Straddling Two Worlds
I am not officially ashamed of my veteran status. I just know better than to bring it up. I let the Rambo never-weres be more knowledgeable than I can ever be about active duty. If it is not on the official documents, I do not bother to correct the assumption that our house is mortgaged through my husband's non-existant military service. When the official VA documents must be corrected, I already know to expect the frowns and eye rolls. We bought this house on my GI bill. As we did the house recently sold. Boy have I gotten a brain zapping number of those negative responses in recent months. Trust me, Mister and Missus Macho, I would do it your way if the VA allowed it. Just give me the standard issue pumps and pearls and AssUme whatever makes my life okay in your head.
I do knot believe I am exaggerating when I say the Army saved my life. In the Spring of 1973 I was a throw-away kid on the streets of Detroit. The US was pulling out of Viet Nam and Army recruiters were some of the loneliest people on the planet. One fateful day I was caught in a sudden downpour and a recruiting office was the nearest shelter. The recruiters talked me into taking a recruiting test. Rather than risk being thrown out in the rain, I played along. The scores blew them away. I became their pet project. For the usual price, of course. Hey, the blood of my breaking hymen was cast into diapers. It was business as usual for me, except that someone was actually helping me get my GED, trying to get my weight up to Army physical minimums, etc.
August of 1973 found me in boot camp with my very own bed and three square meals a day for the first time in my life. It shocked me to hear my fellow WACs complaining about it.
I do knot believe I am exaggerating when I say the Army saved my life. In the Spring of 1973 I was a throw-away kid on the streets of Detroit. The US was pulling out of Viet Nam and Army recruiters were some of the loneliest people on the planet. One fateful day I was caught in a sudden downpour and a recruiting office was the nearest shelter. The recruiters talked me into taking a recruiting test. Rather than risk being thrown out in the rain, I played along. The scores blew them away. I became their pet project. For the usual price, of course. Hey, the blood of my breaking hymen was cast into diapers. It was business as usual for me, except that someone was actually helping me get my GED, trying to get my weight up to Army physical minimums, etc.
August of 1973 found me in boot camp with my very own bed and three square meals a day for the first time in my life. It shocked me to hear my fellow WACs complaining about it.
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