New Blog!!

It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: it would be a jolly sight harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We are like eggs at present. And you cannot go on indefinitely being just an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go bad. (C. S. Lewis) 

Hatch*, like TED, is about ideas worth spreading. It is about asking the big questions, it is about finding the answers. Hatch* is about growth and learning and seeking. Hatch* is about shrugging off the shell of what's holding us back and using our wings.

It was birthed from a love of learning, and from a desire to love, even those who have a different colored shell than us. Although we may not agree with each other on every topic, we're interested in more than agreement - we're interested in perspectives.

When I started this journey, I wanted, simply, to connect with God and other people. What I discovered was that I most love hearing the stories. The stories are what ignite passion, move to tears. As I hear more stories, I see more lives: connected to each other, part of something bigger. I see tribes.  

A few months ago, I stood barefoot in the Red River. Feeling the (ice cold!) water rush over my feet, around my legs; feeling the river's strength, I felt connected to something bigger than me, bigger than all of us. I was considering my next steps in a journey that had led me far from my spiritual home, I was feeling a bit lost, and I was thinking about God.

For the past 3 years, I had been writing about religion. I had lived the 6 major religions practiced in the United States; I had visited houses of worship and prayed alongside Muslim sisters in living rooms. I had shared Sabbath at the table of Jews, and had filled open Mormon Missionary hands with apples from my tree and love from my heart.

Although my journey was wonderful, it was time for a change. I was ready for traveling companions for a stretch. In the Red River that day, amidst my shivers and slips on mossy rocks, I found part of God. In the faces of the children swimming, splashing, climbing trees and sitting in sand, I found part of God.

More and more, I'm finding God in the most unlikely places... outside places of worship: in nature, in love, in relationship and in community. Hatch* is about sharing our collective stories and questions, and learning from each other. We hope you'll join us and share your story with us, too. Your story needs to be heard. We must be hatched or go bad. I asked my brother, a conservative Christian along on this journey. I also asked some friends of varied religious flavors: one who lives on a commune in Illinois, one who is a Mormon mother of 6, one who worships a God called Allah...others who can lend insight, yes, but mostly others who have questions like me.

It is my hope that through our journey, our readers will identify and create with us. It is our hope that we will together spread our wings and fly! Please follow our blog at www.hatchwords.wordpress.com 

ode to my mother

My mother was not what I would call a sympathetic mother. She was not the sort to coddle and cuddle her children. She was a firm believer in the stance “What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.” And consequently, she gave us some rules for the world and set us free to explore on our own with an instruction to not scream and holler unless we were bleeding or dying. She relied heavily on the fear technique.
The instructions were simple:

1. Every man you encounter is dangerous. He will probably abduct you from a gas station or other location, and you will disappear forever. He will do horrible nameless things to you. He will kill you. You will never see us again. So you had better beware of men. She told us stories about her friend from high school who went to a gas station and was kidnapped and disappeared from the face of the earth never to be seen or heard from again. Her bones were later found on the edge of the town. There’s no telling what that man who abducted her did to her, but he probably barbecued her and served her to the sheriff. It happens. It happens ALL. THE. TIME. People in panel vans only drive them so that they can kidnap innocent children. Stay far away from them. It is for this reason, I have had an irrational fear of vans and strange men my entire life. When I was a child, I didn’t dream about monsters and creatures under my bed, I dreamt about strange men, coming through my window to kidnap me and take me to a far away place. I can tell you I never, EVER talked to a strange man as a child. Once, a man approached us to ask if we had seen his dog, and I ordered my brothers to run for the hills, and I followed. We ran from that man like he was Adolf Hiltler surrounded by SS Guards with submachine guns. Talking to men meant you would end up dead. And it wouldn’t be a pleasant death. 
2. Rule Number 2 was never climb up radio/electric towers. You know those giant towers made of metal about 3 stories high? We were never to come anywhere close to them. These towers were dangerous for two reasons: (1.) If you climbed them, you were placing yourself at risk of being hit by a bolt of lightning from anywhere in a 40 mile radius. If there was a bolt of lightning to be had, it would hit you if you were climbing one of those towers. (2.) Those towers were notoriously unstable and might send bolts of electricity down their metal legs and through your body. You would not be able to let go until you were dead. This happened to one of my mom’s brother’s friends, tragically both struck by lightning AND electrocuted by the tower at the same time. He was stuck like a magnet to the tower for a few moments, then he was blown 40 feet to the field below. He was dead. And if you climbed a tower, you would end up dead too. I never climbed a tower, in fact, just to be safe, I avoided the general vicinity of any towers I saw. And telephone poles. I figured they were almost as high and there was no reason to place myself in undue danger. 
3. Rule three was never go through storm sewer pipes or down manholes, or anywhere near street gutters. There were these huge pipes that a child could stand up straight in, that connected the creek on one side of the street to the creek on the other side of the street. These tunnels went underground and could go for miles underground, connecting storm sewers and street water runoff creeks for an entire neighborhood. My mother told us that we should not go near those, and we definitely shouldn’t go in them. She knew some boys once who went in them and a flashflood filled them up in a split second and they died. If we went in them, even on a sunny day, there was always the risk that a flash flood would ensue and we would be drowned instantly. Oddly, we were allowed to play in the runoff creek, probably because it did not enclose us in a spherical tube, and we would not die. 

Other than those three rules, we were allowed to run free as long as we came home for dinner. My brothers and I lived in a house that backed up to about 200 acres of undeveloped land owned by the city. This was a playground of massive proportions and we took advantage of it, spending our days exploring, playing, hiding, building and running away from evil men. My mom originally tried to yell when it was time for us to come home, but we never heard her. So she decided to do the next thing: buy a whistle. When it was time for us to come home, she blew the whistle and whatever we were doing, we took off in the direction of home. Our dog was usually the first to hear the whistle. Her ears perked up, she turned in the direction of home, and she ran pell-mell for the house. We followed.

The mother from my childhood was not exactly the kind of mother who was prone to messing around. She strongly believed in spanking (as did my father) and she also strongly believed in the idea that children, if they were not bleeding or dying, did NOT need to scream. I remember when I was about 6, I couldn't swim and we were at my grandparent’s lake house. I ran to the end of the dock and jumped off into the lake. Immediately, I knew I was in trouble and I was doggie paddling as fast as I could to get back to the shore, but then I panicked and started going under water. My mom didn't panic, she calmly walked to the end of the dock, stripping as she went, executed a perfect dive, reached me in seconds and pulled me to safety.

In a crisis, my mom was the one to have around. She never lost her head… until AFTER the fact. I got a stern talking to about how I almost died in that water. I believed her and as I sat coughing up water and shivering on the shore, I was repentant.

When I was nine, my brother and I were playing “king of the picnic table” in the backyard. My brother was seven, and he pushed me off the picnic table, proclaiming his victory. I landed on my right hand and heard an audible snap. Ensue hysterical screaming. My mother came out to see what the commotion was. She stopped 10 feet away, however. "I’m not coming a step closer until you hush up that screaming," she said. I hushed. She came close and felt of my arm. "It doesn't feel broken," she said, so off we went to church. I held my arm, black and blue, for the entire church meeting, my dad insisting it was fine.

At the end of the church meeting, they prayed for God’s healing to come to my arm. That healing took about 6 weeks to get there, and during those weeks my arm was surrounded by pink plaster of paris.

When I was ten, my brothers and I were playing in the woods, climbing a rock wall. Chad, the eight year old, grabbed a rock to throw off the wall we were on. His aim went vastly wrong and the rock ended up hitting me above the eye. I was bleeding profusely as I stumbled off the hill, walked determinedly home, and went inside the house: Mom? Mom, I think I’m hurt. I’m bleeding, I said as calmly as I could. She examined my eye, put me in the car and headed for the ER. Seven blue stitches later, I was headed home. I had more than my share of stitches growing up, mostly at the hands of my brothers.

But my brothers, especially Chad, were not entirely injury free. Chad had the dangerous combination of guts and intelligence. He was always dreaming up brilliant inventions with the neighborhood Jimmy Neutron Boy Genius. One of these inventions was a jet engine. It was made with a modified hair dryer, gasoline, and a lawnmower starter. It resulted in an explosion in Jimmy Neutron’s garage and a week of suspended privileges for ruining his mother’s hair dryer.

Chad was obsessed with flying machines. He thought that he should be able to modify his bike, scooter, or body so that he could fly, and generally his launch pad was our roof. He started out by stealing sheets and blankets for parachutes and wing covers. It was one scheme like this that had him on the roof with a glider made from sticks, chicken wire, sheets and two by fours. He had spent weeks designing a glider that would be launched on the first windy day. He chose the southwest corner of the house to launch his glider, which was unfortunate because it was the only corner of the house with a tree nearby. When Chad jumped off that roof with his wings of wire, he flew for about 4 feet, which was just far enough to land him directly over the tree that he fell into, hitting every branch on the way down. Chad landed on the ground below the tree hollering holy murder and holding his left arm. I came outside to see what the screaming was about and immediately returned to the house to get my mother.

My mother stopped ten feet away, telling him to hush up the screaming or she wouldn’t come a step closer. He hushed up and she took him immediately to the hospital for his own 6 weeks of casted arm. Another time, my brother set up a ladder and climbed up it to swing from the lovely wire that connected the garage to the house in order to power the garage with electricity.

Reaching the top of the ladder, Chad at the tender age of six, grabbed on with both hands and felt the lovely current coursing through his veins. My dad was nearby and knocked the ladder from under him, and caught Chad when he let go. John Mark, the youngest brother, seemed to learn from our experiences and didn’t try anything too crazy until he was out of the house. Somehow he survived his childhood without stitches, broken bones, or minor surgeries.

When I had children of my own, I was pretty sure my mom would have mellowed out and become the good grandma who bakes cookies and coddles her grandchildren. I could not have been more wrong. I came to pick up my kids a few weeks ago, who are now 8, 6, and 5, and found my mother sitting in a chair with an exhausted look on her face. My boys were passed out on the floor and my daughter was nowhere to be found.
The police came today, Mom! my daughter said excitedly when I found her.
I looked at my mom quizzically.
She smiled weakly.

Apparently my children were given free reign of the field and creek behind her apartment in central dallas fort worth. They found the manhole and had never learned the rule about death associated with manholes. The police were called by a concerned neighbor who thought that my children were not being supervised well enough in a dangerous area. My mom scoffed. It was not dangerous, and YOU should have taught them that manholes and storm sewers result in death, she said. Point taken.

being psychic - it's a tough job, but I knew I would do it all along

“Do you have a recessive blue eye gene?” It’s a question I like to ask of people who have white skin and brown eyes because it really freaks them out that I would know that and they say “Yes, yes, I do! How did you know that?” Because I’m psychic of course, I answer, and they nod, a little in awe.

Truth is, I have very strong deductive reasoning skills. Since the majority of anglo-Americans are descended from, well, Europe, and the majority of Europeans have light colored eyes and pale skin, it seems a fair assumption that a brown eyed child of a blue eyed mother is reasonably likely, especially if that child is clearly Caucasian.

I am intuitive mainly, I think, because I think intelligent people have strong deductive reasoning skills and you make comparisons between people, the way they look, the way their body language is, how their eyes shift, their mannerisms – reading people becomes a hobby for me and a challenge – figuring out about people becomes second nature and voila! I’m psychic!

Another theory I have is that people act like their names – for instance: Marks are domineering, can have anger issues, generally gravitate toward perfectionism and are cautious. While they may or may not be good decision makers, they can make decisions – small ones relatively easily and larger ones require a great attention to being thoroughly prepared: completing exhaustive research to be sure that it is the correct thing to do. Impulsiveness is not a characteristic of Marks, instead they gravitate toward knowing what to expect. Marks also tend to be good with money –I’m really not sure why on this one. They just are.

Jessicas are principled and loyal to themselves and others. It’s a strange characteristic and I see it frequently in Jessicas – because the fact is, generally people are loyal to others or they are loyal to themselves but they are rarely both at the same time. Jessicas get along well with many different types of people, because they are personable, they can reach people that some might not be able to reach and they find common ground between themselves and that person so that the other person doesn’t feel uncomfortable. Jessicas are masters of making sure everyone is comfortable in a social situation, and although they won’t go out of their way to be social, whoever they are talking to (and a lot of people talk to them) feels comfortable talking to them. Jessicas also have deeply rooted belief systems. The loyalty to themselves comes into play here because they will rarely take something as fact if it doesn’t agree with their own internal value system. While the value system may be different than a standard run of the mill value, or even different from the values of those around them, they are loyal to that system and, while they won’t actively attack someone who disagrees with their system, they are stubborn and resistant to changes to their internal belief system. Jessicas also have a way of making lesser strong personalities believe in what they say – they are guardians of values and ideals and when you talk to a Jessica who is operating as a guardian, she will not only convince you that she is right, but mostly bring you completely on board with whatever it is she is preaching to you. This is why Jessicas are excellent spokes-people and evangelists. A bitter Jessica who loses faith in her ideals will end up guarding herself tightly against assaults on her personal value system and will become unapproachable and withdrawn.

It was this sort of thing that I was saying to someone at a bar where I was drinking with my best friend. It all started with my best friend and I heading to a bar we hadn't been to before. A gay bar, as it happens. We went to check out the lesbians and to see if we were lesbian material or could at least fit in with the group of people.

We like to see who we can fit in with and how other groups work, so we headed out to Jack’s Backyard for a night of lesbian fun. Immediately upon entering the bar, we realized we had made a cardinal straight-girl mistake: we brought purses. What were we thinking? Lesbians didn’t carry purses!

“Look over there!” I whispered to Shawn. “That girl has a PURSE. It’s slung across her shoulder and neck, do you see that? It’s definitely a purse.”

"NO ITS NOT!" she whispered back “It’s a wallet with a strap!”

“Well, close enough,” I said.

 Just at that moment, a man came up to the girl, put his arm around her and kissed her. Shawn looked at me and shook her head. SHE'S NOT EVEN A LESBIAN! Jeez, we were dense.

Second mistake: we had worn makeup. Lesbians don’t wear obvious makeup. ((I was misinformed of the makeup practices of Lesbians because I got nearly all of my Lesbian knowledge from "The L Word" on HBO.))

And there were a lot of baseball caps and cargo shorts here too. We stuck out like straight girls in a lesbian bar. No one would talk to us, so I struck up a conversation with the gay guys next to me. In my experience gay guys were usually friendly, especially to straight girls. David and Michael were sitting next to us and I introduced myself.

Apparently David and Michael were having a fight of some sort and didn't want any part of my conversation, though they listened patiently while I went off about Republicans and Democrats and gay rights, and I’m pretty sure I had blabbered on incoherently for about ten minutes on topics I didn’t know anything about before Shawn jumped in with “DID YOU KNOW JONI IS PSYCHIC?”

She said it loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear it. I was in shock. I was not digging this idea, but then I had had 2 rum and diets, so I was in the mood to be accommodating. David and Michael looked duly impressed for a moment, then returned to their conversation.

My psychic abilities are a party gag, and something I pull out when I’m tired of feeling bored and having nothing to say. It is a handy trick to know when you’re in a crowded room full of people you don’t know who are staring at you with hostility.

A girl sitting two seats down from me looked at me with interest and then stuck out her hand.

"You’re psychic? Read my palm."

“What’s your name?” I said.

“Amber.”

And that’s how it started. Suddenly, I was on instant recall, trying to remember every Amber I had ever met. I started telling her everything I could think of about Ambers and also everything I thought about her personally, which was that she was damaged, cared a lot about what people thought, tried to help people, but only if it didn't interfere with her own goals. I went on and she was impressed.

David and Michael were too, and they stuck out their hands. Before the night was through, I had read twenty people’s auras or palms or whatever. I’m not sure if it was because they were drunk or because I was drunk, but they all said I was right.

That night at a lesbian bar, a psychic was born. That psychic was me. 

life, love & source - interview with Tara Wagner!

I found Tara Wagner (pronounced TAR-uh, like STAR-uh, without the S, obviously) through her amazing and insightful blog, The Organic Sister. Tara is a life coach and the creator of the Digging Deep process and the Organic Tribe. Her website, her message, and her life is about personal, inter-personal, and spiritual growth. "It's about overcoming our barriers and truly thriving - as women, as mothers, as creatives." I asked her if she would be willing to have an interview for my blog(s) and she said YES! I'm thrilled to give you her story, and I encourage you to check out her site for further inspiration. 

Joni: Tell me your story. How did you get here, what is your religious background? How did you come to the relationship with God that you have today?

Tara: I was raised in the Christian church and followed along, because it's what I knew and therefore believed by default. But it was somewhere in my early 20's that the overwhelm descended, and the frustration. I couldn't feel or sense or hear "God" when I was surrounded by the noise and the music and the words of someone else, telling me what God was saying. That's when I heard the very clear direction that it was time to leave the church. "You can't connect with Spirit here."

Resigning as wife

Year 4 of relationship. It was a rough year.

“I’m resigning as wife.” I said and handed my sweetheart a sheet of paper with the WIFE responsibilities on it. Those would be the things he refuses to do because he’s a man and I’m a woman and those things are “Women’s work.”

Besides being a full-time employee, I juggled all the responsibilities of childcare, cooking, cleaning, cleaning up after The Dog (who shall remain nameless), cleaning up after my husband, in all of his idiosyncrasies, paying all the bills, making the doctors’ appointments and school meetings, grocery shopping, performing feats of home remodeling to include calking a bathroom, texturing walls, hanging mirrors, pictures, and sheet rock, painting, hammering, nailing, screwing, taping, bedding, scraping, moving, and the list goes on. And on. And on. Why can’t he patch the nail holes? Because we don’t have the right kind of patch. If there's one phrase that sums up my husband it's this: "If I can’t do it right, I can’t do it." Me, on the other hand, I'm more of a "git 'er done!" kinda gal. However it works, I'm cool with that.

One week, he dropped a dozen eggs on the floor and broke every one of them. The logical next step in any man’s mind is to call the dog. The dog happily lapped up the eggs, the promptly went to relieve herself with explosive diarrhea all over the kids’ rooms. Diarrhea that was destined to sit on the floor for the next five days until it was “dry enough” to vacuum up. Diarrhea that has since stained my carpet forever with a greenish black tone on the beige even AFTER steam cleaning.

Approximately 2 days later, she was still sick, and vomited on the carpet right outside my door. My entire house is tile except for a few square feet in the kids rooms and in my room and the hallway. She chooses these areas to shit and puke.

This is a cute Weimaraner. Do not let that fool you.
They are noxious beasts.

Aside from that, The Dog is a 65 pound high-strung Weimaraner. She barks at everything, including (but not limited to): children, grandmas, the post man, crickets, lizards, birds, ghosts, and squirrels.

She eats everything, too – but her preferred diet consists of what she can glean from the trash cans. On more than one occasion I have come home from work to find my used sanitary products in shreds on the floor, the majority devoured by this disgusting dog. Bring on the diarrhea. 

She also loves bars of soap. You cannot leave a bar of soap unguarded, or she will get on the counter with her front paws and swallow the bar in two bites.

The Dog came with my sweetie, or I would have long since disposed of her. As it is, I tolerate her in small doses, banning her from my room and excusing her to the backyard every chance I get.

Those glowing eyes are the eyes of a demon.
Note: Aren't the kids adorable? They were so little!!

When I served my resignation as wife, my sweetie said nothing. We have had in the past conversations where I mention that "a little help around the house would be great" and he cites “women’s work” and "possession of a penis" as reasons he will not partake.

The mysterious thing about my sweetie is that, although he doesn't believe in doing the work, he DOES maintain very strong opinions about how the work should be done. For instance, leftovers should always be heated up in the oven or on the stove rather than in the microwave, because the microwave gives everyone cancer and there is no proof of anyone having cancer before microwaves.

For him, this means that his food is hot on his plate when he eats and he knows it has come out of a pan, almost as if it was cooked for the first time. For me, this means not only do I have to clean up a plastic container that was used to store the food in the fridge, but also whatever containers were used to reheat said food, AND the plate he ate it off of.

He refuses to eat off paper plates. He believes that paper plates are not only unhealthy, but they are slowly ruining the environment. I tried to plead the case that paper plates could be recycled, but he would hear nothing of it. It is glass plates or bust.

He recycles obsessively. On a typical day, I will get a pile of junk mail at my house. I throw it all in the trash. He digs it out of the trash and sorts it for recycling. Shiny paper is returned to the wastebasket. Newspaper (the BEST kind for recycling) along with paper letters and envelopes are put into the shredding/compost bin. Envelopes with plastic on them are disassembled, taking off the plastic (which goes in the trash) and placing the paper portion in the recycling/shredding for compost bin. None of this is given to the recycling company who comes by once a week to pick up recycling because he likes to save it up until he has 100 or 150 pounds, then go to my work and shred it all. Then, he brings back the shredded paper in a garbage bag, sets it in my garage for several weeks before I finally throw it all into the recycling bin for the city to pick up. This is our pattern.

He also recycles cardboard (every box must be broken down), plastic and glass. These he allows the city to pick up, except for a few “Special” items that he likes to hang onto. Primarily: Wine bottles (so he can someday make a chandelier out of them), glass spaghetti sauce containers (to use for storage of leftovers because glass is infinitely better than plastic for storage), and aluminum cans. He will save aluminum cans until he has enough cans to fill the back of his truck. He has a very big truck.

At one point, we lived in an apartment with no recycling service, and all of the recycling was saved in one of the closets. Did I mention that the apartment was tiny? He saved every piece of recycling until the closet was full. Completely full. It was a walk in closet. Slowly, I had to sneak out the recycling to the dumpster when he wasn't around. He didn't notice much.

Aluminum soda and beer cans are saved for as long as it takes to fill up the back of his truck. We currently have roughly 500 1000 cans sitting in the garage awaiting their cohorts to be taken to aluminum recycling, where he can get money for them. Yay, money! I would imagine he gets about $25 for the whole load and I ask you this: is it really worth the marital conflict to get $25 for cans?
Note: I know it sounds like we are alcoholics with 1000 beer cans in our garage, but, really, he has only recycled the cans one time in the past 6 years, so this is years and years worth of cans.

He insists on urinating in the backyard. Moreover, he insists that his urine kills “bad” grass and makes “good” grass grow. The good grass is Bermuda, which he pronounces “burrmoooduh.” The bad grass is St. Augustine, which he pronounces “san-og-us-teen”. He does this when we have company, too. He continues the good grass bad grass commentary while he is urinating and our guests are listening to the water feature newly installed behind us in the person of my husband. He encourages our guests to urinate in the backyard as well. Generally, they decline. Sometimes, they agree.

He also likes to supervise the dish washing and laundry. Laundry must be done a certain way, according to specifications. The colors must be separated and each piece inspected for possible stains. Any stains must be pre-treated for no less than twenty-four hours before commencing washing. The washer must be operated at the lowest possible temperature and water level in order to conserve energy. Washing dishes must include scrubbing each dish before washing. Oddly, a dish that The Dog has eaten off of can go directly into the dishwasher, but a bowl that had cereal and milk (with no crusty residue) must be washed thoroughly to remove germs prior to washing in the dishwasher.

Each dish must be inspected carefully upon removal from the dishwasher to insure cleanliness of said dish. Cleaning, he tells me, is something my mother never taught me how to do correctly, and he feels the need to critique my cleaning almost every time I clean ANYTHING in front of him. Which is why I do my cleaning while he is distracted with video games.

The first few times he critiqued my cleaning, I blew up at him. I don’t take criticism well, as a rule, and criticism of my family is definitely not accepted gracefully. I told him that if he wanted it cleaned differently then he should get over here and clean it himself. At this juncture, he informed of The Penis Rule.

The Penis Rule is this: If you have a penis, you don’t have to clean, but a benevolent penis possessor should instruct those poor unfortunate souls without a penis on how to properly perform any and all tasks.

Now you know.

Air Force Girl (continued)

Continued from here!

Within the first week, I was seriously regretting my decision to join the Air Force, reserves or not. The waking up at 4 am wasn't difficult. It wasn't hard to shove food down my throat and avoid eye contact, and try to remain invisible. It wasn't hard to memorize the shapes of the aircraft, or the ranks, or to learn how to salute.

The exercise was AWFUL, though. I hated every minute of it. If push-ups and sit-ups were excruciating pain, RUNNING was hell. I had to run two miles in under twenty-two minutes and every single second of that time, I hated my life.

When we were gathered to get tested for sexually transmitted diseases, or to get some sort of air injection, or possibly just to watch a propaganda film about how amazing the Armed Forces are one afternoon, standing outside of a building waiting to go in, I overheard someone talking to the flight next to us. That person was the Air Force Band Director. 

I heard him mention something about avoiding kitchen duties, and less time in physical training, and I was IN. I hoped and prayed he would come talk to our flight, and over he came a few minutes later. He asked our group if any of us had any experience in band. I had learned in my first twenty four hours in Air Force Basic Training NEVER to volunteer for anything, so what I did next surprised even me.

My hand shot up and I begged to be part of the Air Force Band, citing “life-long dream” and “long family history of musical talent” which wasn't entirely untrue. Truth be told, I had played clarinet in the marching band in high school. I had also tried playing trumpet a few times and had managed to squeak out a note or two. I had also played classical piano for about ten years. He asked what instruments I played, and my mouth started moving: “Percussion (where did THAT come from?), piano, organ, trumpet, clarinet, saxophone, bagpipes, pretty much any wind instrument, and guitar.”

I was a veritable musical prodigy! He had heard of kids like me, I bet I looked like a genius that day. I had at least SEEN these instruments being played, and touched them (with the exception of bagpipes). I was told to pack my bags and move my shit to the Band Squadron, and THAT, my friends, is how I escaped not only all kitchen duty, but also the majority of physical training.

I was given the xylophone to play (I know, the one instrument I hadn’t mentioned being an expert at), and I wasn't terrible. The rest of the six weeks flew by. One girl got kicked out of our squadron for being completely crazy. Another for smoking weed on the landing outside our window, but for the most part, we all barely passed our physicals, and played in the band as much as possible. We even marched in a parade – a FIELD TRIP, which included lunch off base and a bus ride with the Band Director, who wasn't much of a yeller.

I had strategically timed my entrance into the Air Force so that that first six weeks would include two holidays – Christmas AND Thanksgiving. They couldn't be too hard on us during the holidays, and I might get to see my family. Smart thinking, because indeed that was true! I had my first Air Force Thanksgiving at Denny’s with my mom and my boyfriend.

During basic training, I got a letter in my fifth week from my mom. Apparently my parents were splitting up, and I was devastated. I went to my Staff Sergeant, SSgt. Brothers, and explained in tears that I didn’t think I could go on.

“Well, Martin,” he said. “You can choose to let this mess up your life, or you can go on despite this upset. The truth is, shit happens, and you do what you gotta do and make the best out of it and move on. Do you want this to ruin your life, Martin?”

Me, quavering: “Noooo…..”

He nodded. “Good then, we’re on the same page. Now get out there and show them how you can go on in spite of what they did.”

I did, for six more wake-ups, until graduation day.

My Basic Training Squadron, Circa 1997 (I'm the one with the mask on)

Fortune Cookies, the Air Force, and ADD

I compulsively save fortunes from fortune cookies. Especially if it’s a good one, I will keep it for years, in a zipper pocket of my purse, taped to my computer, in the change bowl on my desk. I’m superstitious about fortunes because I have this idea that someday in the future, I’m going to get one that tells me what I’m supposed to do with my life.

I have career/school/job/religion/life ADD. Something about the status quo has never made me happy and has never felt right. Why have one career for the rest of your life, when you can try out thirty or forty? Last count, I had had thirty-eight jobs to date, yet, somehow, it doesn't feel like an accomplishment.

It always sounds like a good idea to begin with: like joining the Air Force. When I joined the Air Force, it sounded like a great idea. At nineteen, I had already recognized my issues with long-term commitment.

Growing up I couldn't decide between being a spy, a writer, a teacher, a doctor or a model. So I tried all five. ((Well, I didn't TRY doctor, I followed a doctor around and got a job at a hospital.  Nonetheless.)) At nineteen, my friends were settling into a course of study, second year into their majors, and excited about finally becoming everything they had dreamed of. I, on the other hand, was holding down my third job, one at a temp agency where I didn't have to go to the same place more than once. It was perfect for me, I have no idea why I quit.

Clearly the solution to my job-ADD was to lock myself into a six year contract with the government.  So, I joined the AF Reserves ((just to be safe)) and excitedly took my ASVAP, acing it with flying colors. My recruiter told me I could have any job in the air force including, but not limited to: Jet Engine Mechanic, Linguistics, Intelligence, Psychology, Mind Control and Prison Warden.

He warned me that most prison wardens ended up in Guantanamo Bay, though, and “frankly, that’s not really a place you want to be.” I appreciated his honesty. And I chose “Medical Laboratory Technician.” Fancy name for “puts labels on poop and pee samples, tests blood, and tries not to get any contagious diseases.” I romanticized the idea of military service in my head – after all, my family was a military family!

My grandfathers had both served in the Army, my Uncle retired from the Army, my cousin was in the Air Force, and my brothers would soon join the Marines and the Navy. It was meant to be: and not only that, it would make me a hero. I imagined the rigors of boot camp and coming out of it a dirty, sweaty Service Woman, with my uniform rumpled, but clingy, and a strand of hair that had escaped my BDU cap hanging over my left eye giving me a sexy yet amazingly strong look. I also imagined my lips had grown poutier and fuller at boot camp, and my complexion was beautiful and radiant. Something like this:

Typically, when I take on a new project, I abandon everything in single minded pursuit… that is, until I grow bored. Which happens rather quickly, it seems. Knowing that I may indeed grow tired of this idea of military valor, I joined on a Monday and signed up for the first available date for basic training.

I boarded a plane and headed for San Antonio, TX, home of the illustrious Lackland Air Force Base, where I would spend the next six weeks of my life in misery. What I failed to remember when I signed up for the Air Force was that I had a very low heat tolerance, a very low tolerance for yelling of any kind, and, oh yeah, I hated all things physically exerting.

I didn't remember this tiny detail until I was sitting in the San Antonio airport waiting for the Lackland bus to pick up all the new recruits. I considered bolting, I must say. Instead, I sat steeling my nerves for the unknown. The unknown is somewhat tempting to me, so the draw was strong enough to keep me from puking when I climbed aboard the Air Force bus. It wasn't until the bus pulled away from the airport that I realized there was no turning back. Arriving on base in my blue jeans, t-shirt, tennis shoes and my hair pulled back in a pony tail, I looked at my fellow recruits. My comrades at arms. My soon-to-be prison mates, sharing in the same torture I would endure.

Arriving at the squadron, we were greeted by a friendly sergeant who saw nothing good about our motley group and yelled at us to get our asses off the bus and line up. Did we know what “lines” were? Were we just stupid? We had to be the stupidest group he had ever seen. Then, they went through our bags. I had packed as instructed:

• Laundry soap, 
• ball-point pen (black or blue – I chose blue), 
• shampoo, deodorant, toothbrush and toothbrush tray, toothpaste, 
• notebook and paper, 
• black shoe polish, shine brush, shine cloth, 
• shower shoes, 
• soap & soap tray, 
• sanitary napkins/tampons, 
• sports bras, 
• hair bands, bobby pins, 
• underwear, 
• brush, 
• nude panty hose, 
• two towels, 
• envelopes, 
• cotton balls, 
• spray starch, 
• nail clippers, 
• razors and shaving cream, 
• white socks, 
• watch, 
• calling card, 
• and glasses (apparently you weren't allowed to wear contacts, but I would test this theory). 

My duffle bag contained no contraband ((save the pictures crammed in my Bible.)) Others were not so lucky. A young man a few feet over for me had apparently stopped at Church's Chicken on his way in to the airport. They have amazing honey in little individual packet, a fact that did not go unnoticed by the angry man in a caricature of a hat going through his bag:

“What is your name?” the training instructor yelled at the young man.

“Jeff Peters.”

“Jeff PETERS? Jeff Peters, what? Jeff Peters, you address me as sir.”

“Sir, yes sir!” the young man said hopefully.

“Do you think you’re in the ARMY, Jeff Peters? We don’t say ‘sir, yes sir’ here! We just say 'sir.' Here is a correct response, Jeff Peters: ‘my name is Jeff Peters, Sir.’ Try that, Peters.”

“My name is Jeff Peters, sir.”

“Now, Jeff Peters, I think you’re lying to me. I think your name is Winnie the Pooh. You know why? Because you got a bag full of HONEY! Now what were you thinking bringing HONEY to Basic Training, Peters? Did you think this was the hundred acre wood? Do I LOOK like Christopher Robbin to you, Peters?”

“Uh, no, sir. I got that on my way here, sir—“

“Yeah, and did you think the UNITED STATES AIR FORCE basic training was going to be the kind of place where you could sit back and lick honey off your paws, Peters?”

“Uh – “

“Did you get a list of WHAT TO BRING, Peters?”

“Yes, uh, yes, I did… Sir.”

“And was HONEY on that list, Peters? Did it say ‘socks, jock strap, and HONEY, Peters?”

“No, Sir.”

“I didn’t think so.”


It went on like this for several hours. One unfortunate girl brought homemade cookies made by a well-meaning grandma. One girl brought a book (like we would have time to read!). A couple of guys brought magazines of the auto variety, and one VERY unfortunate boy brought a pair of relatively skimpy underwear. When they finally got through with us, they sent us upstairs to collapse in exhaustion until the next flight arrived and all the lights were turned on in the dorm while those girls got yelled at.

We tried to sleep, but it was much like sleeping in a subway tunnel during the five o’clock hour. Our Training Instructor (or TI) was Staff Sargent Hamilton, a terrifying man who stood about two inches shorter than me, but yelled like no other. He took particular offense to those of us girls who were taller than he. More than once, he reduced us to tears on the first day.

To be continued...