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...