Authors: Amy Harmon
My bunkmate is a big white kid named Tyler Young. He’s from Texas but he talks like he thinks he’s black, which irritates the guys that actually are black. I kind of like him though. He’s good-natured and always smiling. He talks too much, but I think everyone talks too much. He asked me if I was Mexican. I just said no. Another guy in our platoon who is Hispanic piped up and asked me what I was. I told him I was a recruit. Sergeant Blood overheard and he seemed to like that answer, but the guys seem suspicious of me now, like I’m holding something
back. It’s not that I’m ashamed that I’m Navajo - I’m just really tired of that being what everything is always about. You won’t catch me talking about my ethnicity here - Navajo or White.
Staff Sgt. Blood says I am whispering when I should be yelling. He got right in my face and yelled “Why are you whispering Recruit?!!!” He said I must not have any heart. I don’t have to scream to have heart. I let my actions speak for themselves. No one will outfight me, no one will outrun me, and no one will outshoot me. I guarantee it- but I won’t be the loudest marine in the platoon, that’s for sure. So because I wasn’t loud enough, D.I Blood made me do twenty extra push-ups, one hundred extra crunches, and squat thrusts and mountain climbers until my legs were shaking-they call it quarter decking when one recruit is taken aside and made to do punishment exercises. The only other guys that have been “quarter decked” are the whiners and the guys that continually screw up or lag behind. I don’t
want that kind of attention.
I know this letter is long, but I needed to tell someone about this crazy place I’m in. I hope you are okay, playing the piano, writing more music. Schools out, so you’ve probably got more time to practice and read. They let me keep my dictionary and my dad’s bible. I decided I’m going to try and read it while I’m here, using the dictionary for all the words I don’t know...which is at least half. I’ve got one hour of ‘free’ time every day. No music allowed, so I will just have to keep Rachmaninoff in my head.
I hope you write,
Samuel
Dear Samuel,
I was so excited when I got your letter. I’d been checking at the post office every day - and when it finally came in I felt like crying.
So I did. You know me - a little emotional. I have to say I probably wouldn’t last a day at boot camp. I don’t do well with people screaming at me. Plus, I’m a major klutz. I’d be tripping over myself and everyone else the entire time. Yuck! It’s a good thing God blesses people with different talents. The world would be in trouble if I were a Marine.
I added a little ‘bridge’ section to your song. Maybe someday I can record it and send it to you. I don’t think you said whether or not they will let you listen to music eventually, so I’ll save it for when you graduate. I’ve been playing constantly since school got out. Sonja has been working with me on composing music - and actually writing it out on composition paper. Up to this point I’ve only read and played music, but never written it down. It feels like school, but I don’t mind. Sonja says I have the ability to make a living as a musician - perhaps play with an orchestra or a symphony, maybe tour Europe. Wouldn’t that be amazing? I don’t know how I would feel about leaving my Dad, though.
I was thinking about your comments on Samson when you had your hair shaved. I went back and read the story. I don’t think
Samson’s power was really in his hair. I’ve always thought what an idiot he was to trust Delilah with his secret. She’d proven herself completely untrustworthy. She had used everything he’d told her against him. After reading the story, it occurred to me that Samson didn’t trust her. He just didn’t believe that he would really lose his strength if he cut his hair. He believed the strength was his and that it hadn’t really been given to him from God with certain responsibilities and conditions, like his parent’s had taught him. He didn’t keep his promise to God. God said that his long hair would be a
symbol
of that promise. Not the
source
of his power. So when Samson revealed the symbol of his promise to Delilah, he rejected God and essentially cut himself off from the source of his power. So, to make a long explanation short and sweet - your individuality does not come from the way you wear your hair, Samuel. Your individual worth comes from keeping your promises and being a man of character. Easy for me to say, I know, here in my comfy room, listening to Mozart. But I think it’s true, all the same.
Do you remember that little part I read
you from Jane Eyre? Jane Eyre’s worth came from her sterling character. I guess none of us really knows what kind of character we truly have until we are really tested. I think you’ll find you have plenty of character in these next few weeks. I believe in you. Would it embarrass you to tell you that I really miss you? Because I do.
I’ll listen to enough music for both of us, and try to send it to you telepathically - wouldn’t that be cool, to be able to transmit our thoughts like radio waves? I think there has to be a way.
Be safe and be happy,
Josie
July 1, 1997
Dear Josie,
I got your latest letter last night during platoon mail call. I’ve read it slowly, in
sections, making it last. My Grandma Nettie keeps sending care packages full of stuff I can’t have. She communicates her love through food, rather then letters, although she sent a short one, so your letters are especially appreciated - thank you. Some of the guys pass around their letters, especially if they’re from girlfriends. Some of those girls have no class. The difference between you and them is mind boggling. They aren’t fit to lick your shoes. This big black kid from Los Angeles named Carlton Herbert was passing around some filthy thing and everybody was laughing. I didn’t want to read it and refused to take it when Tyler passed it to me. It made Carlton mad and he started saying “You too good white boy? Or do you just not like girls?” I told him I had no interest in touching his trash. I don’t think he likes me much, but the feeling is mutual.
Tyler jumped in, saying I wasn’t white - and the Hispanic kid, Mercado, said “Well we know he ain’t Hispanic.” They all stared at me. I just kept cleaning my weapon. Tyler jumped
in again and said ’He’s Green!” ‘Green’ is what the Marine’s call themselves. I used to think it would be nice if people were all one color - everybody the same. Not anymore - because then you wouldn’t be you. Your hair wouldn’t be all white and gold and your eyes wouldn’t be so blue. But here the goal is to make us the same . . . green. It’s strangely therapeutic after all these years of feeling so torn by my desire to know more about my father’s culture, and still be loyal to my mother’s. There’s a whole new culture here.
I should have known you would find a way to comfort me about my hair. Interesting take on the Samson story...did you come up with that yourself? Knowing you, yes. I found the story in the bible and read it yesterday during my free time. Samson was a serious warrior. I think you’re right about his strength not actually being in his hair. It’s probably a good lesson for most of us here. Samson was this unbelievably powerful guy, but he lost everything when he thought he could do it alone.
History is a big deal here at boot camp.
We’ve been in classes for hours on end. It’s interesting and it builds a sense of pride in me, like I’m part of something important. They’ve been drilling dates and battles into us - Inchon, Belleau Wood, Saipan (my grandfather fought at Saipan) Peleliu, Okinawa, Chosin, and more. Iwo Jima in World War II is kind of the pinnacle for the Marines.
We’re also learning about the Warriors, as the D.I.’s call them - Marine’s who did great things. I found out today that a Native American named Jim Crowe was a Marine. I recognized his name - he has an interesting story. We also have to memorize the fourteen leadership traits, which are things like integrity, knowledge, unselfishness, courage (I thought you’d like that - you’re kind of big on character) the eight principles of camouflage, the six battlefield disciplines, and on and on. They call this stuff ‘knowledge’ and we are tested on it - constantly.
There’s no time for debate or discussion, and I thought of you one day, as they were
drilling us on facts and traits. It almost made me laugh, (which wouldn’t have been good) knowing how much you would hate that. You love to analyze everything and discussion is important to you - you would hate just memorizing whatever they told you was important. Other than that, I think you’d make a great Marine. You said the world would be in trouble if you were a Marine. Don’t even think that. The physical stuff you could learn - although it might be a little harder for you. You’re unselfish and loyal and courageous - I can’t think of one of the traits that you don’t have. The world would be a much better place if there were more people like you.
We were introduced to the pugil sticks this week. Pugil sticks are basically a four foot stick with thick pads on each end. The recruits wear helmets and protective padding. We battled guys from platoons 4043 and 4045. They had us lined up along this boardwalk, and we fought one on one. The goal is to deliver a blow to the head or chest, both considered kill shots. The first guy
who lands two kill shots wins. When it was my turn, I went flying up the ramp yelling like my grandmother taught me to do when a coyote is trying to attack the sheep. I knocked the other guy off the platform with one big blow to the chest. D.I Meadows actually cheered. Sergeant Blood said “What was that, some kind of Indian War Cry?” He seemed to like it – at least he didn’t complain that I wasn’t loud enough. I think my opponent was more scared by my blood curdling scream than the actual blow to the chest. I’m starting to realize that’s the whole point with the constant yelling. Our troop got beat by troop 4043, so they get to carry the flag. I was a little disgusted with the turn-out. I’ve got to give it to Carlton. He may be a street thug, but he knows how to fight. He said the same to me when we were done, just not the street thug part. I almost liked him today. Some of these guys have never been in a single fist fight. I’ve been fighting my whole life - who knew it would give me an advantage at boot camp. Anyway, since we lost, we ended up doing extra drilling.
I knew it was coming, and I was dreading the pool. After a bunch of classes and instruction we put on our jackets, helmets, packs, and boots and had to jump in the pool in full gear. They told us how to stay afloat, but I could feel the panic setting in right away. My face went under the water, but if you lean back as far as you can against the pack and tilt your head up, your face will be just above the water. We had to kick back and forth the across the pool a few times. Then we had to jump off of the diving tower and swim 15 meters. It wasn’t too bad. I can just imagine how terrifying the whole experience would have been if I didn’t know how to swim. I wasn’t the fastest, but I didn’t draw any negative attention to myself, either. There actually were a couple guys that didn’t know how to swim at all - that would have been me if wasn’t for you.
I have a new nickname. A few of the guys have noticed that I am reading the bible on my free time. I am now ‘preacher.’ Not very fitting, if you ask me. Don’t preachers have to
stand up and teach people? I guess it could be worse. Some of the guys were talking about their favorite kind of music. Nobody said classical. I wasn’t surprised, and I didn’t volunteer my preference. Later on, I was talking to Tyler Young, and he asked me what I liked to listen to, so I told him about Beethoven. He asked me what songs I liked. I told him I especially liked Air on a G String - big mistake!! He thought I was talking about women’s underwear. He’s calling me ‘G’ now. I think I prefer Preacher. Tyler has a big mouth, especially when he thinks he’s going to get laughs, and before I knew it, he’d told everyone about Air on a G String. Now I’m ‘Preacher G.’
I’m actually enjoying being here. The whole point of boot-camp is to make you into somebody better. I like that idea. I’m four weeks in now, and I’m confident I’ll make it through. By the way, how is Yazzie? I miss you too.
Don’t change,
Samuel
I wrote Samuel several letters, trying to think of every possible thing he might be interested in. I told him how Yazzie chewed everything he could get his little teeth into, and how he made the chickens miserable. If he weren’t such a raggedy ball of cute fluff, my Dad might have made me get rid of him. I kept most of his escapades to myself, in order to protect him. He was almost house broken. He definitely made more work for me; I had to brush out his coat everyday so that he didn’t leave hair everywhere, but he was worth it. I smothered him with affection and was lavished with doggy love in return. He made my heart a little lighter.
Other than Yazzie, life was pretty uneventful, and I struggled for material to include in my correspondence. I couldn’t tell him that I had cried yesterday while I fed my chickens, thinking of how I was going to be gathering their stupid brown eggs for the next five years at least, while they clucked and pecked ungratefully around my legs. Meanwhile, Samuel would be off, fighting battles around the world, being a man, falling in love with WOMEN. I hated that I was almost fourteen, and that I was way too young for him. I was alone in my room too often, daydreaming about him coming back in the fall and riding the bus, sitting next to me in his Marine uniform, holding my hand and
listening to classical music from the Romance period.
I would feel even worse when I caught myself in these ridiculous fantasies, realizing how truly juvenile I was. I missed him horribly, and I had a terrible, terrible fear that I would never see him again. In my letters, I found myself saying these things, only to rip the letter up into tiny pieces and send the appropriate missive, chattering about music and telling him the interesting facts and stories Sonja always seemed to provide during our sessions together.