Running Barefoot

10. Obbligato



I couldn’t write to Samuel at first. He didn’t have an address yet. He had promised to write me and let me know as soon as he could. It was about two weeks after he left that his first letter arrived.

June 7, 1997

Dear Josie,

The first couple days here have been a blur. They loaded us on a bus, and it was pretty late around 1:00 in the morning. It was so dark we couldn’t see anything out the bus windows as we were taken to what they called receiving. When we pulled up, this guy in full uniform came on the bus and started shouting for us to get our ‘trash’ together and line up out on the yellow footprints that were on the pavement. It was kind of foggy and it was hard to even see where the footprints were. This guy is shouting “Any day!” the whole time. One guy started to cry, just like that. He got control of himself, but I think everyone felt a little sympathetic, except for the drill instructor who got right in his face and told him to ‘dry it up.’

We got a chance to make a 15 second call, and I called my mom. Nobody answered, and I don’t think I’ll call again. I wrote her to let her know I’m here and what my address is, but now it’s up to her. I don’t know if she’ll write or not. My grandmother would if she could - she doesn’t expect letters because she can’t read them and she can’t write back. She knows I will come see her when I get boot leave at the end of the 12 weeks.

We didn’t sleep at all the first night. After we made our calls we went to a room with desks in it and they started throwing information at us - like the floor isn’t the floor, it’s the ‘deck,’ and the door is a ‘hatch.’ A hat is called a cover and running shoes are called go-fasters. When I’m done here I’ll speak three languages, English, Navajo, and Marine. Then they gave us our platoon number and we had to write it on our left hand in black permanent marker. My platoon is 4044, 1st Battalion. After that they collected all of our ‘civilian’ clothes, all jewelry, all knives, personal items, cigarettes, any food, gum, all of it. One kid tried stuffing a candy bar in his mouth so he didn’t have to turn it over. The drill sergeant made him spit it out on top of his stuff.

We can’t use I, me, or my. We have to say ‘this recruit’ when we are referring to ourselves. Everybody keeps slipping. I am now Recruit Yates - no first name. The sergeant said the Marines is not about the individual, but the team. We should be all about our unit. We are now four zero four four. The number four is sacred among the Navajo - There are four sacred mountains that frame the Navajo lands. So I think the repeating four can only be good luck.

They immediately took us to get what they called ‘cranial amputations.’ The drill instructor made a big deal of it when it was my turn to get my hair cut. I easily had the longest hair of anyone there, and I knew it was going to get shaved off because my recruiter told me what to expect. They shave us almost completely bald. There’s just this stubble. I want to keep rubbing my head, but I don’t want to call attention to myself. I have a feeling the less attention I call to myself, the better off I’ll be. Anyway, it was still hard to see all that hair fall to the floor. It made me think about Samson in my dad’s bible. He lost all his power when they cut his hair.

Then we got our gear for the 13 weeks we are going to be here. We even got a little towel that has all the M-16 parts diagrammed on it, so that we will know where to place them when we clean our weapons. By this time it had to be after 4:00 in the morning, though I’m not sure because none of us are allowed to have watches. I hadn’t slept since I’d reported at dawn the day before, and I was feeling it. They took us into our barracks. The racks (that’s the term for the bunks here) had naked mattresses on them. The same guy that stuffed his Snickers in his mouth headed straight over to lie down. The drill sergeant was in his face telling him to ‘toe the line’-which means to line up next to the white line with your toes up to it. He taught us how to walk in formation and then we marched to the chow hall. We aren’t allowed to talk while we are in the mess hall, which is fine with me-except the drill instructor shouts the entire time. We have to hold our trays at a certain angle, heels together, thumbs on the outside. It’s so much to remember all the time, but you better believe some one will let you know right away if you’re doing something wrong. We had about ten minutes to eat before they were marching us back out of there.

We actually didn’t get to sleep until 8:00 that night. We learned to march, how to lift our feet, how to stand in line, that stuff. After that we were brought back to the barracks and we had to learn how to make our beds, Marine style. We were woken up in the middle of the night, to a drill instructor screaming, “toe the line, toe the line.” One guy stayed asleep through it all - and the drill instructor pulled his blanket off and screamed in his face until the kid literally rolled off onto the floor. Luckily, he was on a bottom bunk. Another kid laughed when he did, and the drill instructor turned on him saying “Give me an hour, and I promise you won’t be smiling, Recruit!” We get dressed one piece of clothing at a time-forcing us to follow orders exactly. When we are told to hydrate we have to drink our whole canteen of water and turn it over above our heads to prove it’s gone.

One high point. I got a perfect 300 on the initial strength test. That means I did 100 sit-ups, 20 dead-hang pull-ups, and I did the three mile run in 17:58 seconds. I’ve been working hard and I wanted to be the best. It’s hard to know if they were impressed or if I just drew unwanted attention. I guess only time will tell. One D.I. kind of sneered at me and told me they were just going to have to work me harder than the others.

On the fourth day here they moved us into our new barracks. We were introduced to the drill instructors that are assigned to our platoon from now on. Staff Sergeant Meadows is the Senior D.I., Sergeant Blood (his name is perfect, trust me) and Sergeant Edgel are the other two over our platoon. Sergeant Blood is constantly bellowing (learned that word from you). I have never heard him speak quietly. He is everywhere at once, moving, screaming, moving. We aren’t allowed to make eye contact, and it’s probably a good thing because I would be dizzy trying to keep up. We have to stare straight ahead. We are constantly yelling, “Yes Sir!’ which I hate. I don’t mind the Yes Sir! part, it’s the shouting that gets old, but I had Sergeant Blood get right in my face, spitting in my eyes the whole time, telling me he couldn’t hear me. I wanted to shove him off so bad.

A few guys have cried already. I don’t care what happens to me here, I will not cry. I can’t imagine having any self-respect left if I did. I won’t quit, I will be the best, and I will not bawl or whine like some of these guys. It’s embarrassing. One kid started crying after we yelled “Kill. Kill. Marine Corps!” Which we do a lot. This kid just freaked. Senior D.I. Meadows pulled him out and talked to him for a while. I don’t know if the guy is going to make it. This is the same kid that tried to eat his candy bar and laid on the bare mattress last night without permission. His name is Recruit Wheaton, but a couple of the other recruits are already calling him Recruit Weepin.’

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 Antwon Carlton 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 a secret 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.

I spent my free time with Sonja and Doc - as much as I felt I could without wearing out my welcome. My lessons were eclectic and covered more subjects than music. Doc even participated every once in a while, putting in his two-bits, sharing his vast knowledge and opinions. He wasn’t musically talented, but he liked listening to me play, and more often then not would be asleep in his chair when I left. I don’t know what ever became of his desire to write a book. As far as I know he never finished one, but for whatever reason, he and Sonja loved Levan and stayed. Doc’s son was grown and lived in Connecticut or somewhere else on the other side of the Earth – so they didn’t see him much. Their little eccentricities were not so great that they felt stifled by our little town. People seemed to like them, and Sonja’s musical abilities were utilized on the organ each week at church. Doc fell asleep every week in church too, but he always went, even though he kept his pipe stuck in his mouth throughout the service. He never lit it, so I guess the congregation just decided to let him be.

I often thought if it hadn’t been for Sonja and Doc, my brain would have atrophied with nothing to occupy it but chicken feed and recipes and unchallenging school work. They were a balm and ballast to my yearning heart, and a stimulant to my intellect.

That summer, I checked the mail every day but only received letters from Samuel sporadically. Two months after he’d left town, I received another. Racing home, I threw the rest of the mail in the bill basket for later perusal, and ran up to my room, throwing myself onto my bed and ripping the letter open. I smelled the pages first, closing my eyes and trying to imagine him writing it. I felt like one of those girls who cried whenever they saw Elvis. I shook myself out of my silliness and unfolded the pages. The letter was long, and his precise handwriting slanted forward aggressively. I read it hungrily.

July 31, 1997

Dear Josie,

I hear the drill instructors in my sleep yelling “pivot, align to the right, cover, don’t close up, and don’t rush it!” We drill for hours on end it seems like. I feel like I am marching in my sleep. Antwon Carlton actually did march in his sleep. Tyler was on Firewatch duty night before last and Carlton came marching by in his sleep. Tyler called out “Pivot, back to the rack recruit!” It worked, and big bad Carlton marched back to his bunk. Tyler had everyone laughing about it-you know he didn’t keep it to himself. Carlton got a little ugly, but a couple of the other black guys told him to relax - they all thought it was pretty funny too.

Everybody seems to realize if we don’t hang together, we all suffer. One day our squad leader, a tough red head from Utah named Travis Fitz, had to do punishment exercises every time one of us swatted at a fly or missed a drill order. He paid for our screw ups. It was a pretty big lesson. About half way through, I ended up requesting permission to speak and volunteered to take his place. It bothered me that he was taking the abuse for all of us. Sergeant Blood said that’s what a real leader does - he takes one for the team. He did let me step in for Fitz, but the point was made.

We’ve been spending the last few weeks on the rifle range. I learned how to shoot from my grandma. When we were out with the sheep she would send me off away from the sheep, and I would practice. She called this time ‘loose time’when the sheep were finished grazing, and they were full and drowsy, and we stayed in one place for a while to watch them. When my grandma was little she actually used a bow and arrow to run the coyotes off. I know how primitive that sounds - most people probably wouldn’t believe it. My grandmother had her own herd at eight years old. If she lost a sheep she would be whipped, because it meant loss of food and livelihood. She wasn’t as hard on me, but the care and well-being of her sheep was the most important thing to her. I’ve seen my grandma ride full out, shrieking at a coyote, shooting from the back of her horse. My grandma probably would have made a good Marine, too. I’ll have to tell her that when I see her again. She’ll get a kick out of that.

I haven’t had any difficulty on the rifle range, and it’s all due to her. Again, some of these recruits have never shot a gun before. It blows my mind - even the boys in Levan all have BB guns and 22’s don’t they? What is America coming to? Our generation is unbelievably soft. Man, I’m starting to sound like my D.I.’s. Anyway, on qualification day I scored a 280 on the course, which puts me in the high end of the expert category. Sergeant Meadows said I should set my sights on sniper school after Marine Combat Training and infantry training. I’m not sure yet, what comes next. I used to think maybe I’d just go into the Reserves, but I’m thinking I’m going to go Active.

We’re about half way through, and we just got our Marine pictures taken in full dress blues. I felt a little like crying. It’s funny, I haven’t had the urge to cry one time, not when I’ve been sore and tired and screamed at - but putting that uniform on made me get a big lump in my throat. Unbelievable. For the first time I feel like I truly belong somewhere.

You know I’m going to have to give in and read Jane Eyre one of these days. But I can’t read it during boot camp, so please don’t send it to me. I would never live it down; can you imagine my D.I. during mail call ripping open my package and pulling out Jane Eyre? I’d be on the quarterdeck for a year.

I think I’m having Beethoven withdrawals. What have you done to me? Keep working on the telepathic thing.

Don’t change,

Samuel

I immediately rushed to my little desk and wrote him back.

Dear Samuel,

I listened to some John Phillip Sousa today and imagined you marching in your dress blues. Will you send me a picture when you graduate? I can’t wait to see you all serious in front of the flag. You do serious pretty well, so I don’t think you will look too different to me.

It doesn’t surprise me you are doing so well. I love the stories about your grandma. Someday I’d really like to meet her.

I feel like I am standing still why you are running forward. I feel a little anxious and antsy, maybe even jealous that you are living your dream. I guess I’ll have my chance someday.

I went and helped your Grandma Nettie in her garden today. She talked about you a little. She said you sent her a letter. She told me a lot of the things I already knew, but of course I didn’t tell her so. She’s very proud of you. She’s looking forward to your Marine picture too. She showed me where she’s going to hang it. She’s picked out a spot next to a picture of Don in his Army uniform. She said he was in the National Guard, I’m sure you know which picture I’m talking about. I saw another picture in her hallway I hadn’t noticed before. I’ve been in the house many times, but usually just in the kitchen or the sitting room. It was a picture of you with your mom and dad when you were about four years old. I know pictures can be misleading, but you all looked happy. You look like both of them - don’t you think? Your dad was such a handsome man and your mom is so lovely.

Life can be kind of cruel. Sometimes I think of my mom, your dad, people we love that have left us. I wish I understood God’s plan a little better. My mom’s death has definitely made me more capable and independent, and probably made me a stronger, better person. I just miss her sometimes. I miss you too.

Love,

Josie

I didn’t receive another letter until Samuel graduated from boot camp and I was getting ready to start eighth grade. He sounded so different already, so grown up and focused. He seemed so far away. I mourned the loss of the boy who had been my friend, even though the man he was becoming was impressive to me.

The best part of the letter was the little wallet sized picture he had included. My breath caught in my chest and my heart ached and sang simultaneously. He looked so handsome. His hair was gone, and his strong jaw and cheekbones were prominent in his lean brown face. His ears lay flat against his head, no pixie ears for Samuel. His dark eyes were solemn and staring just below the slim black brim of his white cap. His wide mouth was firm and unsmiling. His deep blue uniform was resplendent, with gold buttons marching down his chest. The flag stood behind him, and there was a look on his face that said ‘Don’t mess with me.’ It made me giggle a little. The giggle caught on a sob, and I threw myself down on my bed and cried until my head ached and I was sick to my stomach.

In the following months, the letters came fewer and farther between. I wrote as faithfully as his location allowed. Then the letters stopped altogether. I didn’t see Samuel again for two and a half years.