SPEAK
---
BECOMING A MARINE
GOING THROUGH BOOT CAMP, DEALING WITH ANGRY DRILL INSTRUCTORS AND FINDING AN IDENTITY AS A MARINE RECRUIT // SARA SNEATH
Sara, on right, while serving in Marine Corps Embassy Security Detachment in Quito, Ecuador.
Every morning in Marine Corps boot camp, the recruits do some form of physical training. They are separated into groups based on their athletic ability. This recruit was in the most athletic group, more specifically, in the very bottom of the most athletic group. It's March of 2004 and the recruits are going for a run. This recruit doesn't know what time it is, but it is early, the kind of early that produces a bluish light, without the yellows painted by the sun's advance through the sky.
This recruit is not allowed to use the words "I," "me" or "mine." When referring to herself, she says "this recruit." To everyone else, she is Recruit Sneath. It is difficult to strike from your language the words you use most often, but one month has passed of the three-month-long training, and this recruit finds it easiest to refrain from speaking, other than two phrases: "Yes, ma'am," as a sign of understanding, and "Aye, ma'am," in response to a command.
It's raining at Marine Corps Depot Parris Island. The South Carolina air is usually eaten, but today it can be breathed. There are 12 female recruits in the group; they run in a two-by-six formation. The drill instructor runs to the left of the formation, next to the third row. This recruit
is on the right-hand side of the third row, one recruit away from the drill instructor. The drill instructor is yelling," Run faster," "Yell louder," "We're going to run like this forever." In response, the recruits yell, "Aye, ma'am," "Aye, ma'am," "Yes, ma'am," as their feet pound the wet concrete.
Maybe it's because this recruit is within arm's reach or because the drill instructor has been working in alphabetical order this whole time and she's finally at "S." Whatever the motive, the drill instructor begins singling this recruit out. "Sneath doesn't want to sound off*," "Sneath is too slow" "Sneath doesn't deserve to be a Marine," she barks. Every call demands a "Yes, ma'am" from the group. Although this recruit's ability has not changed, the drill instructor's target has.
Early on in boot camp, this recruit was conditioned to believe that the only thing she ever wanted to be was a Marine. If Marines didn't breathe, neither would she. She would learn how to separate oxygen from water. She would grow leaves and exist off photosynthesis.She would do anything, but be less than a Marine.
When the drill instructor begins calling this recruit out by name, Recruit Laura, a peaky girl with a high-pitched voice, takes it as her duty to validate the statements. In the military, everyone is
called by his or her last name. Laura has the privilege of having a female first name for her last name. Laura's "Yes, ma'am" responses sound as though she is talking gossip with a friend.
The drill instructor takes note of the tone in Laura's voice and begins directing all her comments toward Laura. "Sneath is too slow." "Sneath doesn't deserve to be a Marine," "Isn't that right, Laura?" Again, Laura responds, "Yes, ma'am," her inflection rising and falling like a head nodding in agreement. The drill instructor continues, "If Sneath doesn't sound off, we're all going to run further and faster."
I know the attack isn't personal. My hatred toward Laura is like the hatred toward a couch on which you stub your toe, for the fifth goddamn time. In boot camp, you barely have time to eat or sleep, let alone learn the first names of the women you eat, sleep and take showers with. I don't know Recruit Laura, but she is in the way of what I want most, which makes me want to play the one-man-band on her face, to turn her into bad Avant-garde art.
The drill instructor takes off on a sprint. We all run after her. The perfectly formed rows and columns become a thin line, like a stretched candy necklace. Laura passes me. She is much faster than me, but today I have something she doesn't: an injured ego. I stretch my arms and legs in front of me as I run, grabbing and pushing the air behind me. I pass Laura, throwing my legs hard against a mud puddle we run through, envisioning myself in a SUV, splashing lowly Laura with mud as I go by. My drill instructor is far ahead of us, unable to see me flip Laura the bird as I ran past her.
One moment, I am running past Laura, my hand in a backward salute. The next, we are in our living quarters; the same drill instructor is making Laura hold the pushup position. Laura faces the ground, her arms bent at 90-degree angles. The drill instructor calls me over, not to let me take joy in Laura's pain, not to let me torment her as she did me, but to hold the pushup position with Laura.
We are facing one another, our feet extended in opposite directions. Laura's face is twisted in pain. Her knees keep
dropping to the deck*. She is a good runner, but has little upper-body strength. The drill instructor yells at us both every time Laura's knees buckle. I look Laura in the eyes, emotionless as I hold my body off the ground. I imagine a game of Twister, hoping the next call will be "left hand, Laura's face."
The weight of the hatred is heavier than my body and much harder to hold. I begin to encourage Laura to maintain the pushup position. If she could just hold a little longer without dropping her knees on the deck, we could get up, I tell her. Her hands slip, but she keeps trying. Eventually, we are told we can "fuck off."
I learned in that moment with Laura that "this recruit" and "I" don't mean the same thing. I am an individual, one who is fulfilled by becoming something different: a Marine. This recruit, on the other hand, is a part of something much bigger. This recruitment is completed not by egotistical desires, but by other people, like Laura.
*to yell loudly
*floor
5