The Six Weeks That Changed My Life.

A personal journey, feel free to click away.

I needed a job. I had paused my college career to put my wife through her graduation, and was tired of working the overnight shift packing out supermarket shelves in West Nanuet, N.Y.¹ Looking back, the eight a.m. team beer routines in the parking lot may have left an odd taste. Literally.

And there I found it. In the back of the newspaper, an ad: “We’re hiring for all positions.” And a phone number.

“U.S. Navy recruiting, how can I help you?” Sigh. But, desperate, I made arrangements to drop by and see what was possible. After a series of meetings, taking the ASVAB test, and learning about sea deployments, I arrived for a lunch with the recruiter, who was late. Next door, the alert recruiter for the Air Force poked his head in. “What were your ASVAB scores?” I told him, and he - with a line likely well practiced - with those scores you’re going into the NAVY?” Lured by a lack of ocean deployments and learning the Air Force was the only service that guaranteed your job selection; I let that man steal me away from the sea. I chose my first professional position as a Defensive Command and Control Communications Countermeasures (DC3CM) Specialist.

And so: 42 years ago today, November 26, 1982, I boarded an airplane for the first time. After leaving the MEPS² station in Newark, New Jersey, I was headed to San Antonio for U.S. Air Force basic training. Not boot camp, basic training. I would there be under the tutelage of a “training instructor,” (TI) not a “drill instructor” (DI). Hollywood examples are all Navy, Marines, and Army, not Air Force.

San Antonio Airport assembly of the “Rainbows.”

Aboard the bus from the airport, the last smiles for six weeks.

That long day included the first of many hazing rituals as soon we disembarked from the bus; we were instructed to pick up our bags and then put them down in unison. For some reason, it took us quite a few attempts to satisfy the TIs. It felt like hours, and I started to lose track of time. Assembling in the barracks, we were given two minutes (yes) to shower, shave, and return to a position of attention at our bunks. One poor lad emerged with a towel held to his face of many cuts. Finally able to try sleep, I found myself staring at a bird on a telephone wire outside the window. Long after the bird left, I kept staring at the wire until the sky began to brighten into my first Texas sunrise. The psychological stressors had robbed me of sleep. Not a promising launch to my Air Force career.

Uniform issue after barbershop visit. I do miss that coat.

On base, there were units at various stages of their six week journey, and one quickly learned the expectation was to mock the “Rainbows,” those unfortunates who still had hair and civilian clothing. Having arrived on the Friday after Thanksgiving, we were Rainbows all weekend and felt the shame. The efforts to erode and reshape identity were abundant. But so were the informal team building. Yes, every Sunday was a “GI party,” where we were expected to scrub and buff the barracks floor. Someone, and I wish I remembered who, came up with the idea to fill one of our SoftSoap containers with floor wax. The rest of us donated actual soap on demand for his hygiene needs, and our Sundays were much more relaxed than most.

You can get your food, but you stand at attention until your table is fully occupied..

We were all E-1, Airman Basics (ABs), or “slick sleeves” without stripes throughout Basic Training. The night before we graduated, my uniform was upgraded to show the two stripes awarded because I had completed two years of college. I was not to restart my higher education journey until 1988. My bunkmate’s jealousy was intense. “God, Bordeaux. That looks so good.” I had to agree. It only took six weeks to see stripes sewn onto a sleeve as a beautiful thing. I would leave Basic as an E-3 and head to San Angelo’s Goodfellow Air Force Base for Intelligence School. (I’ll pause here for the the giggles.)

The “confidence course” had its share of laughs.

It is not a stretch to say there are no words to express how these six weeks shaped the rest of my life. I enjoyed a career adjacent to national security for decades to come, I learned the personal discipline missing from my feral childhood, and I am deeply honored today to be called a veteran. I don’t fly a U.S. flag outside my home, because the one I wore on my sleeve remains. That uniform I wore meant that in the event of war, I was a legal target - my killer would not face any legal repercussions. As an intel troop, I would have been a prized capture. I left the service in March of 1990. My sacrifice during the Cold War pales compared to the experiences of those who came after me. But I had, with eyes open, accepted the fact that my life was subject to the needs of the nation - come what may.

As I approach an age associated with retirement, there is more reflection than ambition. More appreciation for what national service provided this latch-key kid from the New York suburbs. Forty-two years ago, I first spoke with a Navy recruiter who likely had words with his Air Force colleague. “And that has made all the difference.”

Happiness is Lackland in your rear view mirror.

1. I lived in Nyack, next door to West Nanuet. When I was eventually stationed in San Antonio for four years, I recalled I had researched Texas and was bemused to see a town named Muleshoe near the border. When I set up a bank account, the woman helping me remarked upon “Nyack.” “NYACK? What sort of name is that?” “It is Native American. I bet if I said Muleshoe you wouldn’t bat an eyelash!” Her eyes narrowed. “I was born in Muleshoe.”

2. Military Entrance Processing Station