Injustice~

Personal injustice often becomes one of the many emotionally tense situations I face in my career as a United States Marine. I have no defense from it, and I no longer try to comprehend any of the concepts involved in it. Even trivial injustices accumulate and their patterns tell the story of a greater injustice with all its miseries.

One example of such injustices occurred one Friday, after a long day of work. My only desire was to take a hot shower. Unfortunately, during the morning field day (room cleaning) inspections, our ambitious NCO, Sgt Gonzales, decided almost all of the Marines' barracks had failed field day. The only exception was the Marine she had personally trained in our office. The rest of the NCOs were enraged and implemented a weekend long re-field day. One hour into the cleaning, Sgt Gonzales peeked her head through my room door and demanded to know why I was using toilet bowl cleaner to mop the floor. I began to explain to her, but I was cut off when she grabbed the mop from my grasp. "This cleaner stinks, Pospychalla. Use Pine-Sol and bleach. I want to see lots of bleach in there," she ordered.
As she turned to leave, I gingerly inquired, "Sgt, Pine-Sol has ammonia in it. Doesn't ammonia mixed with bleach create a form of gas?" She shrugged simply and left the room. Obediently, I proceeded to rinse the mop bucket, and I poured water and Pine-Sol in its place. As I began draining the bleach container into the bucket, I worried if this was a reasonably intelligent idea. My thought broke when my nose began to burn. All at one moment, a bitter taste consumed my tongue, and the air felt thick to breathe. Immediately, I swiped the bucket by the handle and ran to the shower. The chemicals fizzed mildly like carbonated soda as I drained half the liquid onto the shower floor. The taste was almost unbearable and my throat began to burn. I tried to fill more water into the bucket, but I couldn't tolerate it any longer. I dropped the bucket and sprinted to the door. In the fresh air of the catwalk, I took deep breaths and tried to maintain my anger. I had known better than to mix such chemicals. How can so many people that lack the ability for intellectual reason be in any pre-eminent position? Why are they permitted to determine the active life of another human being and the worth of his or her propensities, opinions and decisions when their priorities lie in the thrill of standing ominipotently in command instead of their responsibility of seeing to our troop welfare? I didn't want to understand. I simply knew that I repeatedly had to sacrifice and work in its name.
As I looked up, Sgt J (my own office NCO) approached. He stopped abruptly and his face twisted. " What the hell is that smell?" I started to tell him, but he flamboyantly continued to wonder aloud what was making such a disturbing aroma. Ignoring him, I took a final breath and moved quickly through the room to the shower. The bucket was slightly tipped against the shower wall, but not turned. Turning the shower on, I began to fill the bucket with water. I carried it into the room and set it down. Knowing I was running short of air, I moved more quickly to the door.
"Pospychalla, stand right there." My steps ceased where I was in the center of the room, and I glanced up. Sgt Gonzales stood peering at me with her arms crossed over her chest. I pulled my shirt to my nose. I couldn't refrain from breathing any longer. My tongue had no escape from the discomfort and relentless taste. I glared at her through the window as she stood there; for there wasn't anything else I could do. "Get out here, Pospychalla." I ran "Look at you. You're about to pass out" she screamed as if I had done something terribly idiotic. I stood quietly as she began barking insults pertaining to my lack of common sense and sarcastically asking me questions about the amount of cleaning my mother had done for me. I tried to speak at every break here and there, but I was cut off every time. With every belittling word rushing from her dark lips, my temper gained more control and infected my facial expressions. With my mind screaming profanities at her and myself for standing undefended, she continued to scold "my" decision and irresponsibility. My jaw clenched in fury. Finally, her verbal insults ceased as she proceeded to show me how to mop a floor. She handed me back the mop and with a satisfied disposition, she walked out my door.
On her way out, she wiped her hands on the shorts of the physical training uniform she was wearing. Her shorts were a notably lighter, more faded green from wear than her shirt, the same dress code violation for which she routinely verbally reprimanded her junior Marines.