THERE WAS ONE more reason I enlisted in the Army. I wanted to prove a former boyfriend wrong. I had dated Douglas when I was eighteen. A real arrogant son-of-a-bitch who wanted to be a Marine, he told me, and liked to yell at me—as if yelling at me was good practice for his Marine duty. He’d yell at me about how I could never make it in the military because I could never handle people yelling at me. Anyway, Douglas and I had this very unhealthy relationship that involved a fair amount of violence. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I was pretty into Douglas for a while, and that was hard, because I hated how Douglas made me feel—which was weak and vulnerable. I hated that he acted like he knew something about me that I couldn’t contradict. Maybe he was right. Maybe I could never hack the military, how could I say for sure? As for the yelling, Douglas turned it into this twisted deal where I was supposed to like that he was cruel to me—as a way to prove to him I could handle it. I’m not proud I stuck with Douglas as long as I did, but lots of women stick in marriages far longer where worse stuff is happening. (And that sucks, too.)
Of course Douglas never became a Marine. For all I know he’s drunk facedown in some gutter somewhere.
Eventually I got out of town. I returned to college in Bowling Green, and I got away from Douglas in the process. Leaving town has tended to be my way of ending relationships that I otherwise had no idea how to end.
So, five years later, I thought of Douglas when I enlisted. And even later still, during basic training, when I wanted so badly to quit, I thought of him yelling at me. Taunting me how I could never make it in the military. And I’d think: Fuck you, Douglas. And I kept at it—to prove him wrong.
After I lost my job, no one could console me. I just felt shitty all the time. As if someone had torched my house and the arsonist had gotten the insurance money.
In January 2000, in what was still Bill Clinton’s America, I joined the Army Reserves to train as an interpreter. The thought that I might go to war was pretty distant.
The reservists I met were actually cool. I was impressed by how smart and well educated they were. Many had already done active duty, and they enjoyed what they did. They also talked up the benefits of enlistment—the cash bonus, the money for graduate school when I got out. It all sounded good to me.
Enlisting meant I would not be geographically stable, but I would be financially stable. This is certainly one big reason that there are so many low-income whites and minorities in the military. There are many reasons to join the Army. But without a doubt it’s a great way—leaving aside the whole prospect of getting maimed or killed—to better your career prospects.
I learned that if I enlisted I’d be gone for two years of training. Two years away from my house. Two years away from my life. It felt like a huge risk.
It appealed to me. It was a risk I was ready to imagine.
I enlisted in the late spring of 2000. I was twenty-three. The minimum contract at that time was two years active duty; six years was the maximum. Due to the extensive training for my MOS (military occupational specialty) as a linguist, my minimum enlistment option was four years. But four years meant no signing bonus. If I committed to five years active duty, however, I’d get fifteen thousand dollars cash for signing plus fifty thousand dollars for grad school. If I signed for six years, I’d get an additional five-thousand-dollar cash bonus. But I understood earning potential. If anyone imagined I’d settle for five thousand dollars for one more year of my life, they could kiss my ass. I signed for five years.
The ride to boot camp at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, was a fair sign of what was in store. Pouring down rain the entire way, cramped in this awful van with holes in the seats and holes in the floor. The windows leaked and the engine rattled.
Basic training. It was like going to the movies when the picture is totally out of focus. Or the projectionist left the image off-kilter, and the actors’ faces are all split in two. And you’re sitting there in the middle of a row toward the front. You’ve got your popcorn, your soft drink. You’re settled. And when the film rolls you think, No problem. Someone near the exit will get up and tell the kids at the concession stand to fix the goddamn picture. But no one moves. The audience sits there. Everyone just kind of adjusts to the situation. Like they squint or turn their heads a certain way. Deal with the fuzziness or that the actors’ foreheads are below their chins. Maybe the movie is supposed to be that way?
I understood that basic training was indoctrination. I understood the aim was to break us down and rebuild us into what the Army wanted. But I was not too amenable to the concept.
It was generally frowned upon to challenge our drill sergeants, but I remember in an Army Values class I could not keep quiet. The drill sergeant was complaining about American anti-war activists: “Those damned antiwar protesters don’t know anything. They don’t understand how wrong they are and how wrong it is that they do that. They shouldn’t be allowed to protest.” And so on.
So I responded: “The right of American people to say whatever they want is one reason I joined the military. It’s one reason I am willing to die for my country. Those protesters are exercising their ultimate responsibility as Americans by expressing their political opinion.”
The drill sergeant did not yell at me. I got the impression it caused him to think—if only for a moment or two.
Mainly I found the drill sergeants to be okay. They respected me as a slightly older, more mature soldier-in-training. A lot of the other new recruits had never lived away from home, had never paid a bill on their own.
On the other hand some of the drills themselves were ridiculous. Take bayonet training.
Drill sergeant: “What is the spirit of the bayonet?”
Us: “To kill! To kill! To kill without mercy, Drill Sergeant!”
“What makes the green grass grow?”
“Blood! Blood! Bright red blood, Drill Sergeant!”
We all screamed “Kill!” in unison and stabbed at tires stuck to four-by-fours.
There were other memorable moments. Like learning to throw a live hand grenade. Or the drill sergeant who explained his personal theory about guns and girls.
“Females do better on the firing range,” he bellowed at us one afternoon. “You know why? Because females know how to follow instructions. Having never touched a weapon before, they have to pay attention. Like good soldiers should. As for you men? You could learn a thing or two by watching the females learn.”
I neglected to tell him I already knew how to shoot. At Fort Jackson I fired a weapon again for the first time in more than ten years. I was surprised; it felt good. Empowering. I liked having a weapon in my hands again.
I felt like a freak until I realized that so many of us were freaks in one sense or another. I found people at boot camp who appreciated the same alternative music I did, and felt the same cynicism I did about fitting the Army mold. The guys in particular were basically good guys, though they gave us females endless shit for the differential female standards on PT tests: Girls get off easy…. Girls can’t hack it.
They had a point. Females got twenty minutes to run two miles compared to fifteen minutes for males. Push-ups: We needed a much lower minimum to qualify; the guys had to do more than twice as many. But guys couldn’t bitch if we passed the male tests. That was my response. I was eventually able to surpass the male minimum standard for push-ups for my age group. I also worked hard to get my run to where I’d meet the male standards. Other girls didn’t give a shit. They’d argue that our body types were different, that females tended to have strong abs, but we didn’t usually have the same innate upper-body strength as most guys. And some guys understood that.
It’s poetic justice that of the two people who didn’t make it through Basic, one was male and one female. The girl collapsed quietly; the guy lunged for a drill sergeant’s throat and had to be dragged away kicking and screaming by Military Police.
There was tremendous variety among the women in my company. I especially admired some of the older women. One African American was thirty-two and a nurse. She was tough, and the younger black women turned to her for guidance. Another woman was thirty-four, with six kids. Six kids—can you believe it? I have no idea why she enlisted. Allergic to the regulation black socks we wore, her feet got so horribly raw and bloody they had to send her to the hospital for a couple of days. But when she returned she finished the final ruck march. She made it through.
The younger girls were more of a pain. One cried and cried, claiming her recruiter said she’d never have to handle or fire a weapon in the Army because she was a female. Said she’d been horribly misled. Was anyone really this dumb? Had she honestly thought the Army would not make her learn to shoot?
Other girls fixated on appearances. They polished and polished their boots until they motherfucking shone. You could see your reflection in them. I never was that kind of soldier. When it came to appearances, I was going to meet—not exceed—the standard. If a sergeant told me to spit-shine my boots, I did it. But I never did it just to do it. Who gave a shit?
I did not see girls bond at boot camp. Sharing a shower head with another girl was no big deal. We got used to it. But require us to share three washers and dryers for nine weeks? “Who’s the owner of this skanky thing?” Girls cut in front of one another all the time. Forced into close quarters, we just got catty. Very catty. I really hated living with females.
“I miss my mom.” How many times did I hear this from some newly enlisted teenager? Not me. What I missed: Rick’s arms around me. My strong and sexy man, so smart and tender. So mine. My dogs: Karma’s waggy butt, Kinski’s soft fur. Pizza and ice cream. Thai food and beer. Wine. Omelets. Popcorn. Television. Cigarettes. Making love. Being naked. Taking walks. Going to the park. Watching movies. Being alone. Going shopping. Taking a hot bath. Driving my car. Swimming. Cooking. Sleeping late. Calling friends. Air-conditioning. Normal clothes. Privacy.
But I discovered at Fort Jackson I could do things I never knew I could do. Endurance, stamina, willpower. You name it. I found I was strong beyond all my prior understanding. I learned what I could do, because I had to do it.
I also learned to follow the Army’s rules, whether I liked them or not.
“What are those streaks in your hair, Private?” A female superior confronted me.
“My hair, Drill Sergeant?”
“Your hair, soldier. What are those highlights doing in there?”
“It’s the sunshine, Drill Sergeant. It’s put streaks in. I used to dye my hair cherry red, but this is my natural color.”
She peered to get a closer look.
“Faddish highlights are not allowed in the Army, soldier. Get rid of them. Dye your hair a uniform shade.”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
I dyed my hair dishwater blond that night.
I moved to the Defense Language Institute in September 2000. Only then did I learn that my score on the DLAB (Defense Language Aptitude Battery) qualified me for a Cat IV language, the more-difficult-language category. As Rick predicted, the Cat IV language selected for me was Arabic. I began my sixty-three-week course and, due to a few additional weeks of break built into the schedule, I ended up living in Monterey, California, until February 2002.
DLI was like a college campus for soldiers. A surprising number were Mormons. Apparently Mormons frequently did missionary work overseas, for which they were required to go through a language-immersion course. A clean-cut crowd that avoided cigarettes, coffee, and alcohol. Not like the rest of us.
Aside from the thirty hours of language class each week, and PT and other training, we had a lot of freedom. For instance, we could drink in our rooms after an initial period when it was forbidden. As a joint-service environment we were also a diverse bunch. There was even one arrogant jerk with a master’s in philosophy from Dartmouth.
I’d always been good at school, and DLI was no different. I got good grades and made dean’s list each semester. So when I needed to find a way to pay my bills, I was granted permission to get a job outside. I found part-time work at the Borders bookstore in town. I also volunteered for a Big Brothers/Big Sisters program and hung around with a ten-year-old named Ellen. Took her horseback riding. Brought her to the gym with me when I worked out.
I also made a close friend at DLI, although it took awhile. Zoe remembers the first time she saw me. She didn’t like me very much. It was a Sunday night meeting arranged by the floor sergeant in charge of cleaning the barracks. The floor sergeant’s job was to announce the cleaning duties for the week and ensure they were done on time and to standard; we didn’t have a janitorial staff. We were our own janitors.
That weekend I’d been permitted to go off post for the first time. When you initially arrived at DLI, you were placed on restriction. This meant you wore your uniform all the time and you never left the installation. But as soon as I got my first day pass, I checked myself into a day spa for a massage and a facial. I had recently completed boot camp, and my body felt completely beat up.
Right before the floor meeting, where we were supposed to talk about cleaning the bathrooms and sweeping, mopping, and vacuuming the floors, I said: “Hey, I went to the spa today. It was so great. They totally pamper you.”
Zoe was appalled. She told me later that she’d thought: Who does that bitch think she is? What a snob! Who does that? Who goes to a fucking day spa? And she could not believe I was wearing an ugly green cardigan. (Of course, years later Zoe is a completely different person. Now Zoe loves going to the spa.)
The first time I remember her, we were at a party in somebody’s apartment. A girl with curly red hair. Tattoos. An expressive face, an expressive voice. I was sitting on top of a dryer in the kitchen. (In military housing in Monterey the washers and dryers were always in the kitchen.) We got to talking. I was getting wasted, so I have no memory of what we discussed. Probably music and men. That’s a good guess.
It’s unusual for me to pursue a friendship with another woman, but I really liked Zoe. We’d run into each other and talk. Then we started to go to the farmers’ market together. We’d buy ourselves flowers and fresh fruit. There was an Indian place in Monterey that sold Indian burritos. (What’s a burrito when it’s not a burrito? A nan burrito.) We’d have nan burritos together—and talk. I soon came to feel, though not always in the details, that Zoe was like a younger version of myself.
Beautiful and amazing Zoe. Crazy and wild. Small tits. Great ass. Later guys would joke that the two of us put together would make the perfect girl. My rack, Zoe’s ass.
She’d joined the Army when she was seventeen. She’d gotten out of high school and didn’t want to go to college right away. She didn’t see any way to support herself. She knew the military was there. She knew she could get paid to learn another language. So she picked the same job her mom had in the Air Force, only her mom had been a Russian linguist, while Zoe ended up an Arabic linguist.
In my experience people who have family members in the military are more likely to join the military. It just seems normal. In Zoe’s case she saw the benefits of a military life. She’d lived in Japan, Germany, England, and Texas. Her mom retired as a master sergeant after twenty years in the Air Force and then went to law school. Her mom did very well for herself. In the military she was able to raise a kid on her own.
Zoe’s folks divorced when she was still a baby. Her dad was not around when she was growing up. Like lots of girls with absent fathers, she’s had a tough time forming decent relationships with men. Or trusting men. Or even knowing how to deal with men. Like me, she’s been hurt. And like me, she’s had difficulties maintaining female friendships. She tended to assume that every relationship would get yanked away from her. So if you wanted to stay friends with Zoe, you had to keep after her.
Zoe also wanted to party a little more than I did at DLI. She was still at that stage where she wanted to go out to bars, get drunk, and meet random men. When I was at DLI, that was not something I did too often.
I watched Zoe grow up in the military. When we met at DLI, for example, she wanted to have a baby. Right away.
“Why shouldn’t I get pregnant and have a child? Why not have a baby to love and take care of?”
I was adamantly opposed. “No single motherhood when you’re eighteen! Not a good idea.”
“But my momma raised me by herself in the Air Force, and that worked out well.”
She moved away from that position gradually.
So Zoe and I became great friends. And she was the only person who attended my wedding, besides my husband’s parents. At the time she was really my only friend.
As the wedding approached, she was supportive.
“You sure you want to do this? Okay, if you want to do this, I’m there for you.”
Maybe it was because of Rick that I couldn’t quite imagine myself with an Army guy. Or maybe because the DLI guy I had been dating was so damned competitive with me. In any case, I ended up marrying the anti-Army.
It was at Borders that I’d met my husband. He was my manager. A sweet and sensitive civilian who began to urge me to end my Army life. (Especially after we were married and we saw Black Hawk Down: I had been assigned to an air assault division, and when he saw the helicopter crash in the movie my husband freaked over what might happen to me in a combat zone. I was freaked because the movie made him cry—in public. There were people I knew in the audience. It made him look like a big pussy.)
A few months later the marriage ended. Zoe remained just as supportive.
“You’re way too good for Mark, anyway. He’s short. He’s bald. Trust me. You’ll do better.”
Would I? I was confused. Not so confident.
Zoe graduated from DLI a few months before I did and left for her advanced individual training at Goodfellow Air Force Base in San Angelo, Texas. She then left Texas the week after I got there. We both knew we were going to Fort Campbell, and we agreed that when I arrived at Campbell we’d find a place and move in together.