by Diane Esteb
I
The day had arrived, and she couldn't have picked a more ap
propriate one. The overcast, gloomy day matched her mood
perfectly. If only this visit could be postponed one more time.
The strong desire to procrastinate had to be overcome, controll
ed. If only it was tomorrow already and the visit was history. If
only, if only-PLEASE-couldn't she get out of the visit? She told
herself to grow up, face the visit, handle it and get it over with.
She parked the car and locked it, just going through the mo
tions; habit did not take any conscious though. Her stomach
churned as she dragged her feet out of the parking lot and slowly
approached the building. She was consumed with apprehension.
Inside felt cool; the lights were turned down low to produce a
calming effect. There was quiet, soothing music in« the
background. It didn't fool her; she didn't feel calm or soothed.
The woman inside greeted her cheerfully. They exchanged
pleasantries and talked about the weather-just chit chat. Then
the woman left the room, and she was left alone. Actually, she
preferred it this way, no one to witness the shaking of her hands
or the sweat beading up on her forehead.
She picked up a magazine and flipped through it without real
ly seeing anything in it. If only she could relax! She made herself
stretch back, then rotated her head, wrists, and ankles. Maybe
deep breathing would help. What could she think of to help her
keep control? Please, please, let her have control. Just the
thought of crying in front of them brought on spasms of em-
barassment, and she could feel what control she had begin to
slip.
Hopefully, there would not be the need of another visit for a
long time-maybe a year or even two. If all goes well, she would
wait two years. That sounded like an eternity right now. Eternity,
"God, please get me through this visit with at least the shreds of
my dignity. Please, for once, give me control over my tears."
She remembered other visits and reddened from the
memories. They must think her a child; surely they must think her
unstable. She knew it was unreasonable to be so fearful of these
visits, but each time went the same. At some point along the way
she would lose control, and then the tears would come. That was
the worst part; the tears. It was so embarassing to cry under
stress. Once started, there was no way to turn them off. It was as
if her tears had free choice, completely removed from her wants.
Though the autumn winds blow
hard
One bird singing
Though snow blankets the yard
One coal glowing
Though the flames flicker and
die
One hope gleaming
Though gray clouds fill the sky
ONE HOPE
She shuddered when she heard the brisk footsteps coming down the
hall and suppressed the urge to bolt. The woman was back, all smiles,
beckoning her to follow. She was led into a bright, cheerful room and
invited to sit down. Now she knew what the fly felt like when invited in
to the spider’s parlor. She was offered the soft, plush chair-the seat of
“honor.” “Relax, lean back,” she heard him say. Her knuckles turned
white from the death grip inflicted on the arm of the chair as she heard
her dentist say, “open wide!”
by Julia Singer
“Parris Island”
It was February 26,1956, and I was on a bus not far from Parris
Island, South Carolina, the home of boot camp training for the United
States Marine Corp. Little did I know at that time, just exactly what
that meant, but time was about to bring a seventeen year old rough
neck to the unyielding wall of reality.
The trip south had been smooth and uneventful, then we pulled up
to the main gates of Parris Island and reality. As the doors of the bus
opened, two very big-, bulldog-looking men stepped aboard. They
were impressive looking with their spit-shinned shoes, dazzling bright
brass, and uniforms pressed to perfection with very well defined
military creases. They also wore black arm bands with white MP let
ters, designating them as Military Police. Then suddenly the dead
silent air was broken by the raspy voice of one of them, defiantly pro
claiming that "we looked and smelled like s—," and the other one in
terjecting that, "that's because you are s—." They spoke their piece,
slowly, deliberately, looked around the interior of the bus at all the
"erect t—s" sitting in seats, and then like two proud champions, slow
ly departed from the bus. As the bus pulled away, we all sat there,
silently wondering about what had just taken place, hoping we were
dreaming, but knowing we had just entered the first facet of reality.
As the bus drove deeper into the interior of the base, we could see
brick buildings with white shutters, standing at attention in long
straight rows. These we thought, were to be our living quarters. We
realized we were very, very wrong, the bus did not stop there, but
stopped in a large parking lot that would become known later as the
parade field.
The bus pulled to a stop, opened the doors, and the driver said,
"welcome to hell's home, everybody off." Two men, who had been
awaiting our arrival, were now screaming at us to fall in as we got off
the bus. After we had been pushed and shoved into the formation
they wanted, we were told to shut our mouths and quit milling
around. The big mouth screamer was introducing himself as Staff Sgt.
Hand, and his pushing sidekick, as Sgt Owens. He went on to explain,
"That while you here, I'm your wife, mother, sweetheart, and
shackrat, but God help the stupid son of a b— that tries screwing
me." Cute, but very effective because everyone knew he damn well
meant it He then told us to turn left and follow him at a double time
pace. We must have, looked similar to a flock of obese, flightless
geese trying to elude a fox. As we attempted this little feat, we were
stepping on and tripping over each other's feet, knocking each other
down, getting up and getting knocked back down again, tempers
flared and many obsenities lingered in the air, but we did finally
make it to our destination—rows
of half circle shaped, metal buildings that we were told were
quonset huts and that they were to be our homes for the next
three months. We didn't really hear too much about the huts, we
had our attentions focused on a man sitting in the middle of the
asphalt road crying for his "mommie." I do not know to this day
if this was a deliberate scare tactic or if this man was truly in fear
of his very life. Our attentions were suddenly broken by Sgt.
Hand's command "fall out and get into your huts, lights out at
ten o'clock." The huts were about sixty feet long and eighteen
feet wide, with bunk beds lining both sides. There were foot
lockers under every bunk and a pot belly heating stove in the
center of the hut, although I don't know why, as it was never
allowed to be used. The windows were small and opened to the
inside of the hut only wide enough to allow for ventilation when
it was permitted. This was to prevent an attempted escape. At
ten o'clock sharp, Sgt. Hand was screaming "lights out," and the
eerie feeling of entrapment was felt when we heard the click of
padlocks on the doors.
The years have rapidly stripped me of my idealistic youth, and
as I regress through the history of that youth and realize the truth
of reality, I wonder perhaps, if it may be time to compile these
military experiences into writings. The time when six young and
very scared men died in the Blue Ribbon March, or when another
young man put his mouth over the barrel of an M.1 rifle and blew
his brains and skull fragments across the hut because he couldn't
take anymore, and still another who put a forty-five pistol to his
left ear with no one ever knowing and probably not caring why
the act was committed in the first place, and the sickening
realization that life is the world's cheapest commodity.
by Joe A. Smith