My USMC Chronicles: Women

In the society created today by American history, women are in a demeanor that demands equality. Despite this, my fellow female Marines consistently prove themselves unequal. A rare breed of women Marines I have encountered are persistent in the quest to defy the trends the females at our side have established. These trends are not outdated or simple stereotypes – they are characteristics seen in high volume. Although admittedly, many of us who strive to accomplish the equivocal tasks of our male counterparts fail, we strive nonetheless. In my four years experience, many men seem to respect that alone and I believe that it is respectable.

To more definitely explained, women are not proving themselves worthy of the same titles as men in the Marine Corps. Our Physical Fitness requirements are just one aspect, and I will begin with that. Women have a minute and a half longer to run a three mile course than men. Women do not have to do pull-ups, we are required to hang for an allotted number of seconds with a definite flex in the angle of our arms. The pull-ups alone, are much more difficult than the hang. The common argument on behalf of the females is that our bodies are designed too differently to make our Physical Fitness Test identical. I will put this into an extreme metaphor: If a man has no arms and one leg, he cannot perform the same as any other serviceman. Should the test for him be altered to fit is handicaps, or should we concede that his usefulness as a militant is too limited for mission requirements? Isn't the female handicap the same concept? If our bodies are not designed to handle the same as men, should we be permitted to hold a man's life at jeopardy to hush the cries of feminists demanding "equality"? Why aren't the men waving the same flag of "no equality" that women did? They have higher criteria and have higher expectations because they are men? Aren't women degrading themselves by allowing there to be handicaps for them? If it is vital, or appropriate, for the mission of a Marine to complete a specified number of pull-ups then that should be the requirement for a Marine. Instead, the Marine Corps has been pushing to enlist more females so hard in the past years that they have lowered the standards for them. As time has progressed those standards have been raised and raised, but they are still not equal. Only a decade ago did women even run three miles. Our prior requirements were a mere mile and a half. Especially in a documented time of bra-burning and insisting women could perform the same duties as men were they not trying to prove that by ACTUALLY doing the same tasks as men. It has been treated as a clubhouse that says "No girls allowed" and the females insisted that they get in. So, we lowered the standards, let them wear the uniform, and gave them a weapon, and they are tasked with the safety of the country and their fellow Marines. While I admit I could not, in my current fitness, perform as the men do, I believe that if I cannot meet the standards NEEDED for a Marine, then I need to join a branch I can successfully call myself equal. How would you feel to put in a war zone with someone you know couldn't lift your right leg much less your whole body in a situation you were injured and had them to depend on? Yet, ladies and gentlemen, this is America's definition of equality.

Furthermore, the PFT does not accurately assess the strength of the female Marine. Many females had painfully higher scores than I, but when we had to carry ammunition boxes, water tanks, Mollypacks, or radiopacks in boot camp they could not do it. One fellow recruit with a similar PFT to mine and I were constantly ordered to carry them. When obstacles that required hoisting one another over were approached, I had to lift my whole squad one by one. When I was the last and they had to pull me over, I was embarrassed because they struggled and at times did not complete the mission simply because they could not get me over the obstacle.

One aspect of the Marine Corps that personally finds a way into the depths of my anger is crying on duty. If you can't count on the United States Marines, the protectors of your freedom, to maintain decisiveness, bearing, and emotional stability in a difficult situation who can you count on? If you have an answer to that, then I hope you encourage them to start running and pick of a weapon, because I certainly do not want an emotional cry baby in a war zone next to me while bombs are going off. I am sure that you wouldn't want your brother, husband, father, or friend next to one either.

Another aspect of the woman's "walk of shame" is promiscuity. Only 36% of females in the Department of the Navy plan their pregnancies (Navy Surveys 2005). From personal experience, women take advantage of the fact the are a minority in the Marine Corps. When there are functions that permit civilian attire, I had never assumed I would see cleavage, but I do. In an unflattering camouflage uniform some females cake their faces with makeup and freshen up their fruity smelling sprays regularly. Now my civilian friends probably don't find the reasoning for my discouragement in this. While I am not against makeup in uniform, I am against the whole kit-n-kaboodle of girlie tendencies. The objective in makeup is to improve your appearance and appeal. (Please note, a little makeup to touch up an embarrassing pimple or alleviate your face of the signs of an all-nighter are nothing of the kind I speak of.) During our last Marine Corps Ball, the Commanding Officer, who is female, was pregnant, so she could not wear her dress blues and had to wear her issued maternity service alphas (they are often liken to that of the appearance of an olive – they are hideous) . So, she allowed all females to wear dresses to the ball to avoid the maternity uniform. I am disgusted with the whole concept of sacrificing Marine Corps tradition and degrading the Marine Corps uniform (on the Marine Corps Birthday celebration) to a secondary option in the favor of vanity. The men were not allowed to find their own impressive tuxedos, and shiny shoes. They wore their uniform – something the women exempt themselves from.

In my office we have had women only meetings, but if the men established a men only meeting the females would play the "inequality" card again.

I have run miles on such injuries as painful ruptured ovarian cysts, twisted ankles, and currently, a residual brain tumor. One of the aspects females are especially renowned for is our ability to treat every sniffle as the bubonic plague and every running pain as stress fractures. They are a never ending line awaiting that light duty chit that will excuse them from training. At any given moment less than half of the females at my current office participate with the men in physical training. The men finish runs limping, but running. The women walk and complain that thy "just can't breathe, because they just got off light duty".

These are only some of the aspects in which we degrade ourselves and give other females who truly want to be equivalent to our male counterparts a much harder obstacle to overcome.

It is sad that, in the society we created, only those who are the problem are permitted to speak the truth. Men, I dare you to repeat my words at your shop. At least I hear the EEO reps are nice.

Part One: JJ DID TIE BUCKLE

In the Marine Corps there are words used, almost religiously, that represent characteristics sought out in leaders of Marines. They call these characteristics The 14 Leadership Traits. These traits are guidelines for Marines to follow in order to attain leadership responsibilities, billets, and rank. The acronym JJ DID TIE BUCKLE is used when teaching young Marines of these dispositions: Judgment, Justice, Decisiveness, Intelligence, Dependability, Tact, Initiative, Endurance, Bearing, Understanding, Courage, Knowledge, Loyalty, Enthusiasm. Additionally, such traits are used to explain the necessity of respect for those of high rank; for the Corps has endowed them with their rank because they have attained these qualities and are to be emulated.

Judgment.
"Pas-kah-la!" Gunny shouted with a mouth full of sunflower seeds from her desk. "Aye, Gunnery Sergeant." I scrambled to my feet and quickly dashed across the small isle to my usual place, standing in front of her desk. "Do you have your security clearance paperwork?" "Yes, Gunny". Her eyebrows lifted and she said slower, "Well, go get them." "Aye, Gunny." I scurried back to my desk. Pulling open the bottom drawer, I retrieved the papers from one of the folders. Returning to her desk, I handed the paperwork to her. Her face twisted . She pinched the papers between her fore finger and thumb while holding it a considerable distance from her body. She looked at the paper I had folded in half, horizontally, and she stared at the single crease along the center. "Um...is this how we turn in paper work?" The expected words lethargically dribbled from my lips. "No, Gunny." She paused. "What are you going to do about it?" Dumbfounded by a question with no reasonable answer I simply said, "I dont know, Gunny." "Thats not an answer. What do you think you should do?" She pressed. "Get a new one." "No, Pomfrey isnt here today." "Fix it?" I responded. Her eyes relaxed a little. "How are you going to do that?" "I dont know, Gunny" She handed the paper to me and removed another sunflower seed from her mouth. "Figure it out." "I think there is still an iron and ironing board in the back." I noted reluctantly. Her eyes grew wider and she said, "Then you know where you need to be..."

Tact.
I sat at my desk, eating a microwavable meal when SSgt Bradley approached me asking if I knew where a fellow Marine, Wyatt went. "Did he leave for chow already? He hasnt finished payroll and Kansas City is waiting for it!" "I am sorry, SSgt. I dont know." Nodding, he left to ask Gunny. Twenty minutes passed, and Wyatt flew through the office door, searching as he walked. Standing next to my desk with SSgt Bradley, where they were waiting for Wyatt, Gunny abruptly turned as she saw him. "Wyatt!" Wyatt stood in front of the two of them in parade rest, waiting his scolding. As she yelled, SSgt Bradley stood quietly. To my disgust, she grew profane. "Are you a piece of shit?" "No, Gunny" "You smell like a piece of shit." "Aye, Gunny." "You look like a piece of shit." "Aye, Gunny." "You live like a piece of shit." "Aye, Gunny." "You act like a piece of shit. Maybe you are a piece of shit." "No, Gunny."

Understanding
It was finally chow time, and I was famished. I sat at my desk looking at the news on the internet. I bit into my sandwich and began reading an email. "Poskahhalaha" "Yes, Gunny." I turned to face her from my chair. She sat arranging her microwavable mini-pizza on its cardboard box. "What are you eating?" Dreading the conversation my answer would inspire, I spoke with pure repugnance of her interest in my lunch. I thought my choice would suffice any criticism, but I was wrong. "A turkey sandwich and a banana, Gunny." Her voice grew loud and boisterous, "A turkey sandwich?! You dont need to be eatn no turkey sandwich!" I said nothing. "Turkeys can run faster than you!" I remained silent. My face was red with embarrassment. "You dont need to be eatn no turkey. You need to leave that turkey alone." I heard a soft chuckle behind me, but I didnt turn to look. I was furious. I have never been over my weight, although I have been close. She is always over her maximum weight, I thought bitterly. "You should put that turkey sandwich down, P-squal-la-ha." She continued with her self-proclaimed wit as she finished her pizza. Desiring nothing more than to cease her incessant belittling and degrading opinions, I threw my sandwich into the trash under my desk.

The Unexpected Answer~


This morning was supposed to be my final PFT before I made my way across the country to visit my family, and Pintos family. I continually struggle to meet the basic running requirements the Marine Corps has established, so this morning began fairly stressful. Pinto and I woke up and ate a Powerbar to provide us with an extra boost, and headed to the PFT course.
Captain Engle had volunteered to run by my side, and push me to my full running potential. We started the run at a good pace, possibly quicker than we should have started. A little distance passed the first mile marker, I could feel myself beginning to slow. As we neared the end of the three miles, I could feel Captain Engle growing flustered and restless with our speed. She consistently encouraged me to pick up my speed, and coached my technique to better enable me to run. I moved my body in the fastest manner I knew. My eyes began to lose focus. My vision did not blur, but instead grew incoherent. Losing more control over the direction of my eyesight, my feet began to disobey their simple tasks, as well. Convincing myself I would remain steady with the momentum of my running, I continued. My mind began losing more control each step, until I was finally certain I needed to change my activity, or my body would not respond for much longer. Despite my own warnings, I continued to run. If I slowed, even slightly, I knew I would fail. If I failed, I would be held from any promotion, I would be put on remedial physical training, and I would enter a new duty station labeled as a failure. I couldnt fail, and I dont give up very easily. My disturbed vision finally debilitated my sense of direction so that I could barely find the running track. I jerked my head quickly in an attempt to snap my mind back into place, but instead my body deceived me completely. I began running sideways until I fell. Sgt Carrillo, who had been following me on his bicycle, stopped. Both Captain Engle and Sgt Carrillo stood over me saying, "Get up. C'mon. Pospychalla, get up." My eyes had rolled back into my head. Fully aware of what was happening, I tried to look straight, as I lay on the ground. I saw flashes of light as I battled to straighten my eyes, and they fought to retreat into my skull like a game of tug-of-war. After a few seconds passed, I was able to sit up, and then, walk. Captain Engle asked, "Can you run?" "Yes, Ma'am." I began to run again, because, as I previously stated, I dont give up very easily. I knew I had failed by now, but I couldnt appear to have given up. I saw Pinto running back for me, and soon, I saw the finish line. I ran across it, and finished. SSgt Seinkle ordered Pinto to take me to medical.
As we drove to medical, I apologized to Pinto for embarrassing him, though he humbly swore I hadnt. I began to cry a little, knowing that my peers and most of my superiors, at that moment, were claiming I had dramatically fabricated the scene. I could hear their critical words wondering how someone could pass out from a 31 minute run of a 3-mile course. If I had not been so slow I knew they would not question my integrity. As I have witnessed before, "faking it" and "lazy" are always the first assumptions of a Marine when he or she sees a slow Marine injured.
Later that morning, I sat in medical. My doctor told me he was uneasy about my story, because, apparently, since I had not lost consciousness, my situation was unusual. They had tested me to see if it was dehydration, but it wasnt. They tested to see if I was pregnant, but I wasnt. They tested my heart rate, but it was fine. They took blood, but I would have to wait to hear the results until tomorrow. Ensign Evans (my doctor) repeated that my account of that morning was odd. He was unusually thorough for working in Military Sick Call (for which I am thankful). To ensure it was not an issue in my skull, he told me to schedule an appointment with radiology for a CT scan of my head. He said I would probably have the appointment sometime next week. I told him I would be gone next week for my PCS to Japan. Understanding, he called the radiology head doctor and asked for a favor. The radiology doctor agreed to see me immediately.
The CT scan requested was "without contrast", but after the first scan, I was informed that the radiologist wanted a more detailed observation. To do this, the scan had to be performed "with contrast". I was injected with a dye that made my body feel uncomfortably warm, and created a metallic taste throughout my mouth. Then, the scan was repeated.
The friendly technician entered the room and informed me the radiologist wanted to show me the photos of my brain. I entered the room and I sat next to the radiologist. He began with simple chatting concerning my unique name, and the area I was from in Wisconsin. He asked me what influenced me to visit the hospital that day, and I explained it in my best brevity. He said, "Well, there is something going on in here." Then, he motioned to the computer screen. As he began explaining what a brain should look like, he added, "but there is this portion right here that looked a little darker than the rest. This is why we did a scan with contrast." Looking at the screen, I saw very little shading difference, but I listened patiently. A new shading of my brain appeared on the screen. "This is the area that was dark in the previous pictures." I looked at the white blob located in the left, rear portion of my brain. My thoughts were still open to suggestions; I did not compute what he was trying to tell me. "This is a tumor, and it will need to be removed soon..." He continued to explain the details of what had happened this morning when I fell, and I absorbed all of his information. The fairly large tumor was pushing my brain toward my forehead, and causing pressure and strain on my brain stem. The tumor was pressing against the area of my brain that mainly controls basic body functions, specifically, my respertory system. I tried to concentrate on his words to turn my attention away from crying. For the next few hours, I cringed back tears as I was lead from one department to the other. People were sympathetic. Their sympathy was so abundant, it gave me less reason to pity myself, and I was further able to repress my tears.
After hours passed, and I was released, I stepped out of the sick call department to find a handful of my superiors (including Captain Engle) waiting for me in the hall to show their support. Their presence revealed a side of the Marine Corps I see rarely, but I have known that those in my present chain of command do not fall into the normal parameters of my experience. SSgt Malone even led the group in a prayer to ask God to help me through my new endeavor. God will have his work cut out for him, because I dont give up very easily.....

His Untold Story~

My grandfather was a US Marine during World War II. He fought in Tinian, Saipan, Tarawa, The Marianas, and more. He endured two harrowing weeks of malaria, and by the grace of God, survived. Being a woodworker since childhood, my grandfather was recruited while on R&R in Hawaii to assist the construction of a stage for Bob Hope. Eventually, he was sent back to the states because his dental work was not satisfactory.
This is the story that my grandfather told me a few years ago. I wrote a paper on his endeavors of World War II in my high school U.S History class. Some aspects may be foggy in my reverie, so I apologize if there are any inaccuracies with dates and such. Today, his story means much more to me than I ever thought it would, but this is the piece of the story I enjoy retelling the most. I hope you find it as interesting as I did.

Kenneth Simons a enlisted in the Marine Corps in 1942, during World War II. Although his enlistment was short, it was eventful. During a brief period in the states, the government arranged for him to spend the night in a modest hotel in Chicago, with nothing more than the uniform he was wearing, until his train departed the next morning. Upon arrival to the hotel, the woman at the front desk informed him that they were over booked and politely apologized for any inconveniences this news may have caused. He thanked the woman, and left the hotel in search of a vacant room.

After considerable searching through the bustling streets of Chicago with no promise of hotel vacancy, Kenneth finally approached a nearby Police Officer perched idly on the street corner. He asked the officer is he was aware of any vacant hotels. After a moment of thought, the officer reluctantly shook his head, and shrugged. Overhearing the conversation, a formally dressed gentleman with precise articulation assured Kenneth that he had a spare room in his suite at a nearby hotel. He graciously acquainted himself, explaining he would be pleased to assist a United States Marine. Obliged, Kenneth thanked him and accepted his offer.

Later that night, Kenneth and the gentleman conversed over a few drinks in the luxurious suites lounge. Having no cash to repay the gentleman for his hospitality, Kenneth gave him some of the foreign money he collected, as a relic, from the ruins of a bombed international exchange in Japan during the war. Soon, the men turned in for the evening, and the generous host provided sleepwear for Kenneth.
The next morning, Kenneth awoke to find the gentleman had arranged for his uniform to be neatly pressed and breakfast to be sent to his room. After dressing, he heard voices in the dining area, and found a small aggregation of conservatively dressed people discussing business-like issues over coffee. Kenneth politely asked where the gentleman that had benevolently offered his hospitality had gone. They responded by smiling, and telling him the man had left early for work. Before leaving, Kenneth inquisitively turned and asked, "What exactly does he do?" The people laughed and a woman replied, "You dont know who he is?" Kenneth, slightly embarrassed, shook his head. She chuckled and proudly responded, "Well, he is the Vice President of Budweiser Brewing Companies."

The Disease of Power~


NOTE: This blog is a little graphic. If vomit, and diarrhea make you uneasy, do not read this.

I went to sleep that night more upset than I had been in awhile. My Sergeant, Sgt Gonzales, had been repeatedly failing my room on weekly field days (room cleanings). Despite the helpful labor of my fellow co-workers, the cleaning advice of my superiors, and the hours of additional scrubbing that were exerted into my small room compared to others, the work on my room was continually ineffective. It left my exhausted and embittered mind anxiously clouded with the inevitable punishments, and embarrassment I was going to receive the following morning when my attempts would end in vein. In addition, that night I had rudely demanded that two of the Marines, who had been loyal patrons to my futile mission, leave me to clean alone. I felt they shouldn't endeavor something that was hopeless for me. Wanting nothing more than to help, they objected, and insisted they remain to assist me clean. Embarrassed at what I perceived as their unspoken pity for my dependency, I threw open the door and vociferously demanded again that they depart. Everything felt irreparable, and checkmate.
My eyes flew open and the silence broke as vomit expelled from my throat onto my pillow and sheets. Feeling more fermenting, I began to run to the bathroom, but the distasteful fluid erupted onto the carpet with a distance I had never known to be possible. I continued the flight to the bathroom and, again, heaved my stomach contents to the floor less than six inches from the toilet. Weak and disoriented, I fell to my knees and alleviated myself of the liquid discomfort into the water of the government plumbing. Soon, a wave of "Montezuma's revenge" took grasp of my body. As quickly as I could I turned on the toilet and, also blanketed myself with vomit in doing such. Knowing I could not move I continued to spew onto the bathroom floor. My mind was incoherent.
A few minutes later, I was feeling brave enough to return to the room. Stumbling, I grabbed a towel and began wiping the floors. Soon I felt I had to vomit again and ran to the toilet. Afterward, I quickly tore the blanket and sheets off the bed, and stripped myself of my putrid clothing. I lay on my bare mattress, almost completely naked. I wallowed in my physical misery and the anticipation of my punishment for the disgusting state of my room the following day. I did not have the stability to redress. I was cold and uncomfortable, but I could not find the strength to move and change such.
This process continued for a couple more hours. Occasionally, my debilitation drained my body so that I sluggishly crawled to and from the bed. Once, I even surrendered and lay on the floor without attempt to pull myself onto my bare mattress. I did not completely comprehend my predicament, but hours passed until I could finally dress. I called Sgt J. He rushed to my barracks to take me to the Emergency Room. In the ER, they hooked me to an IV and lay a warmed blanket on me. No sooner had they kindly brought the warm blanket, until I passed out completely.
Meanwhile, Sgt J sat in the waiting room, expecting the doctors to inform him on my condition. The sun began to rise, and my Gunnery Sergeant insisted Sgt J return to work after he called to update her. He told her he was going to wait until he was sure I was alright. She told him she didn't care, and I didn't need him to "hold my hand". He, again, insisted he wasn't leaving one of his Marines behind. She repeatedly called the ER and Sgt J's cell phone ordering him to return to work. Such orders went unfollowed. Later, I learned that she was considering aloud wether to send another Marine to the Emergency room to bring me to work. Eventually, she sent one of the office Staff Sergeants to the ER. The SSgt told Sgt J that he needed to return because Gunny was furious, and he would stay with me if Sgt J so desired. Satisfied, Sgt J left the ER to the office. Upon return, Gunny began wailing, and threatening him with severe punishments. Sgt J held firm as he shamelessly informed her that he would have made no decision differently, even if his rank was jeopardized. He repeated he would never disregard the welfare of a Marine as she had ordered him to. Unable to argue with his faultless position in the dispute, she warned him he was "walking on thin ice", and dismissed him.
Later that day I lay, once again, on my bare mattress in my barracks room. A paper declaring me "Sick in Quarters for 72 hours" was placed in my window. Such meant I was not obligated to, nor fit for any duty, and I was to remain undisturbed. Also, I was not permitted outside of my barracks room, unless I was going to the chow hall. I had been told I either had food poisoning, or a stomach flu. I was highly intoxicated with medication, and my demeanor was possibly less orderly than it had been previous to my Emergency Room visit.
Sgt Gonzales pounded on my door a few hours into the day. I didn't move. It took too much effort. She pounded again. I heard the barrack's keys jingle. She tried one last time to order me to the door with her pounding. I couldn't move, or even open my eyes. The jingling continued for a moment and then light exploded into the room. Sgt Gonzales walked in as two gentlemen,who were also Marines in our office escorting her on her room inspections, stood in my door way. Running her hands along my dresser, inspecting for dust, she looked down at my pile of soiled sheets and clothing. "Did you field day, Pospychalla?" she asked. I mumbled, but I still did not open my eyes. She asked me a question or two more, but abandoned the attempt when they went unanswered. She continued to talk to me, but I was not listening. After looking over my room briefly, she left.
Today, I am so thankful that I had not gotten sick and stripped my clothing again before they intruded my rest. Thanks mostly to my medication, I slept 26 undisturbed, consecutive hours over my 72 hours of recouping time. I did get slightly, verbally reprimanded for "burdening" others by Gunny, and Sgt Gonzales insisted I had put on a show to avoid cleaning, and made me clean the following Monday. Sgt J received no punishment for what he had done for me.

Civilains, what would you do if you called in sick to work, and your boss made you get a doctor's note first? Then, he/she still came to your home and broke into your house to see if you were truly ill and if you had maintained good order in your home? In addition, how can some of you enjoy the freedoms you have and abuse them by burning an American flag, or demanding more money for your welfare check? Many aspects the military sacrafices aren't limited to their living breath. They sacrafice their seemingly trivial rights that many of you take advantage. They postponed school so that they may make their contribution to the society you spit on. Many people say "I couldn't do it. I don't do well with authority." Well, based off of my blogs, thus far how well does it sound I do with authority or with the military? There are ways to deliver your hushed opinion with tact and ease, without blatantly disregarding those who hushed them. I have found writing blogs is my means to do such. Everyone can serve in the military, but few people have the character and dicipline to actually take the initiative and find the courage to do it. Anyone with any apprehension to the laws of modern society, can see that such contributions need to be made to maintain that society to it's fullest. It is ironic how those that complain the most in America that our country is "not truly free" are those who have never had to live under the limitations of a government, or situation that was not completely democratic. It is not expected that every citizen serve time, but respect for those who have and for the principals they continue to serve for would be appropriate.

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.

Gunny's Request~


I have more opinion about the organization I am a part of than I know what to do with, but the following paper is the best generalization of those opinions I can conjure. Please dont think my opinions are limited to the following. This is MY space and I am going to vent my anger and frusteration for the stupidity I am forced by contract to tolerate if I want to!
My Gunnery Sergeant ordered me to have an minimum 1,000 word essay written and on her desk by 0730 the next morning as punishment. I am not positive what I had done wrong, but I believe it was for approaching her desk "looking unmotivated". Whatever it was it was obviously pointless (I will probably have many more stories about this woman as time proceeds). After my college class that night I stayed up late writing this essay. It is far from perfect due to the circumstances I wrote it in, but it gets the point across. The essay had to include all of the following topics: 1.A brief bio about my life 2. My take on being a Marine 3. My job as a disburser (that is the Marine Corps name for the clerks that work pay and travel claims) and why teamwork is important to it. 4. What do I want to do to improve myself.
Essay:
In the many aspects involving my daily life, who I am as a Marine and a person, my job as a Disbursing Technician, and my perception of my standing with the criteria of a United States Marine as it has been presented to me, are all pertinent issues I consider every day. Most of the time, I stop myself from thinking of such issues to avoid dwelling on disappointment.
I, *my name*, was born in Wausau, Wisconsin, but grew up in the hills of southern New York. My nearest neighbor was almost a mile from my house, so I generally depended upon my imagination and my younger twin brothers for entertainment. When I was almost thirteen my parents moved my family to Utah. We had only lived in Utah for seven months before we moved again to a little town in northern California. Although we moved a number of times around the local area, this is where we continue to call "home". The large high school in California presented a plethora of opportunities in contrast to New York or Utah. I took full advantage of these opportunities. My motivation to work with people, and do something the average teenage society would never have the dedication, talent, and initiative to do became the foundation on my reputable positions and responsibilities in an exhausting number of organizations. Unfortunately, I found myself overloaded with all the responsibilities and, my academics suffered. I had never let my responsibilities falter, but my grades continued to decline. My high test scores were the only savior from the fear of a fifth year. The Army found my name when I was applying for music scholarships online. They tried to persuade me to join their band, but I decided if I was to consider music in the military I would only participate in the most prestigious. The Marine Corps and the Army battled for my signature into their organization for weeks after I passed the field audition. In the end, I chose the Marine Corps Band.

Becoming a Marine was endeavoring, to say the least, but I had never been prouder in my life. My expectations were ignorant and pure. Marines were honorable and carried a similar virtue to that of superheroes in my mind. Although my physical fitness was lacking, I thought I would be a superlative Marine. I had the motivation, the dedication, the support of my family and the disciplined disposition. To my surprise, the Marine Corps did not prove it's prestige to my optimistic opinion. In boot camp, effort and motivation were renowned in merit, but in the Corps presented to me today such is not reflected. The incompetent lead aggregations because they serve longer, run faster, and aim better. While I agree all of the latter characteristics are imperative to the Corps, I do not believe they should be the sole requirements of a leader of Marines. The lack of required critical thinking, moral integrity, job proficiency, and strategic skills of the Marines that are, or could be, in my chain of command is not in cohesion with the standards I will place on myself. Such Marines, or "leaders", are permitted to make decisions that influence my life and my family's life both in war and in garrison. In the other side of the debate, not all leaders fall into this category. Those that truly abide by the "band of brothers" concept and make decisions based upon common sense and not upon the adrenaline of one's self-appointed pedestal are respected and noted for such. Why don't more Marines try to gain the confidence, trust, and respect of their juniors vice finding their opinions irrelevant? Being trusted and respected by their Marines wouldn't mean they were too lenient. They could still apply the appropriate sternness to disciplinary situations. Why don't they want their Marines to generally trust what they decide for them or explain their decision so they may learn from it? Why don't they want their Marines to truly wish them a good morning instead of regurgitating a redundant order? These are all questions I have not yet been able to answer, but I have two years left to do so.
In my job as a clerk, teamwork is key. Teamwork is more efficient than overall proficiency. As long as clerks help one another, they are always learning from one another. Work output will become more efficient and fluent if each clerk can expand their knowledge. As a section it is important to be able to depend on those involved so the section can be successful through any task.
With the gauges of a United States Marine, as they have displayed over the short time I have served in the Corps, I believe I have four considerable areas to tend. The first would be my physical fitness. The appropriate actions to such would be an extensive amount of the obvious physical training, particularly running. Second, I need more remediation with an M16A2 rifle in preparation for qualification. Third, my body language is profound, but misleading. I often do not say what I wish to, and instead I dare to say a slight portion of my thought. Such attempt is abandoned whenI realize that my words will probably be considered unimportant or inappropriate; therefore, my body language, although often deceiving, does the communicating. Last and most important, I wish I had the motivation and morale I once had. My own demoralized perception is often exasperating. I find myself thinking about it more often than I should and such thoughts only fester making the subject avoidable. As much as I yearn to love the Corps, I strive and struggle to find reasons anymore, but I consistently try through the trials and tribulations simply because it is how I was raised. As for the rest of my self-evaluation as a Marine, I will continue to value character, integrity, intuitiveness, effort, and intelligence. These aspects I value I believe I have met and will continue to meet. As a Marine I know I am lacking. I will always strive to do better than I did the day before. I do not desire to hold myself to the same expectations as most of my fellow Marines. I have more than the average one-dimensional standards I feel I need to meet. Despite my aggravation, I understand the prestige that lies in the Corps' tradition, reputation, and intent and for that I will continue to be proud.