(no subject)
The bus arrives at Parris Island, South Carolina, at 3am. The early hour is no accident. The recruits are groggy, confused. Up to a few hours ago, the boys were ordinary civilians. Now, a sergeant sneeringly calls them "maggots," their heads are buzzed (25 seconds per recruit), and they are thrust quickly into the harsh world of Marine boot camp.
Buzzing the boys' hair is just the first step in stripping away their identity so that the Marines can stamp a new one in its place. The uniform serves the same purpose. So does the ban on using the first person "I." Even a simple request must be made in precise Marine protocol or it will not be acknowledged. ("Sir, Recruit Jones requests permission to make a head call, Sir.")
Every intense moment of the next eleven weeks reminds the recruits that they are joining a subcukture of self-discipline. Here pleasure is suspect, and sacrifice is good. As they learn the Marine way of talking, walking, and thinking, they are denied diversions they once took for granted: television, cigarettes, cars, candy, soft drinks, videogames, music, alcohol, drugs, and sex.
Lessons are bestowed with fierce intensity. When Sgt. Carey checks brass belt buckles, Recruit Robert Shelton nervously blurts, "I don't have one." Sgt. Carey's face grows red as the veins in his neck bulge. "I?" he says, his face inches from the recruit. With spittle flying from his mouth, he screams, " 'I' is gone!"
"Nobody's an individual" is the lesson that is driven home again and again. "You are a team, a Marine. Not a civilian. Not black or white, not Hispanic or Indian or some hyphenated American - but a Marine. You will live like a Marine, fight like a Marine, and, if necessary, die like a Marine."
Each day begins before dawn with close order formations. The rest of the day is filled with training to hand-to-hand combat, marching, running, calisthenics, Marine history, and - always - following orders.
"An M16 can blow someone's head off at 500 meters," Sgt. Norman says. "That's beautiful, isn't it?"
"Yes sir!" Shout the platoon's fifty-nine voices.
"Pick your nose!" Simultaneously, fifty-nine index fingers shoot into nostrils.
The pressure to conform is intense. Those who aren't sent packing for insubordination or suicidal tendencies are mocked in cadence during drills. ("Hope you like the sights you see / Parris Island casualty.") As lights go out at 9pm, the exhausted recruits perform the day's last task: The entire platoon, in unison, chants the virtues of the Marines.
Recruits are constantly scrutinized. Subperformance is not accepted, whether it be a dirty rifle or a loose thread on a uniform. The subperformer is shouted at, derided, humiliated. The group suffers for the individual. If a recruit is slow, the entire platoon is punished.
One of the new Marines (untill graduation, they are recruits, not Marines) says, "I feel like I've joined a new society or religion."
He has.
I found this in my sociology book, and I liked it. Kind of like a photograph of where Josh might be now. Enjoy, and comment if you please.
Buzzing the boys' hair is just the first step in stripping away their identity so that the Marines can stamp a new one in its place. The uniform serves the same purpose. So does the ban on using the first person "I." Even a simple request must be made in precise Marine protocol or it will not be acknowledged. ("Sir, Recruit Jones requests permission to make a head call, Sir.")
Every intense moment of the next eleven weeks reminds the recruits that they are joining a subcukture of self-discipline. Here pleasure is suspect, and sacrifice is good. As they learn the Marine way of talking, walking, and thinking, they are denied diversions they once took for granted: television, cigarettes, cars, candy, soft drinks, videogames, music, alcohol, drugs, and sex.
Lessons are bestowed with fierce intensity. When Sgt. Carey checks brass belt buckles, Recruit Robert Shelton nervously blurts, "I don't have one." Sgt. Carey's face grows red as the veins in his neck bulge. "I?" he says, his face inches from the recruit. With spittle flying from his mouth, he screams, " 'I' is gone!"
"Nobody's an individual" is the lesson that is driven home again and again. "You are a team, a Marine. Not a civilian. Not black or white, not Hispanic or Indian or some hyphenated American - but a Marine. You will live like a Marine, fight like a Marine, and, if necessary, die like a Marine."
Each day begins before dawn with close order formations. The rest of the day is filled with training to hand-to-hand combat, marching, running, calisthenics, Marine history, and - always - following orders.
"An M16 can blow someone's head off at 500 meters," Sgt. Norman says. "That's beautiful, isn't it?"
"Yes sir!" Shout the platoon's fifty-nine voices.
"Pick your nose!" Simultaneously, fifty-nine index fingers shoot into nostrils.
The pressure to conform is intense. Those who aren't sent packing for insubordination or suicidal tendencies are mocked in cadence during drills. ("Hope you like the sights you see / Parris Island casualty.") As lights go out at 9pm, the exhausted recruits perform the day's last task: The entire platoon, in unison, chants the virtues of the Marines.
Recruits are constantly scrutinized. Subperformance is not accepted, whether it be a dirty rifle or a loose thread on a uniform. The subperformer is shouted at, derided, humiliated. The group suffers for the individual. If a recruit is slow, the entire platoon is punished.
One of the new Marines (untill graduation, they are recruits, not Marines) says, "I feel like I've joined a new society or religion."
He has.
I found this in my sociology book, and I liked it. Kind of like a photograph of where Josh might be now. Enjoy, and comment if you please.