Ever since I was four years old, I felt fear whenever I saw anyone wearing a green uniform. From the time my family and I crossed the United States-Mexican border, crawling underneath the barbed-wire fence that separated the two countries, our father warned us that we had to hide from la migra, the border patrol guards dressed in green uniforms. "If they catch you, you'll be deported back to Mexico," he said repeatedly. We managed to evade the green-uniformed men for ten years, but they ultimately caught and deported us when I was in the eighth grade. And even though we came back legally, I continued to feel apprehensive every time I saw a green uniform.
And now I had to wear one once a week during my entire freshman and sophomore years. I had no choice. Like many land-grant colleges, Santa Clara required all undergraduates to take the two-year basic military science program (Reserve Officers Training Corps). The one-and-a-half-unit courses consisted of two hours of lecture and one hour of drills. Every Tuesday morning we dressed in our army uniform and marched in Buck Shaw Stadium on the east side of the campus.
The night before, my classmates and I spent hours getting ready for our Tuesday-morning ritual.
"I know how much you like doing this," Smokey teased me, taking out his army uniform from the closet and gently laying it on his bed lengthwise. I ignored him and continued doing the reading for my Western civilization class. From the corner of my eye I saw him pressing his trousers with the palm of his hands, trying to get rid of the wire hanger crease marks. I put down my textbook.
"You can iron mine when you're finished with yours," I said.
"Deal. If you spit shine my shoes." We both laughed. I took out my uniform, hung it on the door knob, and brushed off the lint with my hands.
"It's easier and faster if you use Scotch tape," Smokey said. He took out a roll of tape from his desk drawer, cut off a strip, and, holding both ends, passed it over his uniform.
"You're a genius; you'll be promoted to general in no time.
"Just follow my orders," he said, "and I'll make you a good soldier yet."
"Yes, sir." I saluted him and clicked my heels. Smokey left to get a haircut from Ernie DeGasparis, my only classmate from Santa Maria High School. Ernie had set up shop in his room on the third floor of Kenna Hall and cut hair free of charge for his friends.
I continued getting ready to pass military inspection on Tuesday. Using an old sock and brass solution, I polished the clip belt buckle, the two small round insignias that were pinned to each side of the jacket lapel, and the insignia of the American eagle pinned to the front of the cap. To polish the black leather low quarter shoes, I spit on them and furiously rubbed them with a small cotton ball until they shined like glass. I had just finished polishing the second shoe when Smokey returned sporting a crewcut.
"Ernie is ready for you," he said. "It's time to get rid of your hair hat." Unlike my classmates, I had long hair with an elevated wave at the front, I hated getting it cut, but the choice was not mine. As cadets we were expected to conform to uniform grooming standards.
And we did. On Tuesday morning every freshman and sophomore male dressed alike and wore a black plastic nameplate on the right breast pocket flap. As we crossed the campus on our way to Buck Shaw Stadium, Santa Clara looked more like a military camp than a university. We reported to the field house, where each one of us was handed an M16 infantry rifle that was about twenty inches long and weighed about seven pounds. We were informed by Captain Glasson that during ROTC activities, cadre and cadets of senior rank were to be addressed by rank and name, and that in the chain of command each one of us would be addressed as cadet and name. We were to use the term "sir" and salute when conversing with or replying to a cadet officer or officer The Making of a Soldier 51 of higher rank. These rules and discipline reminded me of my father, who demanded that we obey him at all times and not question his authority.
We were then grouped in platoons and lined up in rectangular formation. A senior-rank cadet went up and down inspecting each one of us, making sure we had everything in order: brass and shoes shined, crew haircut, and clean shave. If anything was out of compliance, we got demerits, which affected our grade. After inspection we jogged in place for one to two minutes, counting cadence, and carrying our M16 rifles as we marched, following orders: "Attention; left, march; left face; right face; count off; double time..." At times when I got confused and did a left face instead of a right face, I heard the senior cadet holier, "Fay attention, cadet!" "Yes, sir," I shouted back automatically, thinking how silly and what a waste of time these drills were.
In the afternoon, we attended lectures given by Captain Glasson or Colonel O'Brien on American military history and map reading, which I enjoyed because I liked learning about the past, but I still disliked wearing the army uniform and going to drill. Eventually, though, having to wear it stripped me of my dread of men dressed in green uniforms; more important, it pleased my father. When I gave him a picture of me in uniform a few months later, over Christmas break, he said, "I am proud of you, mijo. You can make something of yourself in the army when you're poor."