Sticks and stones...

It is interesting what might constitute "the last straw" for someone. It is not so much a matter of a certain level of pain or injustice necessarily. Let's face it, the human body and psyche are designed to adapt to a good deal of abuse. After about two weeks at basic, a certain rhythm was established: no sleep, grueling PT (scheduled smokings), eat, "train" (get smoked again), eat, and repeat until lights out (sometimes with a few extra sessions in the middle of the night). Certainly not something that could be called fun unless one is bent that way, but it was bearable. The constant inner contradictions of the brainwashed system also had their own chaotic rhythms. By halfway through, I had found a certain calm with the certainties of a phone call on Sundays and a letter (or two) every night. There were always threats that these priveleges would be discontinued, but I started to realize that it took energy to hold up these threats and the drill sergeants were generally lazy when it came to these things. So it came as a surprise to me when I found myself crying over something as silly as low-crawling up a gravel road. Sure the rocks cutting into my flesh didn't help things, as well as the fact that I had assumed we were past this phase and had not expected to be making mud with my sweat that day. It was just this: I knew that the only reason we were bloodying ourselves up was because one of the drill sergeants had got bored. As simple as that. One grown human looking at the group of subordinate grown humans neutered of their power engorging his own and seeing only entertainment. Then again, this also was not something new, it was just finally inexcusable to my violated sensibilities. But this only made me mad; the tears didn't start until one of the impertinent bastards towered over my groveling filth and began to critique my technique of the maneuver. As if I could be expected to care about the quality of performance with the blood quickening from my knees and elbows. On top of all of that, to have even one of them see me cry after so many weeks of the well-maintained stoney glare was devastating in the moment. When we were finally allowed off our faces (only due to the arrival of our buses), I could only grasp at my pride in the tiny rebellion of refusing to wipe my face off: mud smeared nastily in tracks from my eyes and nose, flecks of sand edging my lips. Every person who made a motion at their own faces to show me where I should begin cleaning restored just that much more of my dignity as I staunchly disobeyed. I would clean later and maybe even cry a little more into the hot water of a shower, but right now they would all see the ugliness of what I was becoming. Of what they were creating. And the more they wanted me to hide it away, the more the beauty inside cackled with the fire of justice.