After Mother gave birth to her second child with Herman, she began farming out the rest of us to anyone who’d have us. It appeared to me that she only wanted to live with her new family of four, and that the eight kids she had with my father weren’t worthy. Mother would lie to acquaintances and people she met at church, spinning stories of how she was a working single mother of eight. Of course these good-hearted souls took pity on her. So, in twos and threes, we would show up at strangers’ homes with our black Hefty trash bags packed full. My siblings had been well acquainted with this type of couch surfing years before Mother would allow me to leave her grip. We’d leave for days or weeks, only to end up back on Mother’s doorstep. Mother typically didn’t provide any food or money for our care, which made for resentful Good Samaritans.
Shortly after I turned fourteen, Mother sent me, Carolina, and Jemma to live with the Violets, a young family in Ponte Vedra. The three of us were dropped off in the usual way—at the doorstep with our trash bags. Mrs. Violet opened the door and greeted us with a cheery tone.
“Come in, come in. Let me show you to your room.” Her tight-lipped smile was forced, but as she grabbed Carolina’s bag, I got a generally safe feeling from her. We filed in, one after the other, following her to our new room. Eyes open. Mouths shut. “Here we are. You can put your things in here. I’ll show you around. Mr. Violet isn’t home yet from work, and my children are still at school. You’ll meet them later this evening.”
We stood in front of the bunk beds like statues, staring at Mrs. Violet. She was a heavyset woman with a full figure, long dark hair, crimson lips, and square-frame glasses. She reminded me of my Italian aunts. She didn’t have a loud voice, but everything else about her indicated that she was not to be ignored. Meeting her husband and children was terrifying for us because we didn’t know what to expect.
Mrs. Violet had one boy who was a year younger than me, and two girls who were the same ages as my sisters. When Mr. Violet came home, his wife introduced us, and he shook our hands. He was tall and stocky, and he didn’t say much. Being together in their living room felt awkward at first, but after a few weeks, we settled into a routine. We had food at every meal, enjoyed a well-kept house, and had two adults who seemed like they genuinely cared about us. Mrs. Violet was a God-fearing woman. She took us to church with her every week and gave each of us a Bible. I started reading mine right away even though I never understood anything it said.
After Mother pulled me out of school in seventh grade, I hadn’t gone back and by the time we were with the Violets, it was nearly two years later. I only knew it was summer break because my sisters told me. But that summer, we were included in everything the Violets did. It was nice to be around a normal family.
One evening, Mrs. Violet came into our room and told me she was sending me to summer camp. Summer camp? I was shocked. I get to go to camp?
I sat straight up and closed my Bible. I stammered out a million questions. “Did you ask Mother if I could go? What is it for? When do I get to go? Can I really go? What will it be like?” She told me I would start high school after the summer break, and she wanted to help me get acclimated.
High school? Acclimated? That sounds painful. What does that even mean?
She then explained the meaning of acclimated. She assured me it was for my good. As she closed the door behind her, I lay back down in my bed and dreamed of what summer camp would be like.
Would I meet any nice girls like Rachel or Christina? Would I know what to do? What if they ask me to read something? What will I wear?
The next day, Mrs. Violet dropped me off at Allen D. Nease High School. A man wearing a crisp tan uniform covered in several awards walked over to us. Mrs. Violet signed me in and returned the clipboard to him. He held the clipboard in one hand, and his pen scribbled away as he balanced a coffee mug. He looked up, staring right at me. I was frozen. I silently pleaded for some direction.
“What are you still doing here? Get to the quarterdeck!” he scolded me impatiently.
I ran away as I yelled, “Yes, sir!” As I feverishly looked for the quarterdeck, I decided to ask anyone I could find to point me in the right direction. Running frantically around campus, rounding the corner of the locker room doors, I caught a glimpse through the breezeway of a giant concrete slab next to the gymnasium doors. A group of kids held themselves up in the push-up position. They moaned and groaned as if they were wounded animals, their sweat dripping onto the ground, men in uniforms hovering over them and yelling words in a foreign language.
Holy. Lord. Jesus. What is this?
As soon as I exited the breezeway, three men in uniforms made a beeline toward me. I had absolutely no idea what to do or what was going on.
All I knew was that I had found the quarterdeck.
And I also found that my summer camp was the Navy Junior Reserve Officers Training Corps (NJROTC) summer camp. While those first hours were terrifying, by the end of the day, it was the best time of my life. I was in love with all of it just from experiencing that pre-boot camp. I wanted to learn and be everything military.
I found out that the man with the clipboard whom I met upon arrival was named Master Chief Russ McFarland. He was a salty, gritty, no-nonsense sailor. Over time, he became like a father to me. His right-hand man was First Sergeant Daniel Calhoun. He was as intimidating as Master Chief, and I had immediate respect. I wanted to be just like him someday.
First Sergeant was a decorated Marine, and he taught our history classes, as well as what is known as “getting smoked.” (This means endless pushups. Painful doesn’t adequately describe how I felt during a hardy session with this war veteran!)
Mrs. Violet changed the course of my life when she signed me up for the Nease NJROTC summer boot camp in 2002. I never knew exactly why Mrs. Violet chose to send me there, but I suspect she thought I needed discipline and order. And who knows what terrible things Mother told her about me. But I’m forever grateful for the experience, and I know it saved me from all kinds of unimaginable horrors. I was a young girl with no proper guidance or protection, but I found both of those at NJROTC. I credit this program, as well as Master Chief, First Sergeant, and several other ROTC instructors for shaping me into the woman I am today.
Miraculously, I was able to make it to ninth grade even though I failed seventh and never went to eighth. After summer camp, I started my freshman year as a NJROTC Nease High School cadet. I was so proud to be a part of something so marvelous. I got involved in every activity I could. I was on the SEAL team, rifle team, drill ream, physical training (PT) team, sailing team, orienteering team, and color guard team—in addition to the cross-country and the track and field teams. My instructors took notice as I excelled in every area outside the classroom. Athleticism came naturally to me. It was something I never had the chance to tap into before.
I finally found something I was good at. Something that allowed me the opportunity to recognize my abilities.
Life with the NJROTC was a stark change from being under the thumb of Mother and Herman every waking moment. I still carried the wounds from the past few years, but they didn’t seem to hurt as much. Instead of wishing and dreaming, I was busy working out with my teammates and studying the great Marine Corps lieutenant general Chesty Puller and Winston Churchill, my favorite military leader. My reading ability, although not on par with my peers, drastically improved during my first semester of high school. For not being in a classroom for years, I hardly skipped a beat.
Mrs. Violet’s house was in Nease’s district, so my bus came right to our street to pick me up. On the day when I had early morning practice, the new friends I made picked me up promptly at 5:30. After-school drill practice went until 6 p.m., and the late activities bus picked me up and dropped me off at my street again.
It was heaven.
I never once wondered how I would get to and from school practices. I was in complete bliss for the first semester of my high school career. I wore my uniform as many times a week as I could, polished my shoes every day, and learned every historical fact about the United States Navy and Marine Corps. I lived and breathed ROTC.
Master Chief often made time to tell me one-liners that, in the moment, seemed out of place. “It’s okay to be wrong; it’s not okay to be stupid.” Or “Shut up and feed ’em hot dogs.” Most of his one-liners didn’t make any sense to me when he said them, but I’d reflect on them later. Although to this day I have no idea what the hot dog one is all about!
During cross-country practice, Master Chief and First Sergeant were our coaches. One day, Master Chief shouted, “Rugrat, get over here!”
Rounding the corner of the track, out of breath, I stopped just shy of running into him. I bent over, holding myself up with my hands on my knees. I lifted my gaze to his, sweat pouring off my forehead, gasping for air.
“Yes, Master Chief?”
“Lead, follow, or get out of the way,” he said, his voice calm and certain. He lifted his coffee mug and took a sip, letting me know he had said all he wanted to say.
I replied, “Aye, aye, Master Chief.” Without any idea of what he meant, I continued with my workout.
First Sergeant was exactly the same. He always gave me extra work or extra PT and never shied away from using me as the gold star example. Since it came from a man like him, I couldn’t have been prouder to be recognized like that. He wore his uniform like he had just gotten off the battlefield. There was never a seam out of alignment. He was rugged, weathered, and terrifying . . . in a way that made me reach for my best.
I remember the day I wished First Sergeant was my dad. A bunch of cadets were out on the bulkhead, just in front of the classroom doors. True to my tomboy self, I was snorting snot from my nose to see how far I could get it to fly. I was surrounded by my peers, who were placing bets on my shining achievement. First Sergeant swiftly appeared—much to our dismay.
“Rugrat, what are you all doing out here on the bulkhead?” his voice echoed as we froze at attention. Unable to lie to this man, I summoned courage from deep within.
“We’re having a spitting contest. And I’m in the lead, First Sergeant!” I sounded off as loudly as I could. Unsure of his reaction, my heart raced.
“At ease,” First Sergeant said. The cadets looked at each other in confusion. “Let me show you how it’s done.”
He walked over, coughed up a huge loogie, and hawked it so far that it went into the tree line in front us. We all cheered like he’d just won the Super Bowl. We continued the contest, and at the end, it was me against him. The gaggle of us laughed and hollered as we all spat into the air. He won the contest—and also the award for coolest instructor.
It was the last day of school before the holiday break, and I was excited because we hadn’t had a real Christmas in what seemed like years. I was never allowed to celebrate holidays or birthdays like my siblings, so I couldn’t wait to get home that day to our new family. I got off the bus and began my half-mile walk down the street to the Violets’ house. From a distance, I saw my two little sisters standing on the lawn. As I got closer, I could see the black trash bags sitting in the driveway.
I was crushed.
The Violets had packed up our things that day and waited for me to get home so they could drive us to Mother. I could only assume they were taking us back because the expense of three additional kids was too big of a burden. I believe that Mother had never sent money for groceries or living expenses (or if she did, it was far too little), and I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Violet had to prioritize caring for their own children.
We hadn’t seen Mother in months, but I was devastated to leave. I knew my life was over. Mother would never allow me to participate in ROTC. My two little sisters were crying as I walked up. I didn’t cry—I just grabbed their hands. As we piled into the black Suburban, I prayed, “Lord, please help my baby sisters, and please let Mother let me go to Nease. Please help us, Lord.” As we drove away from the only home that hadn’t abused us, I felt hollowness begin to consume me once again.
As for God, his way is perfect:
the LORD’S word is flawless;
he shields all who take refuge in him.
Psalm 18:30