Boot Camp: A Letter from Mom and Dad

The sound of revelry rings in my ears to this day; loudspeakers make me cringe; and the sight of gold teeth always brings back mental images of some of my closest platoon members. Memories from this experience will always be with me. The one that stands out most from the others involves an event which happened outside the barbed-wire fences of my summer home. It would turn out to be a huge turning point in my life while also attributing to my only serious screw-up in boot camp.

A month into the program, when the blisters from my feet had just began to heal and my platoon had progressed past the point of being demeaned at every waking moment by every possible staff member, I received a letter from my mother and father. Just like in prison, as I'd find out later in life, receiving mail was one of the few highlights of boot camp. Our drill instructors handed out our mail by throwing it to us. Envelope flight isn't very predictable, and if you could catch the zig-zagging projectile before it hit the polished concrete slab of the squad bay, you were allowed to open it immediately. This happened about as frequently as a safety in football. Let it hit the ground and YOU had to hit the ground and start "working" for that letter.

When the drill instructor called my name that day, and tossed the envelope without even looking up from the other mail he was shuffling through, I scrambled forward and deftly plucked it from the air. I was hardly prepared for its contents as I ripped the envelope open and began scanning the text. South America...Venezuela...Puerto La Cruz...Transfer?

The letter stated that my mother had been given a promotion by Conoco which entailed a locale change. She would be leaving almost immediately, with my father, and would more than likely spend the next few years there. I was very happy for her. My mother is the hardest working and most driven person I have ever known. She deserved a promotion, but it left much about my future unknown. I had many questions for her and my father.

Foremost in my mind was that I would be graduating from boot camp in two months. I would be a free man, but would still have five years of probation to complete. States don't allow you to transfer your probation out of the country, so what was I going to do when I graduated? I wanted to go to college, but where would I go and with whom would I live? My closest relative would be in Birmingham, Alabama. I had no desire to immerse myself into such a fundamental community. My other option, staying in Texas without any family, would likely land me right back in jail. I had to speak with my parents, but how could I get to a phone and get away with contacting the outside world? Communication by any method other than the United States postal service was strictly forbidden and held dire consequences. I went to bed that night ram-rod straight in my bunk, cursing the irony of my life, and contemplating a plan for getting to a phone. Rules were made to be broken, right? (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)