Somewhere over the past few years, I’ve looked up and realized that there’s a bit of a difference between myself and many other Marines. Of course my slightly relaxed, sarcastic attitude is one key trait that sets me apart from most Marines – although I’m far from unique in holding to that mindset! Also, somewhere along the way, I’ve picked up a bit of the “Old Bull/Young Bull” mentality as well. I would never have thought I’d grow up to be that Staff NCO, though usually I find myself glad I am.
No, there’s one key distinction between me and most of the Marines I work with: I enlisted voluntarily – and almost gleefully – before 9/11.
Does this make me any better or worse than the hundreds of thousands of men and women who have entered our ranks since the towers fell? Hell no. I say again, a thousand times over: absolutely not. I would not and can not take anything away from any of them, and in fact I’m thankful every time I come across a young Marine who saw that travesty unfold on a Tuesday morning and decided to go get some payback in Afghanistan. I’m also grateful to those who saw Iraqi Freedom kick off and signed up, knowing the risks; knowing that regardless of how or why we wound up there, the Marine Corps needed a few good men more than ever. I can’t say enough about what many have dubbed a second “Greatest Generation”.
Over time, though, I’ve come to realize that there certainly was a difference between the privations endured as an enlisted Marine in the 1990s and what any military member might face today. And no, I’m not talking about the fact that DIs at Parris Island would still beat the shit out of you in 1993 to correct a shortcoming. What I mean to say is that Americans in general and as a whole were, well… just a lot less respectful and grateful for those who volunteered to take and oath and defend out nation, “from all enemies foreign and domestic”.
Somewhere in my rational mind, I can make some sense of it and understand why. The Cold War was over, Reagan was out of office, the threat of “mutually assured destruction” at the hands of Minutemen, SS-N-20s and the like had diminished greatly. Believe it or not, there were still a great many underlying scars among veterans and citizens who still clearly remembered how the Viet Nam war felt from either side of the Pacific. It showed, too – in TV, movies, and that general yet indefinable attitude that America had towards her veterans & serving military and vice-versa.
I remember once standing in a bar & grill in Monterey, California while I was attending language school. I was waiting my turn at the bar to order a Cherry Coke (I was nineteen and behaving myself) when a group of four or five civilians came in. They stepped up to the bar in front of me – on purpose or as an oversight, who’s to say? – and began ordering drinks.
I stood there politely, edging in a bit closer to the bar until one of them finally noticed me. He looked me over, noticed my high & tight, and asked “Oh, hey. Are you in the military?”
“Yeah, I’m in the Marine Corps.”
“Really? You home on leave or somethin’?”
“No, I’m stationed here in Monterey.”
“What?! There’s a base here?!?!”
Nevermind that, at the time, Fort Ord was just a few miles away and home of the 7th Infantry Division (Light), US Army. Nevermind that the Naval Postgraduate School has been located in Monterey for longer than I have been alive. Hearing that comment, it seemed as if nobody nearby knew or cared that there were literally thousands of young men and women training nearby in order to keep the common defense of our nation secure.
That in itself was a bit of an eye-opener, but I was even more disappointed (disillusioned?) by their actions in the next half-hour or so. Once they had their drinks, they chose a table as far away as possible from me and the three other Marines I was having dinner with. Anytime one of us got up for another drink or to make a head call, they began whispering to each other, staring at us as if we were circus freaks, occasionally chuckling or laughing amongst themselves. On any other day, one could chalk it up to paranoia, the Fog of Beer, or any number of other things. Maybe it just stuck with me because I felt singled out. I left that night feeling unappreciated, and I really didn’t know why.
Flash-forward some years, and I find myself sitting in Hartsfield International Airport in Atlanta. I was a Corporal in uniform, Dress Blue “Delta”: blue trousers, short sleeve khaki shirt with ribbons. I was on leave, but I’ve made a point of always carrying a uniform with me or travelling in uniform since boot camp – at least when I’m getting 100 miles or more from a Marine Corps base. I’m damn proud of being a Marine, and I like to think that every now and again America likes to see her Marines wearing the uniform well in public.
There had been some flight delays that day, and during my layover a gentleman approached me asking if I knew anything about the Delta flight scheduled to leave that terminal for Cleveland at 7:43pm. I explained that I didn’t, and that I was actually heading to Charlotte. He gave me a funny look and asked if there was some way I could get an update on his flight for him. Now, I knew this guy wasn’t drunk, but I wasn’t quite sure if he had understood me. I pointed to the nearest information desk and told him that the folks there would probably have some answers for him.
“Oh, wait… I thought you worked here! Why are you wearing that uniform, anyway?”
At that moment I thought about snatching the ball-point pen out of his shirt pocket, jamming it through his jugular vein and twisting it until it broke off, taking him down and wrapping my legs around his rib cage, crushing him until he suffocated and then cracking his chest open in order to eat his heart while it was still beating… Instead, I calmly explained to him that I was a serving member of the Armed Forces of the United States, specifically a U.S. Marine, and that I was returning to Camp Lejeune. He made some sort of flip comment that I can’t recall exactly, but I know I snatched up my carryon and stormed in the opposite direction to the nearest bar for a pint, or four, of Vitamin G.
It didn’t piss me off – much the same way that a dog pissing on my rug doesn’t piss me off, because they just don’t know any better. After that initial, incredulous rage had subsided, I once again felt underappreciated and gloomy for no good reason.
There have been other incidents along the same lines, as well: getting funny looks and bad service while checking into The Plaza hotel in New York, checking in for a flight with a military ID – post-9/11 – and being shuffled off for “special screening”, being asked point-blank why I didn’t have “a real job”, and so on. As much as these small moments in my career have stuck out in my mind, the moments that make it count have been far more memorable in the long run. And it’s also true that I’ve “done the Marine thing” in those instances, remembering how my predecessors would come home to Seattle, San Francisco, New York, or even Dallas thirty years prior just to be spit upon, called “baby-killer”, and God knows what else. At the end of it all, even the very worst insult I’ve ever had as a professional warrior pales in comparison to that.
When I look at Marines nowadays, most of whom came in after 9/11, I can’t really separate myself from them in any way. They have had a grateful nation – in word at least, sometimes in deed and in spirit – show them how much they truly do appreciate the sacrifices we have made together since we became a nation at war. Anysoldier.com, Hope for the Warriors, and the Wounded Warrior Regiment that the Commandant created permanently – these are just a few things that even Somalia and Gulf War I vets didn’t have, not to speak of those who served in Viet Nam or Korea. And I’m gl—no, I am overjoyed that Marines today have this much gratitude thrust upon them from their nation, whether or not it’s always sincere or tangible. I know that in the years to come the Corps will change, as will the face and heart of the American people. If the Commandant is to be believed, Afghanistan and Iraq are the opening moves in a Long War. This gratitude and respect is something we need as much as deserve, truly.
I just pray that the Marines I have led and continue to lead will keep reaping the benefits of a nation that has at least in part come to recognize the value of their sacrifices and contribution to our freedoms. I also hope that those crazy-ass jarheads of mine will understand and appreciate it.
There will always be Americans who hear the call and want to be a part of this Big Green Machine that I know and love and hate (much like my ex-wife), and I want to ensure that they take advantage of the support they’re getting today.
And fuck yeah – I’m very grateful for that support myself.
Even in the post 9/11 days, the “new” hippie mentality still rears its ugly head at the military. Code Pink getting a Marine recruiting station out of Berkely immediately jumps to mind, The Wall defacers, and from my own experience being called a baby killer for wearing BDU Goretex bottoms while skiing. To which I responded with “Thank you and to your wonderful family as well!”
On the flip side I do see some small gestures of military support. Being taken to the front of the security line at Atlanta airport, handshakes and thank yous from people who recognize the uniform if you are in one, the dogtags sticking out of the shirt and the haircut if you aren’t.
people often get their perceptions from FMJ (one of my favorite movies, yes, but still), take one look at the crazy door gunner and assume all Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen, and Marines are like that.
There’s always some rivalry between my beloved Army and the Marines, but I just wanted to say thanks for what you did and all the ways you still serve the military.
I am a cadet at West Point, and I have had similar experiences in airports. A guy actually asked me if I could help him carry his bags once. I realized he thought I was a bus boy so I politely educated him, but carried some bags anyways hoping that maybe somewhere down the road he might remember that and return the kindness to another soldier. I have been asked not once, but twice if I was in the German army. I was a different uniform each time I was asked this, so I’m not sure where this is coming from. I was too confused the first time and too stunned that it happened again the second time to even think of being upset at their ignorance. At the end of the day, though, I was not in a standard US military uniform like you were, so people can be forgiven for not knowing what my uniform symbolizes.
there probably is a differnce from back in the 1980s and now. There are many people who want to join up.