I took a lot of crap for my decision over the next several months.  At first I didn’t mind telling people what I was going to do after high school.  When asked “Where are you going for college?” I would reply, “Actually, I’m joining the Marines.”  The typical response was one of these three:

  • Silence
  • “Uh, why?”
  • “Are you @%&* crazy?”

However there were many more responses and I even remember many of them.  Among my favorites:

  • “Wouldn’t the Air Force be easier?”
  • “Don’t let them turn you into a lesbo.”
  • “My (friend, uncle, cousin, brother) joined the Marines and HATES it.”
  • “My (friend, uncle, cousin, brother) joined the Marines and he got shot.”
  • “My (friend, uncle, cousin, brother) joined the Marines and he got butt raped in the shower!“
  • “You’ll lose all of your creativity.”
  • “You’ll have to follow all those rules.”
  • “Why would you want to kill people?”
  • “You don’t seem like the type of person to do that.”
  • “You really seem like the type of person to do that.”

Sometimes, people’s reactions hurt. 

My boyfriend of two years was angry (and probably hurt) that I was leaving.  I hadn’t even considered him in the decision, I will admit.  I was seventeen and the last thing on my mind was getting married and poppin’ out curtain climbers.  To make matters worse, HE was the one who had an uncle that got shot in the Marines in an accident at the armory.  So he had valid reasons to think I was an extraordinary idiot.  We fought and fought and pretty soon we broke up over it. 

There was this guy, “Abe,” a longtime patron of the restaurant that I worked at.  He was an older man who came in every day with his wife.  He would order pancakes for dinner each and every night.  His wife was stricken with the early stages of Alzheimers.  After he and his wife finished their meals, he would place a quarter into my hand, close my hand with his, and say ”Now you save that for college.”  I guess I must have had close to five years worth of quarters from him (I am sorry to report that most of those quarters were probably spent on shoes).

My senior year of high school was coming to a close, and Abe came into the restaurant to have his pancakes.  When he was finished, he came up to the register to pay.  He winked at me and smiled.  “Graduation next week,” he said with a Cheshire grin.  “So what university did you decide on?”

“I’ve decided to go into the military,” I told him, handing him his change (ensuring he had his quarters, as was the norm).  “The Marines, actually.  I leave in August.”

His smile didn’t disappear, really.  It hung on the top of his chin for a while, then slowly reabsorped into his face.  He looked at me strangely, like there was something wrong with my face.  He stared for a long time without saying anything.  Then he turned around, slowly, and walked out of the restaurant.  That was the last time I ever saw Abe. 

alone1

One afternoon during high school I got a note that I was to report to the counselor’s office.  I wasn’t sure what it was about, but I was certain it couldn’t be anything bad.  I was involved in so many committees and councils and things that it most likely had to do with some extracurricular something-or-other. 

I reported to the counselor and he asked to speak with me privately.  His expression was one of concern.  I followed him to a small room.  He closed the door.  I sat in a chair and rested my arms on the round table.  There were no pictures on the dull beige walls. 

“How are you feeling today?” he asked.

“Fine, I guess,” I said.  Up until the point you took me into this room, I thought.

“What do you want out of life?” he asked.

I don’t remember what I said.  I do remember feeling quite blindsided.  Usually when I got called to the office, it was because I was getting an award or something like that.  This was weird.

“I don’t know?”  I really didn’t, suddenly. 

“If you could do anything in the world, right now,” he continued, “what would it be?”

I think I said something about going to theater school, then moving to Hollywood.

“Then why are you going in the Marines?”

I couldn’t answer.  Was it that odd?  Was I committing an act of freak by signing those enlistment papers?  I had my mind made up, and I was fine with my decision…but here was this balding, bespectacled adult who emitted the scent of Old Spice and wore a sweater with a collared shirt underneath, he probably drove a nice car, and his gaze at me had the weight of the Titanic…he couldn’t possibly know where I came from…could you blame me for suddenly being confused?

Then he said:

“Look.  Someone reported to me that you are suicidal.  Are you suicidal?”

“WHAT?”

doesn't this kind of look like a bellybutton?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He folded his hands together on top of the round table and leaned in for effect.  “Have you thought about killing yourself?”

“God, no!  Who said that?”

“A concerned friend,” he said.  “I can’t name names.  But I want to make sure that everything is okay with you, and that you know that if you need to talk, I am here.”

I was shocked. 

I am not sure seemed worse; thinking about suicide (which I wasn’t), or thinking that everyone around you thinks you are thinking about suicide. 

“Can we talk about this military thing?” he asked.

“No,” I said.  “I really don’t want to.”  This was going too far.  What was so demented about this decision that no one could believe or accept it?  Why did college have to be the norm?  Who in the world told this upper middle-class counselor that I wanted to kill myself?  What would make a person assume that joining the military meant I was suicidal?  Suddenly I wished for boot camp to be over with so I would have the skills to track down the offender and decapitate them with a paper clip.  I walked out of the counselors office, red faced and fighting back tears. 

When everyone is bombarding you with questions, it is hard not to ask those same questions of yourself. 

Was I doing the right thing? 

What if everyone else knew something I didn’t?

Why do all high school counselors smell like Old Spice?