Greg White felt compassion for others who were misjudged for their weaknesses, and he hoped that they too would have compassion for what made him different.
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I wrote my memoir to chronicle the adventures I’ve enjoyed sharing with my friends over the years. At first glance, you may think me the well-dressed man who knows which fork to use, and not the man in camouflage who can hit a target five hundred yards away with an M16. I may not fit the military mold, but I don’t know how to be anyone but myself—and being myself hasn’t always been comfortable, or even safe.
When stories of bullying LGBT youth started gaining attention, and some of those tortured chose to end their own lives, I wished they’d had a moment of hope long enough to get past that hateful experience and survive. I wrote this book not just for me, but also for those struggling in the military and elsewhere. I wanted to show that if I can make it through boot camp, anyone can; if I can overcome my insecurities in a hostile environment, so can others.
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Bowman flexed his arms again. He hung in that half-flexed position; every neuron in his being was trying to pull him up. DiBello moved in closer. He reached up and pulled Bowman down till his arms hung straight again.
“Private,” he said in a surprisingly supportive tone, “you’re using too much strength. You’re just wasting what you need. Grab the bar, breathe out and pull, fast and hard. Fast! Now go, asshole!”
Bowman looked down for a second at DiBello. He bit his lower lip, let out a breath and pulled. He made it to the same exact spot. He hung there suspended in hope, shaking, sputtering, legs kicking, fighting the good fight. He was the condemned yet innocent man fighting the fatal charge of the electric chair, defiantly staring his executioner right in the eyes as the surge shakes his strapped-down body, letting everyone know that he was meeting an unjust fate.
Bowman hung on; DiBello walked away. McKinnon tapped Bowman on the legs to let go of the bar.
Bowman fell to the ground. He stood on the quarterdeck in disbelief; his hopes and dreams dashed by his own body. He was a condemned man. I looked away.
Bad news opens a crowd like a poisonous snake. We cleared a path for Bowman to pass. His face was now more white than usual, his cheeks flushed the flaming red of embarrassment. Our eyes met and I could see he was going to cry. I’d learned Marines pick up our dead on the battlefield, but I wasn’t sure if we were supposed to comfort a crying fellow recruit.
All I could think about was that this boy, who wanted to be here so badly, just had his entire fantasy blown to bits. If he couldn’t do one, how the hell was I supposed to do three?
The group stayed very quiet. This test wasn’t a chance to show off for anyone any longer; this was survival. As another boy was called to take his place on the bar, I didn’t care if he could do twenty; I just prayed he could do three. I wanted everyone to stay. So far.
Four recruits out of seventy-two failed to do three pull-ups.
Every single one of us, regardless of background and personality, felt the pain of those recruits as they stuffed their belongings into their green duffel bags. We hadn’t been together long enough to exchange promises to stay in touch. Despite our sympathy, we let them go in case their weakness and failure was contagious.
As the pariah privates shuffled out of the squad bay, those remaining shared an unspoken fear. The Aqua Velva we added to the mop water masked only mildew and body odor—a resentful attitude was a stench that lingered. We learned to shake off this kind of loss like we were shaking out a dirty mop. The mission, as any show, must go on.
Any sense of security we felt was gone. In that test, I witnessed for the first time the horrific consequences of failure.
Bowman was a good, sweet guy who swapped stories with me on the concrete squad bay floor as we polished our boots at night. My butt would go numb from sitting cross-legged on that floor. I’d have to shift my bony ass-cheeks to keep my legs from falling asleep, the way I made them fall asleep in church. I never told Bowman that I had taped a lead weight to my crotch to get in, not only because he didn’t need to hear about my being underweight, but also because I didn’t trust anyone not to turn me in for cheating. Not even this sensitive boy who told me his secret feelings about being fat. I didn’t judge his past behavior that led him to being overweight. We all had issues.
When I felt compassion for others who were misjudged for their weaknesses, I hoped that they too would have compassion for what made me different. Compassion for the secrets I carried, from being gay to my insecurity about being less masculine.
He looked back just before he passed though the door. I wished I knew how to send positive vibes to make him successful, but I didn’t even understand what went on in the mythical and dreaded Physical Correction Platoon, where he was going. I only knew I needed to stay with Dale; I didn’t want to be sent there. I couldn’t tell where exactly Bowman looked as he silently said goodbye to maybe us, maybe the squad bay, and probably his chance to be the Marine—the man—he had so passionately told me he needed to be.
And then he was just gone.
Editors note: This is the third in a series of excerpts from Greg White’s personal memoir. Read Part 1 and Part 2 here.
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Photo: VirtKitty/Flickr
This is phenomenal. Please keep telling.
Thank you for reading and commenting Daniel. Your wish is my command — hopefully a publisher will take on my just-finished manuscript. Stay in touch! Greg