I understood his sentiments. The thought of signing up for military service in post-Vietnam America evoked images of dope-smoking teenagers wandering the jungle. The “praise the Lord and pass the ammunition” days of World War II just didn’t seem realistic in 1989. I thought of military enlistment as custom-made for boneheads not bright enough to further their education, or talented enough to do anything else.
If that was the case, then I fit the mold at 19. I barely graduated from high school with an abysmal 1.8 GPA; my most formidable accomplishment was holding the senior-year record for skipping classes. After high school, I drove a patio-furniture delivery van. I had “quit” my other job as a cashier after being accused of fingering money from the register (truthfully, I just couldn’t add or subtract). I could usually be found speeding through a retirement community en route to dropping off a chaise longue, giving old people in golf carts the bird when they yelled at me to slow down. Customer complaints were many, and if it weren’t for a lack of available delivery boys, I would have been canned. I was the quintessential Gen-Xer, a prime example of why the world was going to pot.
Faced with a life of delivering windproof side tables, I decided to give the military a shot. When I bid farewell at the patio store and turned in my van keys, the manager laughed. “You’ll be back,” he said. I walked out thinking he was probably right.
My parents were more relieved than saddened when I left for boot camp. Mom knew those daily confrontations with Dad would end, and the old man thought a military hitch might straighten me out.
Pops couldn’t have been more right. After naval boot camp, I was assigned as a “deck ape” on a destroyer, my days filled with backbreaking hours of sanding and painting in a never-ending battle to preserve the ship’s exterior. I learned the value of an honest day’s work, but soon began looking for a way out of a dull, weary routine. I found it that first Christmas home, when I spent my stocking money on remedial math and reading texts. I returned to the ship with a backpack full of scholarly spoils, and the tiny bulb over my rack burned every night for almost a year. My hard work paid off when I landed a position standing navigation watch.
As he showed me how to plot our destroyer’s course, my new supervisor said something that made a lasting impression. “If you don’t do your job right, don’t pay attention, people could die.” Lives were at stake and someone was trusting me to make good decisions. I was honored. What an odd yet wonderful feeling that was.
More important, a fire had ignited inside me. I now rose to challenges instead of avoiding them, and loved the sense of self-worth I felt at a job well done. I grabbed at every opportunity thrown my way. I won’t soon forget the time I maneuvered the ship’s wheel on a course through the Panama Canal, or rescued a trapped dolphin in the Persian Gulf.
While life at sea had many invigorating moments, it could also be very lonely. To fill in those empty hours of solitude, crew members talked with one another, and we often knew everything about the men we lived and labored with. I learned that a person’s skin color, or where he came from, wasn’t a very good indicator of his character. I also realized that my preconceived notion of a military consisting of losers was completely unfounded. I knew one sailor, for instance, who could have supported his wife and baby more easily by flipping burgers at McDonald’s. He joined the Navy because he cherished his country’s freedom and wanted to give his time and energy in return.
Despite a worthwhile four years, I decided not to re-enlist and to give college a try. I diligently pursued a B.S. degree, and graduated with honors and hopes of attending medical school.
Yet something was missing. I recalled the pride I had felt in my uniform, a symbol of something greater than myself. I applied to the United States’ only military school of medicine and started classes last fall.
Going home these days is a bit like winding back the clock 10 years–old friends look bewildered when I mention that I’ve rejoined the service. Don’t think I’m offended; I belong to an organization that defends the right of Americans to have their own opinions.
Although I’ve put the past behind me, I often wonder what that manager would say if I dropped by the patio store. But then he’d be right; I would be back–but only to buy a ceramic yard frog.
