From MCT, I was sent to the Armed Forces School of Music in Little Creek, Virginia. Again, I befriended the wrong people. Despite my expectations the school was not fun. I was surprised to find many of the other students had degrees in music, or had personal music tutors or private lessons. I only had my public school experience with music, which made me feel a little better when I disclosed my low audition score. However, many other scores didn’t seem much higher than mine either. We had various music classes from seven in the morning to three in the afternoon. Then, my personal instructor assigned me 25 hours of practice in the practice rooms. These hours were logged into the practice log book in the center of the practice room halls. I first got in trouble when a new friend, Valdez, got a new 2003 Mitsubishi Spider convertible from her parents. She was a clarinetist from Texas, and by her own admission, was a troublemaker in high school. Our other friend, Donovan, had a 1999 Firebird. Donovan was older than us, and had a Bachelor’s in Percussion. We were not permitted in private vehicles, because we were fresh from boot camp. The two convinced me to go with them to try out the new Spider, and Donovan wanted to show off his Firebird. I went in the car with Valdez and another clarinetist. The night ended as military police brought Donovan back to the school barracks because Valdez and Donovan began competing as to which car could to better donuts on ice in December. Unfortunately, we were directly under a Navy watch tower. The military police spoke with those of us in Valdez’s car let us go without telling our command. However, Donovan gave the police that spoke with him attitude, and they escorted him back to the command. We all endured repeated ass-chewings and a Page 11 for this.
Weeks later, I went to a shopping mall with Valdez. She brought me in a dressing room and showed me items she had shoved up her pant leg that she had stolen from previous shops we had gone to. I told her she needed to return them, but she retorted that she couldn’t because she would get caught. That night, I met Donovan in the smoke deck and told him about it. He insisted I tell our command. I told him I wouldn’t do that, but I had warned Valdez I wasn’t cool with what she had done. The next day, we were called into the Master Gunnery Sergeant’s office. We knew this must be bad, because he was the second highest in command of the Marine Corps branch at the school. He asked what we did over the weekend. After Valdez explained we went shopping, he asked if we paid for everything. Valdez immediately said “Yes”. I hesitated. I am a terrible liar, and I am not stupid. I knew if he was asking he must already know, and Valdez had already began digging herself a grave. My mind raced, and I quickly concluded the only person that could have told him was Donovan. Eventually, I said “Yes, Master Gunnery Sergeant, I paid for everything”. I specifically worded my answer so I hadn’t lied. I did pay for everything. Valdez hadn’t.
After we left the office, Valdez and I got into an argument. I insisted we come clean, and she begged me not to. I told her they must already know from Donovan, and we were only racking on problems with lies. I didn’t want to get into trouble for this anymore than we already would be, but she begged me. I told her I was going to speak with the command, and she could come with me or let me go alone to explain it. I told her I would let her go first, if she wanted to come clean. She declined. As I stood waiting to be recognized in front of the office, she stood behind me and begged me in Spanish not to tell. I spoke little Spanish but enough to converse with her. I told her she could step in front of me and go first, but I was going to come clean. She continued to plead and even offered me money.
The next moments were some of the most embarrassing of my Marine Corps career. Our Staff Sergeant and Master Gunnery Sergeant stood looking at me, waiting for me to explain. Instead, I cried. It was the first and last time I ever cried in front of other Marines, and I hate the fact I let it happen even once. I told them what happened, and they asked why I was crying. I explained that she was my friend, and I was betraying her. They seemed to sympathize with me, and told me I was a good person but I needed to stay away from her. They decided not to punish me, but ordered me not to speak to her anymore. Valdez lost rank and was fined money from her paycheck as punishment. On Valentine’s Day of 2004, we were both sitting in the pool hall across the street from the school. Most of the school went there every day. Today, we were the only ones in the hall as everyone else had left on a long weekend. She came over and talked with me. I knew we could get into trouble if we were caught talking, but I thought no one would see us. As we walked out of the pool hall, our Master Gunnery Sergeant drove by and stopped his car and shook his head before driving away again. For some stupid reason, I allowed Valdez to talk me into calling him on the phone to request to spend Valentine’s Day together since everyone else was gone. He said “No”, and hung up. Needless to say, this furthered the injury to my record. I was simply too passive and far too easily influenced.
My roommate acted as if she liked me, but I was never quite sure. She was a flutist, and was an incredible musician. She was a favorite of the command and instructors, although she struggled with her weight. She had been at the school much longer than I, and was further in her training. However, her curfew was at midnight on school nights, and she did not always obey this rule. One night, she didn’t come in until after curfew. She woke me up, and asked what time I had set the alarm clock. I told her 5:30AM. “Change it to five. I need to get up earlier.” She said as she got undressed in the dark. Half asleep, I rolled over and reset the clock. Then, I went to back to sleep.
“You have got to be kidding me!” I opened my eyes and saw one of the Corporals standing between our beds. I immediately noticed it was daylight, which meant we had really slept in. She told us we had thirty minutes to be at the school, and to go straight to the Staff Sergeant’s office. He was waiting. After she left, my roommate began to express how upset she was that I had set the clock wrong. I said nothing but thought bitterly, I was half asleep! Why don’t you get your own alarm? We stood in front of the Staff Sergeant, and my roommate explained that I had set the alarm wrong. Our Staff Sergeant didn’t punish us, but warned us this couldn’t happen again. I think I was only given just leniency on this situation because of my roommate. She was never in trouble, and it would have been seen as her issue more than mine because she was the higher ranking Marine. I don’t think anyone wanted to punish her for it.
Soon after, my roommate graduated. I had our room to myself. I had just gotten into bed, when I heard rocks hitting the glass of my window. I went over to find Donovan standing below. He shouted to my second story window. I asked what he was doing and he said he wanted to hang out. I said I couldn’t. My trouble with Valdez left me on the phase where I could not leave my room after curfew, and males were not permitted on the female floors. He said he would sneak up. I joked he was crazy and told him good night. Minutes later, I heard a knock at my door. I peered through the peep hole to see a figure in a parka standing in front of the door. I opened it, and realized Donovan hadn’t been kidding. His face was hidden by the hood of his parka and he said “Let me in! There is someone in the laundry room. They will see me!” Foolishly, I let him in. However, I was upset. “You need to go, Donovan!” He argued that he couldn’t because people would see him in the halls. I said “Then you are going out the window!” He looked shocked. “We are on the second floor!” I told him I didn’t care, because I didn’t want to get into anymore trouble. Then, there was another knock at the door. Donovan jumped behind the door in the bathroom. It was an awful hiding place, because the mirror exposed him quite plainly. Yet, I didn’t have time to tell him how poorly his choice in hiding places was. The staff duty and an Army female came into my room explaining they saw a male come up to the second floor on the security cameras. They were going through all of the rooms to find him. The staff duty had brought a female to look through the rooms. She did a quick check, and did not turn the light on in the bathroom. She either pretended not to see Donovan, or she missed him completely.
After they left, I made Donovan go out the window. The walls on either sides of the windows protruded out. I watch from above as he climbed down the wall in his parka and flip-flops by pressing his back against one protruded side and walked down the other. Then, all at once his flip-flop slipped from his foot and I watched him fall from the wall. In an instant, the bushes below consumed him, and I could no longer see where he was. I closed my window and sat and watched. A few moments later he emerged from the bushes and ran into the darkness. However, our efforts were futile. A roving duty had seen him fall from my window. The staff duty made me write out a statement of what happened. Little did I know, he was having Donovan writing the same thing. When our stories didn’t match, we were both threatened with the same fate a Valdez, but it was never fully pursued. I never came clean about his unexpected visit. I don’t know why. Illogically, I think I thought I would be saving him from punishment. I still had not learned.
Another complication arose with a fellow clarinetist named Jimenez. He had a problem touching women, and despite the sassy attitude of Valdez’s roommate, she froze when he began touching her uninvitingly. He began to develop a whispered reputation for his “problem”. I would sit and try to reason with him for hours and understand why he thought he had rights to touch women as he did. I tried to make him see, without judging, of the offensiveness of his actions. He never understood me, and I didn’t understand him. He tried to touch me once, and I sharply told him to take his hands off me. He did as I asked. I think he only obeyed because I was his friend. Other female Marines didn’t necessarily have their wishes granted. Yet, no one ever turned him in. I tried to encourage him to seek help before he got himself into trouble, or hurt a woman. He never did. Years later, I learned he was in the brig for raping a Marine’s wife in Okinawa, Japan.
The pressure that I felt became to show. In formations, I started passing out. During a uniform inspection that was held in the instrument room, I passed out and came inches from snuggling my face into a tuba. Luckily, the Marines next to me caught me. These incidents brought further unwanted attention. People commented on how sickly white I would turn. I wanted to fade into the crowd until I graduated from the School of Music. I was given multiple pregnancy tests over those months, because I hadn’t had a period since I went to boot camp seven or eight months earlier. I was a mess, and I knew it.
Meanwhile, my reputation was destroyed among the instructors and students at the school. Before I knew it, I was being called in for petty accusations and rumors of letting my hair down in uniform, or wearing colored socks with my boots. My first week at the school, I only logged eleven practice hours, although I was assigned twenty-five. My personal instructor later accused me of forging the practice log books when I began to complete the assigned twenty-five hours. She didn’t believe I was completing them. Furthermore, she told the Marine Corps command I was rude and gave her attitude. I was so confused, because I was terrified of her. I barely spoke to her unless I was addressed. I knew she didn’t like me, and I was frightened of further trouble. She once drew an oval with pencil on one of my reeds to indicate where my tongue should make contact with the reed. She said my embouchure was incorrect and I needed to re-teach myself. To this day, I have kept that reed. I don’t know why. I had stared at it so long while I was in the School of Music, that I should never want to see it again….but I have kept it for almost eight years.
After high school, I went months without playing my clarinet because of training. Then, at once, I expected was to play more than eight hours a day. This wasn’t much different from the other students, although not many were assigned quite as many practice hours as I was. The reeds on my clarinet all began to look brown and disgusting from blood that had gathered on them from worn my lip. I tried using folded paper to separate my teeth from my lip as others did, but somehow it still bled. I didn’t care. I was frantically trying to find a way to satisfy my instructor. She told me I wasn’t performing or excelling as expected, and she failed me on my mid-training exam. This time, I will say that this failure was not purely due to my own shortcomings. During the exam I watched her change my grades in front of me. I sat dumbfounded. The computer displays your total grade at the bottom as the grades for the individual scales, sight readings, and pieces are entered. Looking at the total, I felt relieved to see I had barely passed. Then, I watched her go back to the pieces I had played earlier and change the grades. She gave me high scores on some, but some were lower also. In the end, my total was only slightly below passing. I had failed after all? I tried to make sense of it. I was confused. I had passed. I saw it! How did I fail?
Who could I make my complaint to? I had been in so much trouble, that I knew any fight was fruitless. Furthermore, I had not been doing well in my sight singing class or my marching classes. I believe I did not see the unsatisfactory performances in these classes because I was far too preoccupied with the trouble I was constantly in, and the social drama in which I became involved. This was quite similar to my high school performance. However, in high school only my grades suffered. My failed exam performance on my clarinet led to an Academic Review Board that decided I needed to be removed from the school. As it was simply explained to me, they believed that remediating my embouchure was not worth the trouble I cause. It hadn’t mattered anyway. My shame was overwhelming. I felt I deserved it. I cried for hours in my room, and sometimes slipped into the bathrooms to cry quietly in the stalls. I was plagued with the glorification I received in my hometown for my success on the audition. I imagined the mortification of explaining my prematurely ended career in the Marine Corps band. Feeling defeated and pathetic that I had failed so many expectations, I was released from the School of Music in March of 2004. I had completed half of my training. I take full responsibility for all of my troubles at the school of music, except my actual mid-training performance with my clarinet and my behavior as claimed by my instructor. My parents were quite supportive, and did not persecute me further. I feel I was pretty honest with them about the happenings at the school. I had many instructors and superiors who I believe tried very hard to give me the benefit of the doubt and I failed them as well. I had others who allowed my troublesome reputation to precede me, and I met their expectations. One Marine explained to me “This is what people think” he made his fingers into little legs. “This is you” and then he made another set of legs with his other hand and imitated it chasing the other. “This is trouble.” He put his hands down, and said “Trouble just finds you.”
My confidence couldn’t have been lower, but I had a second chance. My new military occupation: Disbursing.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Chapter One
Boot camp was far more intense than I had pictured. It was quite different to see people being yelled at on tv then to stand there as your eardrums are vibrating from the screams. I was a horrible recruit. I was always in trouble, because I always had a lost look on my face (as I am told). As I feared, my physical abilities proved to be mortifying and made me a target for criticism from drill instructors. My height also proved to be an unexpected disadvantage. They seemed to hate how tall I was. In a formation of sixty girls, I stood out. Every little blink, twitch, or eye movement was caught. Layla would joke with me, years after boot camp, about how the girls on the little end of the formation were able to act without being caught by drill instructors. They were all shorter. “We got away with everything”, she would laugh. At one point, my Senior Drill Instructor made me stand on my knees so she could yell at me, because I was so much taller than her. I was constantly on the quarterdeck, even if I hadn’t actually done anything wrong. I was in trouble so often, they just began to assume I should be punished every opportunity.
Because I became an easy target for drill instructors, I also became an easy target for fellow recruits who needed a patsy. Every morning, the drill instructor would count down, and we had to be standing in a line with our blue bags of our personal valuables, and our “Smart card” held out in front of us by the end of the countdown. One morning, I went into my foot locker and took these things out before the drill instructor woke up. Most of us did this every morning, because the countdown was never enough time. I slipped my card and bag under my pillow. When the drill instructor started counting, I could leap from my rack (bunk), pull out those items, and jump on line. This particular morning, my card wasn’t under my pillow where I had put in only minutes ago. I searched the bare cement floors around our racks, and found nothing. I began to panic, because the countdown was nearing the last numbers. Eventually, I had to get online without my Smart card. My drill instructor screamed at me to find it. I ran back to my rack and searched frantically. I heard my Senior Drill Instructor yell “Someone help the retard!”
Immediately, the guide of our platoon ran over to my aid. She quickly handed me my card and reached under her own pillow and grabbed her own card. I was stunned. My Senior said, “Imagine that! Berger found it right away!” The guide, Berger, was the drill instructor’s pet. She was given the position as guide because she was supposed to be the best example and showed the most potential for leadership. Later, my rack mate told me my card fell from my pillow as I was climbing down from my top rack. Berger grabbed it and jumped online. They all stood as I was persecuted, and knew I had not lost my card, but our guide had taken it. These situations happened often, and I felt pathetic to have let myself get labeled as an easy patsy.
During the confidence course, I lost my grip on a log and fell from the top of a fairly high obstacle. My knee popped twice. It hurt badly, but I tried to not show it for fear of ridicule. The next couple days, I limped slightly, but made no requests to medical. Recruits who made such requests were seen as weak – especially if they lacked in physical fitness. It was immediately assumed the injury was exaggerated to avoid physical training. Each night we had to stand in front of our drill instructors in our underwear, and rotate around in circles, saying a rehearsed song stating we have no physical complaints to address to medical. One night, my drill instructor noticed a very large bug bite on my leg, and ordered me to go to medical in the morning. Cellulitous was a serious fear in boot camp. Apparently, it caused serious infections and was often the result of a simple bug bite. I know little of it, except what I was told in rumor. At medical, the doctor assured the bug bite was nothing serious, but noticed my swollen knee and minor limping. He asked about it, and since I had been ordered to medical, I thought I would explain what happened. I was terrified when he decided I needed crutches. He explained that normally crutches would not be necessary, but with the amount recruits were on their feet walking from place to place, it was appropriate because the injury would not heal if it was strained all the time. I did not argue, although I was terrified of the reaction I would get from the drill instructors. I did not understand what the injury actually was, but wished I could just pretend it never happened, and kicked myself for telling the doctor. At the squadbay, my drill instructors lost their minds when I walked in with crutches. I hated everything about boot camp, because I couldn’t figure out how to stay out of trouble.
Eventually, I was dropped from that platoon and placed into the Physical Conditioning and Medical Readiness platoon (PCP and MRP). This meant I was no longer in the same platoon with Layla. I was on crutches for more than two weeks. Two days after I was back to physical training, I had to run the mid-training fitness test. I failed the run, and was dropped to PCP until I passed it and could rejoin training with the next platoon. I passed the run only two days later. However, I had to wait in this limbo platoon for two weeks to rejoin my next platoon. It was depressing place. Everyone was injured, or they had failed fitness tests. I slept on the top rack above an African American girl who boasted about her days in a street gang. She often threatened me. She said she hated me because I looked like a pampered white girl. She would stay up after the drill instructors would go to bed with her friend and talk and laugh as if no one was trying to sleep. One night, I finally asked her to be quiet because they were being very loud. She told me she would cut my throat if I ever asked again, and if she ever saw me in the civilian world she would shoot me between the eyes. I was so passive; I said nothing and put a pillow over my head. Weeks later, I found out she had hung herself with a belt from her rack the night after I left.
Whether it was recognized by the drill instructors or not, my personal shining moment was probably the Crucible. It was a series of obstacles between hikes. The other girls were much smaller than me, and could lift very little. One other recruit and I were left to carry the water and ammo cans for our squad because the rest were not strong enough to carry them for very long. We were supposed to rotate between all the girls in my squad, but none of them could carry them. The other recruit and I had to maneuver them as we low-crawled in sand under barbed-wire by ourselves as the other girls stood and waited at the end. We had to lift all the other girls over walls and up high obstacles. Some girls couldn’t keep up with the hikes, so the drill instructors gave me their packs and rifles. I had my own pack on my back and another positioned on my stomach, and a rifle slung over each shoulder. It made me bitter that these girls would could perform so much better than me on the fitness tests, but couldn’t even carry an ammo can, much less their own packs. However, it was the only time I was not hounded and belittled. I felt I was an asset more than an inconvenience.
In October 2003, I finished boot camp and was sent to Marine Combat Training (MCT) after ten days of leave to visit with my family. I loved the training. It was miserable at times, but I still loved it. We hiked a lot, which I was always better at than other females because I was so tall. Mostly, no one bothered me in MCT. During one of the hikes in boot camp, I had developed a blister from poorly fit boots on my heel. As we were hiking, I felt it pop and the fluid soak my sock. It felt better to have the pressure alleviated from my heel. After the hike, I was able to see how large it was. We were supposed to report blisters that were larger than a dime, but I refused to go to medical for a blister – especially after the setbacks that resulted from my knee. When I arrived at MCT, I finally decided to talk to the Corpsman about it since we hadn’t actually started any training yet. He rolled his eyes and in colorful language asked if I was seriously coming to him about a blister. At that point I felt stupid, but said yes anyway. He took off my boot and sock and another string of uncensored words burst out. He seemed surprised at how large it was. The blister covered my entire heel. It had started to get a little infected and he told me I needed to have to top layer of skin cut off. I didn’t get why, but I never argued. He had me lay on my stomach on an old, torn sofa in one of the squadbays. He called in some higher ranking Marines to help. They put a screw driver in my mouth to bite down on, and the corpsman took out a jack knife. I would have expected a corpsman to be prepared with more sanitary and appropriate technology than a jack knife, but I didn’t really care. A Master Sergeant held my foot and a Gunnery Sergeant held my leg down while the corpsman began to cut my heel. He kept telling me I had better not move, and I had better not kick him in the face. I don’t know what kind of pain he was expecting I would endure, but it didn’t hurt at all. Actually, I barely felt anything. The need for people to restrain my legs and the screwdriver seemed a little over dramatic. The Master Sergeant handed me the chunk of skin from my foot in a Ziploc bag. He thought it was funny, and told me I should keep it. I respectfully declined. My heel wouldn’t heal for a long time, since it was constantly in wet boots and hiking for the coming weeks, but it didn’t bother me enough to care. I supposed it just made for an interesting story.
Because I became an easy target for drill instructors, I also became an easy target for fellow recruits who needed a patsy. Every morning, the drill instructor would count down, and we had to be standing in a line with our blue bags of our personal valuables, and our “Smart card” held out in front of us by the end of the countdown. One morning, I went into my foot locker and took these things out before the drill instructor woke up. Most of us did this every morning, because the countdown was never enough time. I slipped my card and bag under my pillow. When the drill instructor started counting, I could leap from my rack (bunk), pull out those items, and jump on line. This particular morning, my card wasn’t under my pillow where I had put in only minutes ago. I searched the bare cement floors around our racks, and found nothing. I began to panic, because the countdown was nearing the last numbers. Eventually, I had to get online without my Smart card. My drill instructor screamed at me to find it. I ran back to my rack and searched frantically. I heard my Senior Drill Instructor yell “Someone help the retard!”
Immediately, the guide of our platoon ran over to my aid. She quickly handed me my card and reached under her own pillow and grabbed her own card. I was stunned. My Senior said, “Imagine that! Berger found it right away!” The guide, Berger, was the drill instructor’s pet. She was given the position as guide because she was supposed to be the best example and showed the most potential for leadership. Later, my rack mate told me my card fell from my pillow as I was climbing down from my top rack. Berger grabbed it and jumped online. They all stood as I was persecuted, and knew I had not lost my card, but our guide had taken it. These situations happened often, and I felt pathetic to have let myself get labeled as an easy patsy.
During the confidence course, I lost my grip on a log and fell from the top of a fairly high obstacle. My knee popped twice. It hurt badly, but I tried to not show it for fear of ridicule. The next couple days, I limped slightly, but made no requests to medical. Recruits who made such requests were seen as weak – especially if they lacked in physical fitness. It was immediately assumed the injury was exaggerated to avoid physical training. Each night we had to stand in front of our drill instructors in our underwear, and rotate around in circles, saying a rehearsed song stating we have no physical complaints to address to medical. One night, my drill instructor noticed a very large bug bite on my leg, and ordered me to go to medical in the morning. Cellulitous was a serious fear in boot camp. Apparently, it caused serious infections and was often the result of a simple bug bite. I know little of it, except what I was told in rumor. At medical, the doctor assured the bug bite was nothing serious, but noticed my swollen knee and minor limping. He asked about it, and since I had been ordered to medical, I thought I would explain what happened. I was terrified when he decided I needed crutches. He explained that normally crutches would not be necessary, but with the amount recruits were on their feet walking from place to place, it was appropriate because the injury would not heal if it was strained all the time. I did not argue, although I was terrified of the reaction I would get from the drill instructors. I did not understand what the injury actually was, but wished I could just pretend it never happened, and kicked myself for telling the doctor. At the squadbay, my drill instructors lost their minds when I walked in with crutches. I hated everything about boot camp, because I couldn’t figure out how to stay out of trouble.
Eventually, I was dropped from that platoon and placed into the Physical Conditioning and Medical Readiness platoon (PCP and MRP). This meant I was no longer in the same platoon with Layla. I was on crutches for more than two weeks. Two days after I was back to physical training, I had to run the mid-training fitness test. I failed the run, and was dropped to PCP until I passed it and could rejoin training with the next platoon. I passed the run only two days later. However, I had to wait in this limbo platoon for two weeks to rejoin my next platoon. It was depressing place. Everyone was injured, or they had failed fitness tests. I slept on the top rack above an African American girl who boasted about her days in a street gang. She often threatened me. She said she hated me because I looked like a pampered white girl. She would stay up after the drill instructors would go to bed with her friend and talk and laugh as if no one was trying to sleep. One night, I finally asked her to be quiet because they were being very loud. She told me she would cut my throat if I ever asked again, and if she ever saw me in the civilian world she would shoot me between the eyes. I was so passive; I said nothing and put a pillow over my head. Weeks later, I found out she had hung herself with a belt from her rack the night after I left.
Whether it was recognized by the drill instructors or not, my personal shining moment was probably the Crucible. It was a series of obstacles between hikes. The other girls were much smaller than me, and could lift very little. One other recruit and I were left to carry the water and ammo cans for our squad because the rest were not strong enough to carry them for very long. We were supposed to rotate between all the girls in my squad, but none of them could carry them. The other recruit and I had to maneuver them as we low-crawled in sand under barbed-wire by ourselves as the other girls stood and waited at the end. We had to lift all the other girls over walls and up high obstacles. Some girls couldn’t keep up with the hikes, so the drill instructors gave me their packs and rifles. I had my own pack on my back and another positioned on my stomach, and a rifle slung over each shoulder. It made me bitter that these girls would could perform so much better than me on the fitness tests, but couldn’t even carry an ammo can, much less their own packs. However, it was the only time I was not hounded and belittled. I felt I was an asset more than an inconvenience.
In October 2003, I finished boot camp and was sent to Marine Combat Training (MCT) after ten days of leave to visit with my family. I loved the training. It was miserable at times, but I still loved it. We hiked a lot, which I was always better at than other females because I was so tall. Mostly, no one bothered me in MCT. During one of the hikes in boot camp, I had developed a blister from poorly fit boots on my heel. As we were hiking, I felt it pop and the fluid soak my sock. It felt better to have the pressure alleviated from my heel. After the hike, I was able to see how large it was. We were supposed to report blisters that were larger than a dime, but I refused to go to medical for a blister – especially after the setbacks that resulted from my knee. When I arrived at MCT, I finally decided to talk to the Corpsman about it since we hadn’t actually started any training yet. He rolled his eyes and in colorful language asked if I was seriously coming to him about a blister. At that point I felt stupid, but said yes anyway. He took off my boot and sock and another string of uncensored words burst out. He seemed surprised at how large it was. The blister covered my entire heel. It had started to get a little infected and he told me I needed to have to top layer of skin cut off. I didn’t get why, but I never argued. He had me lay on my stomach on an old, torn sofa in one of the squadbays. He called in some higher ranking Marines to help. They put a screw driver in my mouth to bite down on, and the corpsman took out a jack knife. I would have expected a corpsman to be prepared with more sanitary and appropriate technology than a jack knife, but I didn’t really care. A Master Sergeant held my foot and a Gunnery Sergeant held my leg down while the corpsman began to cut my heel. He kept telling me I had better not move, and I had better not kick him in the face. I don’t know what kind of pain he was expecting I would endure, but it didn’t hurt at all. Actually, I barely felt anything. The need for people to restrain my legs and the screwdriver seemed a little over dramatic. The Master Sergeant handed me the chunk of skin from my foot in a Ziploc bag. He thought it was funny, and told me I should keep it. I respectfully declined. My heel wouldn’t heal for a long time, since it was constantly in wet boots and hiking for the coming weeks, but it didn’t bother me enough to care. I supposed it just made for an interesting story.
Introduction
My name is Kendra, and I have decided to tell my story. Although I am writing this largely for my own benefit, I hope it will interest some readers. I know some will quit before the meat of my story begins, and some will not find it all that interesting. However, just maybe, some will enjoy it. I will change most names, including my last name. I will try not to write mundanely detailed, but any detail I put has relevance – especially in the future of my story.
I graduated in 2003 from a small town in Northern California. My grade point average was horrible, and many of my friends either didn’t graduate, or they earned GED’s from local alternative schools for troubled kids. However, I was constantly busy. I was a DJ and Program Manager for the high school radio station, and for two years I was the band drum major. I also participated for the school’s Interact Club for awhile. Although their personalities and ambitions couldn’t have been further from my own, I seemed to gravitate towards these types of personalities for many years. However, my best friend was different, although over dramatic. Her name was Lara. I have not spoken with most of those friends in years, although I do not regard them as bad people. I knew my parents had little money to pay for my college, and I especially understood any of their money would be highly conditional. My choice of studies, colleges, and the related would be strictly decided by my mother. My future seemed to have no direction or plan, despite my desires to become a lawyer. My only strength seemed to be music. I was a talented clarinet player. So, I began researching music scholarships late in my junior year, and entered my name into an online database for music scholarships. Days later, I was contacted by the Army, who was interested in having me audition for the Army band. Although I had no interest in the military, I had no better plan. After speaking with an Army recruiter who made promises of advanced promotions and enlistment bonuses, I decided to talk to the Marine Corps recruiter as well. Who has ever heard of the Army band? Everyone knows the Marine Corps band, I thought. After speaking with both branches, they offered me more and more, until the Marine Corps offered me a $50,000 scholarship. As I was told, this was the most any of the branches could offer. I chose to audition with the Marine Corps.
After barely passing the audition, I began the enrollment process into the Marine Corps. I was surprised at the positive reaction I was met with upon the results of my audition. The Marine Corps recruiter, Sgt Vargas, explained I was the first person on the west coast to pass the audition for clarinet or flute in more than a decade. My recruiter earned so many points from my signature into the Corps, he earned some kind of award. My friends brought balloons, and flowers to school in congratulations of my success, and a boy that liked my bought a very expensive ring for me with a blue gem to signify the Marine Corps. The Sergeant Major of the Recruit Station in Sacramento sent a silver-plated harmonic in a leather case to Sgt Vargas to deliver to me. It was engraved in the Marine Corps emblems and writing. My parents took my out for a congratulatory dinner at Red Lobster, which was considered a luxury for my family.
I had never been prouder of myself, and felt so optimistic about life. By my senior year of high school, my recruiter moved to the main area recruiting office a half hour away and a new recruiter was moved to our small town’s office. His name was Sgt. Medina. Because I struggled with the 1.5 mile run, Sgt Medina often met me to work on improving it. I was secretly terrified of boot camp for this reason. I wasn’t afraid of the yelling and drill instructors. I was afraid of failing the fitness tests.
I was also informed that one of my classmates was also set to boot camp at the same time as I. Her name was Layla. I knew Layla from our high school band. She only played for our freshman year, then quit. However, we remained friends throughout high school, but weren’t particularly close. So, Layla and I were set to leave boot camp on the Buddy program. Layla stood less than five foot tall, but she was the only female on our high school wrestling team, earned a black belt in martial arts, and performed quite well at the rare Marine Corps meets she participated in. She was over her weight, but I still found her impressive in regards to her physical abilities. After we learned we were going to boot camp together, we became a bit closer and spent more time together. One day at a monthly fitness meeting held by the recruiting office, she told me of the past recruiter (before Sgt Vargas) and how she had a crush on him. She mentioned they had kissed, and her method of explaining it gave me the impression she was quite innocent. She seemed to regarding kissing as a big deal.
Two weeks after graduation, Layla and I were sent to the processing center in Sacramento to ship out for boot camp the following day. The military arranged a nice hotel with complimentary meals for the night. Because we were assigned roommates, she had warned me that a boy she was interested in was also driving down for the evening. I remember standing outside in the catwalks of the hotel talking with other military-personnel-to-be. Somehow the topic of virginity came up, and I looked over at Layla in the orange light of the walkways. I remembered Layla telling me she was a virgin, and didn’t want to go to boot camp a virgin. “All the other girls will be talking about it. I wont be able to.” She told me once. I told her it was really no big deal, and there were probably others that were virgins too. So, standing in that odd colored light, I knew this was what she was thinking about.
After we left the group, she told me she might have sex with Ben, the guy coming over later. She didn’t want to be a virgin at boot camp. That night, he came over. Layla told me the next morning she didn’t sleep with him. I didn’t realize how this vague memory of her virginity would serve in the future.
I graduated in 2003 from a small town in Northern California. My grade point average was horrible, and many of my friends either didn’t graduate, or they earned GED’s from local alternative schools for troubled kids. However, I was constantly busy. I was a DJ and Program Manager for the high school radio station, and for two years I was the band drum major. I also participated for the school’s Interact Club for awhile. Although their personalities and ambitions couldn’t have been further from my own, I seemed to gravitate towards these types of personalities for many years. However, my best friend was different, although over dramatic. Her name was Lara. I have not spoken with most of those friends in years, although I do not regard them as bad people. I knew my parents had little money to pay for my college, and I especially understood any of their money would be highly conditional. My choice of studies, colleges, and the related would be strictly decided by my mother. My future seemed to have no direction or plan, despite my desires to become a lawyer. My only strength seemed to be music. I was a talented clarinet player. So, I began researching music scholarships late in my junior year, and entered my name into an online database for music scholarships. Days later, I was contacted by the Army, who was interested in having me audition for the Army band. Although I had no interest in the military, I had no better plan. After speaking with an Army recruiter who made promises of advanced promotions and enlistment bonuses, I decided to talk to the Marine Corps recruiter as well. Who has ever heard of the Army band? Everyone knows the Marine Corps band, I thought. After speaking with both branches, they offered me more and more, until the Marine Corps offered me a $50,000 scholarship. As I was told, this was the most any of the branches could offer. I chose to audition with the Marine Corps.
After barely passing the audition, I began the enrollment process into the Marine Corps. I was surprised at the positive reaction I was met with upon the results of my audition. The Marine Corps recruiter, Sgt Vargas, explained I was the first person on the west coast to pass the audition for clarinet or flute in more than a decade. My recruiter earned so many points from my signature into the Corps, he earned some kind of award. My friends brought balloons, and flowers to school in congratulations of my success, and a boy that liked my bought a very expensive ring for me with a blue gem to signify the Marine Corps. The Sergeant Major of the Recruit Station in Sacramento sent a silver-plated harmonic in a leather case to Sgt Vargas to deliver to me. It was engraved in the Marine Corps emblems and writing. My parents took my out for a congratulatory dinner at Red Lobster, which was considered a luxury for my family.
I had never been prouder of myself, and felt so optimistic about life. By my senior year of high school, my recruiter moved to the main area recruiting office a half hour away and a new recruiter was moved to our small town’s office. His name was Sgt. Medina. Because I struggled with the 1.5 mile run, Sgt Medina often met me to work on improving it. I was secretly terrified of boot camp for this reason. I wasn’t afraid of the yelling and drill instructors. I was afraid of failing the fitness tests.
I was also informed that one of my classmates was also set to boot camp at the same time as I. Her name was Layla. I knew Layla from our high school band. She only played for our freshman year, then quit. However, we remained friends throughout high school, but weren’t particularly close. So, Layla and I were set to leave boot camp on the Buddy program. Layla stood less than five foot tall, but she was the only female on our high school wrestling team, earned a black belt in martial arts, and performed quite well at the rare Marine Corps meets she participated in. She was over her weight, but I still found her impressive in regards to her physical abilities. After we learned we were going to boot camp together, we became a bit closer and spent more time together. One day at a monthly fitness meeting held by the recruiting office, she told me of the past recruiter (before Sgt Vargas) and how she had a crush on him. She mentioned they had kissed, and her method of explaining it gave me the impression she was quite innocent. She seemed to regarding kissing as a big deal.
Two weeks after graduation, Layla and I were sent to the processing center in Sacramento to ship out for boot camp the following day. The military arranged a nice hotel with complimentary meals for the night. Because we were assigned roommates, she had warned me that a boy she was interested in was also driving down for the evening. I remember standing outside in the catwalks of the hotel talking with other military-personnel-to-be. Somehow the topic of virginity came up, and I looked over at Layla in the orange light of the walkways. I remembered Layla telling me she was a virgin, and didn’t want to go to boot camp a virgin. “All the other girls will be talking about it. I wont be able to.” She told me once. I told her it was really no big deal, and there were probably others that were virgins too. So, standing in that odd colored light, I knew this was what she was thinking about.
After we left the group, she told me she might have sex with Ben, the guy coming over later. She didn’t want to be a virgin at boot camp. That night, he came over. Layla told me the next morning she didn’t sleep with him. I didn’t realize how this vague memory of her virginity would serve in the future.
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