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Language of the military
So, I was in the VA clinic last week, waiting for my appointment, surrounded by veterans of varying ages, when I hear one man, about 50 or 60, calmly say to a total stranger in a very loud voice, "So I got the crotch rot 15 years ago, and the stuff they gave me hasn't worked worth a damn..."
I found myself listening to him, nodding my head in sympathy over his plight. When I caught myself, I looked around and found that, even though the waiting room was filled and everyone else could hear this man's very personal problems, no one was the least bit embarrassed to be hearing about it, or even paying that much attention. Just an ordinary conversation.
I think I'm going to put this under a cut here, because the next part got a bit away from me and it's long!
I found myself listening to him, nodding my head in sympathy over his plight. When I caught myself, I looked around and found that, even though the waiting room was filled and everyone else could hear this man's very personal problems, no one was the least bit embarrassed to be hearing about it, or even paying that much attention. Just an ordinary conversation.
I think I'm going to put this under a cut here, because the next part got a bit away from me and it's long!
And that's when it hit me. For those of us sitting in that room, no matter the age or what branch of service we had been in, this was a language all our own, a conversation that had been held a thousand times with only the ailment changed. "So I got this huge ass blister on my foot the other day..." "I have the shits so bad I can't even fart without worrying about shitting myself..." "Man, my stomach is killing me. It must have been that last stop, I knew burritos wouldn't agree with me!"
I realized, in that moment, that for the past several years I had been speaking a language that a lot of people just didn't understand. Oh, the words were in English, but it was the kind of difference that separates English/English from American/English. If you don't know the translation, the context, the meaning is lost and people are left wondering what kind of nutter you are. I didn't even realize I was doing it until I listened to this man, so matter of fact about his complaints, so easy in his own skin.
I've said before that the military is a completely different life. It's its own culture, its own society where different norms and rules are expected to be followed. When a person is first introduced into that world it can be as strange as any isolated village in the jungle, complete with its own language and customs.
When I went to Basic Training, the only thing I had to base my expectations on were the things I had seen from TV. I think every person scares the hell out of themselves by watching Full Metal Jacket before heading off, expecting Drill Sgts that will beat the shit out of you or work you until you pass out. The reality of the situation is so different from what most people have experienced in life that it at times can be more horrifying that any movie, while at the same time, so much better as well.
From the very first day when you arrive exhausted and confused and scared out of your mind, your world changes. Words like "sleep schedule" and "duty roster" are thrown out as easily as "Drill Sargent" and "Uniform Code of Military Justice." You have no idea what the hell people are talking about, and follow the orders you are given as best you can, fully expecting to be punished because, well, you just don't get it!
But then you meet your Drill Sgts, and your life suddenly becomes so regimented that you can't even go to the bathroom without asking permission. And the language, the language that eventually becomes so ingraned you don't even realize you are speaking it, starts to become all you hear. For 9 weeks your world is narrowed down to doing what you are told, to being so damn tired you fall asleep standing up or marching or just sitting on the bus, waiting to be transported to the next lesson. And when you graduate, walking with your head high and your chest swelled up, you realize that your parents and siblings have trouble understanding you, unless they've learned the language themselves.
When I first came home on leave I found myself discussing polished boots and pressed uniforms. I found people looking at me weird because I had forgotten to respond to my first name, that it sounded weird to have them call me anything other than what I had been called by my friends and instructors. What was more, however, I found I couldn't talk to them as I had once, because not only had my words changed, but my body language had as well.
I spat, farted, belched, and swore with every other word. Even now, having been out of the service for almost three years, if I am around my friends who are still in I find myself swearing more, my body held differently, my mannerisms changed. I fall back into that language, that world, like I'm slipping into Russian or Japanese.
And I find it difficult, sometimes, to try and communicate with those who don't know the context of what I am trying to say.
Maybe I'm not explaining this right, just making a hash out of this, but - this is my world. It was my world for over three years, living and breathing and understanding it. It's become a part of me so ingrained I will never be rid of it. And I don't want to.
I had a broken foot and was still sent to the field. There were no port- a- johns, and my period had just started. I was freezing, unhappy, and sick, and my sgt, a giant of a man, had to dig a hole for me so I could pee behind a bush. And when I felt like breaking down and crying from shame because of it, he said, "It's not a big deal. That's what I'm here for." And I understood. It didn't matter that I was the only female on the team at the time, that the guys could just crane their heads and catch a glimpse of my bare ass if they wanted to. Because I knew that, even though they teased me about having a miserable day, they would never, ever mention that I was on my period, or had to have someone dig a hole for me, or would even consider looking at me unless I needed help. Because that was the language we spoke.
I lived in a world where it was expected that, at one point, all our lives would be on the line, and all we would have was each other. Where a person's blister could pop and get infected, slowing a march. Where a person with the shits could get dehydrated and fall sick, unable to do their job. Where someone with heart burn could be in so much pain they were close to tears and yet still do as they had to, because it had to be done. I lived in a world where I had the stomach flu so bad I had to have two IV just to get my fluids back up. I was in the field and still expected to do my job, so I didn't eat for three days so I wasn't spending all my time in the port-a-john. When my 1st Sgt learned that I was living off water and sleep, he forced me to eat and told me if I was going to be sick, I still had to eat so that at least something would stick inside me. He forced me to load up my tray and watched as I ate. And I did spend the rest of the day being sick, but I still did my job.
I remember a time when I was too shy to even take a shower in gym class. Then I joined and was forced to share a stall with three women because we had 55 women sharing eight shower stalls and only 45 minutes to get everyone showered. I had to pee squatting right beside seven other women in the dirt and heat of Georgia in May because we only had three minutes to take care of business and no facilities.
The language I learned while in the military changed my standing vocabulary. I still say latrine instead of bathroom when I'm not in my house. I still say "over" when I'm on the phone sometimes, rather than "bye." I use military time, because standard times throws me for a loop now.
And when I'm sitting in the VA clinic, surrounded by men and women who have been there and done that, I know it's all right for me to say, "I have the worst case of athletes foot ever!" I know that those men and women will look at me and nod their heads, because they know exactly what I'm talking about.
They speak my language.
I realized, in that moment, that for the past several years I had been speaking a language that a lot of people just didn't understand. Oh, the words were in English, but it was the kind of difference that separates English/English from American/English. If you don't know the translation, the context, the meaning is lost and people are left wondering what kind of nutter you are. I didn't even realize I was doing it until I listened to this man, so matter of fact about his complaints, so easy in his own skin.
I've said before that the military is a completely different life. It's its own culture, its own society where different norms and rules are expected to be followed. When a person is first introduced into that world it can be as strange as any isolated village in the jungle, complete with its own language and customs.
When I went to Basic Training, the only thing I had to base my expectations on were the things I had seen from TV. I think every person scares the hell out of themselves by watching Full Metal Jacket before heading off, expecting Drill Sgts that will beat the shit out of you or work you until you pass out. The reality of the situation is so different from what most people have experienced in life that it at times can be more horrifying that any movie, while at the same time, so much better as well.
From the very first day when you arrive exhausted and confused and scared out of your mind, your world changes. Words like "sleep schedule" and "duty roster" are thrown out as easily as "Drill Sargent" and "Uniform Code of Military Justice." You have no idea what the hell people are talking about, and follow the orders you are given as best you can, fully expecting to be punished because, well, you just don't get it!
But then you meet your Drill Sgts, and your life suddenly becomes so regimented that you can't even go to the bathroom without asking permission. And the language, the language that eventually becomes so ingraned you don't even realize you are speaking it, starts to become all you hear. For 9 weeks your world is narrowed down to doing what you are told, to being so damn tired you fall asleep standing up or marching or just sitting on the bus, waiting to be transported to the next lesson. And when you graduate, walking with your head high and your chest swelled up, you realize that your parents and siblings have trouble understanding you, unless they've learned the language themselves.
When I first came home on leave I found myself discussing polished boots and pressed uniforms. I found people looking at me weird because I had forgotten to respond to my first name, that it sounded weird to have them call me anything other than what I had been called by my friends and instructors. What was more, however, I found I couldn't talk to them as I had once, because not only had my words changed, but my body language had as well.
I spat, farted, belched, and swore with every other word. Even now, having been out of the service for almost three years, if I am around my friends who are still in I find myself swearing more, my body held differently, my mannerisms changed. I fall back into that language, that world, like I'm slipping into Russian or Japanese.
And I find it difficult, sometimes, to try and communicate with those who don't know the context of what I am trying to say.
Maybe I'm not explaining this right, just making a hash out of this, but - this is my world. It was my world for over three years, living and breathing and understanding it. It's become a part of me so ingrained I will never be rid of it. And I don't want to.
I had a broken foot and was still sent to the field. There were no port- a- johns, and my period had just started. I was freezing, unhappy, and sick, and my sgt, a giant of a man, had to dig a hole for me so I could pee behind a bush. And when I felt like breaking down and crying from shame because of it, he said, "It's not a big deal. That's what I'm here for." And I understood. It didn't matter that I was the only female on the team at the time, that the guys could just crane their heads and catch a glimpse of my bare ass if they wanted to. Because I knew that, even though they teased me about having a miserable day, they would never, ever mention that I was on my period, or had to have someone dig a hole for me, or would even consider looking at me unless I needed help. Because that was the language we spoke.
I lived in a world where it was expected that, at one point, all our lives would be on the line, and all we would have was each other. Where a person's blister could pop and get infected, slowing a march. Where a person with the shits could get dehydrated and fall sick, unable to do their job. Where someone with heart burn could be in so much pain they were close to tears and yet still do as they had to, because it had to be done. I lived in a world where I had the stomach flu so bad I had to have two IV just to get my fluids back up. I was in the field and still expected to do my job, so I didn't eat for three days so I wasn't spending all my time in the port-a-john. When my 1st Sgt learned that I was living off water and sleep, he forced me to eat and told me if I was going to be sick, I still had to eat so that at least something would stick inside me. He forced me to load up my tray and watched as I ate. And I did spend the rest of the day being sick, but I still did my job.
I remember a time when I was too shy to even take a shower in gym class. Then I joined and was forced to share a stall with three women because we had 55 women sharing eight shower stalls and only 45 minutes to get everyone showered. I had to pee squatting right beside seven other women in the dirt and heat of Georgia in May because we only had three minutes to take care of business and no facilities.
The language I learned while in the military changed my standing vocabulary. I still say latrine instead of bathroom when I'm not in my house. I still say "over" when I'm on the phone sometimes, rather than "bye." I use military time, because standard times throws me for a loop now.
And when I'm sitting in the VA clinic, surrounded by men and women who have been there and done that, I know it's all right for me to say, "I have the worst case of athletes foot ever!" I know that those men and women will look at me and nod their heads, because they know exactly what I'm talking about.
They speak my language.