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Now, I might not have had to break up with her. I could have talked to her maturely about my decision, heard her thoughts, and oh my fuck, what am I saying. Of course I didn’t choose the logical route; no, I had to go and burn bridges because that’s what I do. I cut off ties because, hey, this is what I am supposed to be doing. Right?
“Race?” the nurse, or whatever his title is, asks me.
“African American. Asian American.” I look off to the side, figuring out how I got myself into this mess.
“Which one?” I fling my head back to his voice.
“What?” Did he not hear me the first time?
“Which one are you?” The guy is probably around my age, but he has been at this gig a long ass time.
“I don’t know. Is mixed an option, or biracial? Two or more races. I can’t pick one because I’m both. Look at my face, dude, I know you see black skin and slanted eyes. What do you want me to say?” My attitude is coming out, and I am surprised I didn’t suppress it longer. I am agitated. I can’t call Phoebe to talk to her about any of this. But I guess it is my fault, and I took away that choice.
“I’ll just put other.” The man doing the intake clicks his pen as he writes down other.
“Other? Motherfucker, just because I don’t fit into a certain category doesn’t make meother. It makes memore.Morethan one race. It’s a privilege, an honor, so you will put others if you are. I expect it to say African American dash Asian American. Or maybe just American, if that’s alright with you?” It’s the motherfucker that slips out of my mouth I know will get me into deep waters. I haven’t learned how to swim yet.
It’s my first week of training, and I am already fucking up.
“Madida. Heard you were finally joining us. Glad to have you part of our family.” I know his voice before I fully see him. The intake nurse stands to the side as my uncle enters.
I sit up straight and shut my mouth. My dad’s younger brother is one of the instructors at the Navy’s basic training.
“Yes, sir,” I say because I learned how to play the game long ago. My uncle looks just like my father, a little taller, but I wouldn’t say it out loud to my father’s face.
“Better keep your attitude in check while training. I’m sure you won’t have the energy after the seven weeks of hell we put you through.” It’s my uncle’s smile that is the real punishment. “Just because we are blood doesn’t mean I will go easy on you. You are a Madida. Our family name has a reputation; your brother held it up strong. Don’t taint it for us.”
“Yes, sir.” I mimic the exact phrase he wants to hear.
“Good to see you, son.” My uncle gives me a stern nod, then he leaves. I worry my wisecrack at this low-level intake personnel might put me on someone’s shit list, like my uncles.
The days go by quickly, and I dread the start of week two. The first seven days on base, they issue us uniforms do dental checks, administration, medical screenings. Everything to make sure we are in tip-top shape for the brutal beating of becoming a sailor in the navy. These are the end of our processing days.
Honor, courage, and commitment.
Those are the core values I have to live by. I should already have them ingrained into me since I was a young boy. But I have a hard time saying the words because, for me, they mean something different.
Each value reminds me of how Phoebe lives her life, not how I have lived mine. Honor, she respects all, and most respect her. Phoebe holds the homeless man as an equal to the CEO millionaire. Her sense of presence is filled with integrity. Courage, she is the bravest person I have ever met. Commitment, well, I guess she was better at it than me.
Week two, they push us physically; I am no longer attached to my body. My limbs transform to work as a team in a machine. They stretch, they bleed, they suffer, they excel. Seamanship, firearms, water survival, I don’t break a nervous sweat as they continue to badger us into thinking we don’t have what it takes.
Their words remind me of my father’s. The grit in their voices to push harder, be stronger, hold on for a few more minutes. Don’t be a quitter. It is like coming home. I have been seasoned to the sanctions of an overachieving dad with expectations.
I feel bad for those who can’t hear. They suck every ten seconds while running mile after mile. I can’t help but keep my eyes forward as some of the other recruits aren’t familiar with the negative reinforcement for achievement.
Firefighting might be my favorite skill we learn. Then shipboard damage controls a close second. I thrive in damage control. It must be because I am used to the stress of chaos. I am calm in its presence, for I know it well.
My mind breaks; this happens two and half weeks after I arrive. The physical capabilities were exhausting, scarring even. But I continued to make it through earned a slap on the back from my uncle. I am sure he boasted to my dad when it happened. At least my dad will be happy to know I haven’t flunked out of basic training.
It is something I believed he expected.
The classes that follow the four weeks are not dull; I am interested and learning new things. We are to memorize information, chain of command, general orders, rank recognition. All the goods, which I have already been educated on when I was a little kid.
But I hate the breaks because I start to panic and think I have to get out of here. This isn’t the place for me. This isn’t me. Then I think of the worst thing of all, where is Phoebe?
Bodies can be rebuilt, healed from broken bones, stitched up from cuts. But damn, this heart of mine keeps telling my heart we made the wrong choice, and I have a hard time convincing it otherwise.
At night in the barracks, what they call a ship, there are about a thousand recruits shoved into this container. In my area, I meet a couple guys. As my father says, I don’t talk much; I am not here to make friends. After boot camp, I’ll go to A school, and there I will pick and learn something and then be stationed elsewhere.
