So, I went back home and my dad and I went to the local recruiter for the Navy (closed for an event), Air Force (closed for an extended meeting/lunch or their quarterly PT run 1000ft to the Hardee's for breakfast) but the Army was open so we walked in. First thing out of my recruiter's mouth was "This is not the Private Benjamin Army, young lady!"
Ok, Exit. Stage Right. "My hair will poof." was the only thought going through my mind as the Army stations me in some remote jungle with nothing to get me home except a clean pair of socks and an outdated training manual.
I looked around at my life and didn't like the frustration of the coming years living in a town that, at the time, had nothing going for it except a gigantic grocery store called Food World, working at Wally World wasn't super back then and making the quarterly trip to the only Chinese restaurant 20 miles away. Living in Huntsville wasn't an option because I hated Huntsville with every fiber of my soul. My uncles lived in / around Huntsville.
I still wasn't sure about this whole Army thing but I did it anyway and when Mama found out, she cursed Dad and threw pots and pans in the kitchen, swearing I was a boy or gay or both. She didn't like it one bit but I'm thinking she would have been ok with the Air Force - just not the Army. It was too masculine and, deep in her heart, the secret fear was I would be shipped to a combat zone because the Vietnam had only over about 7 or 8 years prior. She and my Uncle Lewis sewed military boots at Genesco for many years during the war which is why even the slightest hint of rubber cement takes me straight back to "the day" and a time when the slightest spark of conflict from any source sent our government into tailspins. I reminded her that President Reagan hadn't approved of women in combat yet and the Wall was still up so there was a pretty good chance I'd be stationed at a support unit.
So I got on the cattle truck and said goodbye to my wasted future in Po-Dunk.
First week of basic training was beyond TV-Land for this here Couch-o Tate-o. I had arrived in a Hell that would make most Pentecostal preachers shake their Bibles with the pure joy because preachers like to win and they like to gloat.
Run those aisles and jump those pews! THAT GIRL IS IN THE ARMY!! She'll be right as rain and come back to the fold after her tour because the Army will drive fear into her heart and show her that a woman's place is in the home! Hallah-louie! (I'm from the South - they say it this way where I'm from).
First week in Basic Training, I was ready to go home. Just get me outta here - I've had enough. I'm not ready. I'm not prepared. I'm not about any of this.
Second week in Basic Training, I no longer wondered what Hell was like. I had arrived.
Third week in Basic Training, I was an ink drop away from signing myself back over to the civilian life. Then, at that critical moment, I thought about several things:
- nothing waiting on me back home except working in a chicken plant the rest of my life.
- no chance at going to college - I'm a welfare kid - no need to say more than that.
- no car. Parents can't afford to keep letting me borrow theirs.
- no future except to marry a chicken farmer or no-ambition country boy who still chases skirts.
- all dreams will be nothing more than that.
It was then that I made a call to my mom. I have never forgotten the words she told me that day in that very brief conversation and to say I was surprised was like serving hot dogs at a World Summit For Peace Talks:
"You are a part of me and I have never been, nor will I ever be, a quitter. I should have gone in the military myself when I was your age because I could beat that training with one hand tied behind my back. I don't raise quitters. Never have. Never will. You get back in there and do what you came to do and never forget I am very proud of you. You can do this."
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