A Mother’s Memory of Her son’s bootcamp graduation.

Some years ago, I took an emeritus class at U.C. Irvine in travel writing. There I learned that a travel essay needs to be more than a travelogue. To grab readers, travel writing should also have attitude. The writer’s voice is essential, as it is through their eyes the reader views the adventure.

I hope you will enjoy (again) this essay I wrote for that class. A Mother’s Memories of Her Son’s Boot Camp Graduation shows that not all travel articles have to take you to foreign places. Written in 2002 and first posted here in 2020, A Mother’s Memory offers a glimpse of our military and the young men who join. Some of the young men in this story would soon be in Iraq. Today, young men like them could be sent to Los Angeles or Chicago. It seems we are now at war with ourselves.

Note: In the first days of September 2002, when this story takes place, it is only a week before the first anniversary of 9/11.

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THE CROWD IS BUILDING. We come from Texas, North Dakota, Oregon, Idaho, Missouri, Wyoming, Oklahoma, and California — in fact, every state west of the Mississippi River. It is Family Day at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego.

A thin man in cowboy boots stands near me, his brown and calloused hand resting on his wife’s waist. She is short and round, her tight jeans pulled in with a silver-studded belt. Between them is a stroller with a sleeping toddler and two sunburned, stair-stepped boys. A large Hispanic family, who must be cousins, aunts, parents, and siblings, cluster together speaking Spanish. A young girl, her hair in tight cornrows, sports a t-shirt with a big red heart and the words, “I love my Marine.”

What am I doing here? I wonder. A Californian, born and bred, surrounded by the cream of the American Heartland. A liberal democrat standing shoulder to shoulder with a man wearing a National Rifle Association cap. A third-generation college graduate thrust among families who, I imagine, believe the military is a road to a better life. Yet, there is a common thread that ties us all together. We wait with anticipation for the first glimpse of the sons, brothers, and boyfriends we haven’t seen in thirteen weeks. My husband and I, with our adult daughter, have come to watch our son graduate from bootcamp.

I love my country for its beauty and its freedoms, but I also carry a vivid memory of the reprimand I got in my first year of teaching for wearing a black armband to commemorate the fallen on both sides of the Viet Nam conflict. I am aware of a cold hard lump waiting to explode in the center of my chest — an uncomfortable lump of fear and disapproval that contrasts with a sense of eager anticipation to see my son and what he has become.

The amplified voice of a drill sergeant pulls the crowd into a patio ringed by Spanish arches. He spews information and instructions about the day and involves some brave mothers in a contest to see who can best replicate the Marine Corps rallying cry. A variety of “Ooh-Rahs,” some high-pitched, some low, at least one (mine) faltering, echo around the patio. “Be sure to get behind the sign with the correct platoon number of your loved one,” the sergeant warns.

Four deep, we jostle for a good picture-taking spot. The platoons arrive, their red and gold flags waving in the sea-blown breeze. My daughter nudges me and whispers, “There he is. I recognize his elbows.” This comment is helpful; there is a oneness to the young men, each one slim and fit in olive-drab t-shirt and running shorts. Only complexion and height offer any clue. My husband points to a figure that seems much like the others, yet something familiar marks him as our son. He does not smile or shift his eyes to left or right―the DIs are watching and notice everything.

Our young man is a squad leader and thus in the front row. For just a moment, pride smothers the cold lump that clogs my throat, and I squeeze my husband’s warm hand. Slowly the recruits begin to move, jogging in place near the sign with their platoon number, while cameras click frantically. Then there is a loud “Ooh-Rah!” and they are off for a swift four-mile circuit of the base.

Following instructions from the amplified voice, family and friends surge toward the theater where we are told the motivational run will end. A holiday atmosphere is being pushed. There is a purveyor of soft drinks, water, and candy. A tall Marine wearing a DI hat that reminds me of Smokey the Bear’s headgear leads Molly, an English bulldog dressed in a camouflage vest, around on her leash. Small children are allowed to pat the dog’s head. Some of us wander over to inspect the seven-foot-high wooden spirit displays standing on the theater steps. There is one for each platoon — all painted with more enthusiasm than artistic talent. I plant my feet behind the barricade and hold a space near the chalked number of my son’s platoon.

The sweating recruits return, and a tall, white-haired commanding officer delivers a welcoming speech. He is lean and fit enough to have run with this new class ready to graduate from basic training. San Diego adds six hundred young men almost every week all year round to the ranks of the United States Marines. The Parris Island Marine Depot in South Carolina trains both women and men and weekly graduates a similar number.

Later during the Emblem Ceremony, the cold grenade in my chest stirs again. It feels as if someone has pulled the pin. The recruits march onto the parade ground in precise formation. Hundreds of them stand in perfectly straight rows, dressed in pressed khaki and olive drab, their close-cropped heads topped with the small boat-shaped hat called a barracks cover. It is less than a year after September 11, and each recruit is entitled to wear the red and yellow ribbon on his breast signifying active service in time of war. Lined up and pinned in red and yellow, not one of them is old enough to remember Viet Nam or any other war. I fear that to these young men war is nothing more than a computer game or a chapter in a history book.

Drill sergeants, assisted by squad leaders, move down the straight rows and present each young man with the black metal Eagle, Globe, and Anchor pin that propels him to the official rank of Marine. Each new Marine proudly fastens the emblem to his own hat and returns to his place to stand at attention. When it is over, we pour out of the bleachers to hug our sons who stand stiff and proud but finally smiling. The air vibrates with military zeal and patriotism, and I allow my sense of impending danger to sink beneath the waves of pride.

There will be exactly six and a half hours of base liberty for the Marines. It is the first real free time they have had since bootcamp began three long months before. Our son leads us around the public areas of the base and explains that the barracks and training fields are off-limits to guests. We pass groups of new recruits still in their early weeks of training. He points out that their pant legs hang loose over their boots. The blousing of camouflage pants into combat boots, he tells us, is a privilege that must be earned. Our son wants to talk of home and hear news of his friends. I want to ask about what he has experienced, but I don’t know the right questions to get more than one-word answers. Even his father, who was never in the military, is tongue-tied with this self-assured young man.

In the end, we sit at a green plastic table in a patio surrounded by the PX and fast-food stands. A Hallmark store does a rousing business selling everything from mugs to stuffed animals, T-shirts to duffle bags, all advertising the Marine Corps. When we order soft ice-cream cones, I smile to hear my handsome, uniformed son call the lady who takes the money “Ma’am.” He did not learn this formal style of address at home.

Too soon the time is over. As goodbyes begin in the orange glow of the setting California sun, I look around. The smooth faces of the new Marines show the confidence and assurance that marks them as men. There are no boys here, though their average age is only nineteen. But the question lingers in the air — where will they be in six months?

My son in Iraq, 2003

Author’s note:  Within six months of his graduation, my son was in Afghanistan as part of a six-man reconnaissance team.  After 3 deployments and 8 years in the USMC, he returned to civilian life, attended university, graduated at the top of his computer engineering class, moved to the Pacific Northwest, and has now returned to Southern California to live where he grew up, close to his parents. We count ourselves very lucky.