravity of my role as someone who spent many deployments in combat and had just graduated as an undergraduate. We would be communicating serious and sometimes difficult truths about war. My class is called GLBL 339: “The Impact of War On Its (Willing and Unwilling) Participants.” Class No. 10 will take place on Feb. 13 and the ride so far has been amazing. Sitting on the other side of the seminar table is not easy. I have struggled to be as smooth in seminar as some of the extraordinary professors from whom I learned. So far, I have failed; nevertheless, the students and I keep at it.

We cover serious texts that explore various angles of human conflict, raising questions that compel us to collectively confront hard truths. Additionally, my lived experiences serve as a valuable adjunct to learning. The “skin in the game” aspect of my practitioner status enhances the message I aim to convey — namely, that students should see the humanity in everyone involved: politicians, civilians and military personnel alike. All are human and subject to the same feelings and pressures that accompany violent conflict. We examine what it means to truly “volunteer” and discuss, from my perspective, the various motivations behind wanting to serve. We also host guests who have, in some form, lived through war as victims of the political and military failures that accompany broken diplomacy.

It is a difficult class because the readings and subject matter are raw and real. We shed tears, flush with anger and feel agitation at times. We experience the hopelessness of a young woman who lived under Taliban rule but had the courage to run a forbidden school for children — both boys and girls — in a tent in her neighborhood. We see her tears as she explains how much she misses her home but cannot return with her family. 

We listen to a woman from Eastern Europe describe her mother’s fear on sunny days in eastern Ukraine — fear of sunshine because cloudy days mean no drones dropping bombs. This twisted corner of humanity is not pleasant; it represents our collective failures on many levels. The only way to address this ever-present human failure is to confront it head-on; and in this regard, the seminar table itself is a gift — a lifebuoy of human striving. Through our discussions, we soften our hard edges and begin to see one another — and those in our books — as more human.

I have had many great and memorable days here at Yale, but last week in our seminar stands out. One of the students looked me dead in the eye and said emotionally: “Jimmy, I do not support the U.S. military.” I smiled so hard and almost wept at the same time. Why? Because in our class there is me — an old veteran decorated with tattoos and bullet wounds — and several ROTC students sitting alongside her. The young woman shared her soul because she felt comfortable; because she felt safe. 

For those who haven’t fought for it or lived in places where there is no free speech, I’m not sure how you feel about the First Amendment. To me, it is precious. It is more precious when I look across the table at a young Yale student who has her whole life ahead of her and she knows her voice is heard and respected. I’ve seen courage on the battlefield and I now see it in GLBL 339. 

Although the people in my previous life showed courage stepping into the breach for their beliefs, my students are also brave. They are stepping into the breach of wrapping their arms around conflict, in a world where conflict rules the day, but most humans avoid the subject because of its pain and complexity. Not here at Yale. Despite all of the derision of Yale by people who’ve never been here, or sat in a class, as a proud American combat veteran, I am honored to be here with the students, grinding away at the tough work of improving humanity. Let me close with this quote which is the header on our syllabus:

“There is a certain kind of peace that is not merely the absence of war. It is larger than that. The peace I am thinking of is not at the mercy of history’s rule, nor is it a passive surrender to the status quo. The peace I am thinking of is the dance of an open mind when it engages with another equally open one – an activity that occurs most naturally, most often in the reading /writing world we live in. Accessible as it is, this kind of peace warrants vigilance.”  

— Toni Morrison

JAMES HATCH graduated from Yale College in 2024 with a degree in Humanities. Before he came to New Haven, James served in the U.S. special operations forces for over 20 years. His column, “Lux”, runs biweekly and aims to piece the Yale bubble by shining a light on under-discussed subjects on campus and in New Haven, ranging from police relationships to cultural dynamics and drawing on his unique personal experiences. James teaches GLBL 339: “The Impact of War on Its (Willing and Unwilling) Participants” and can be reached at james.hatch@yale.edu.