When Young Derek was 9, he saw some kid at school in a nice camouflage uniform. The kid was in the Young Marines, and my boy decided he too must be a young Marine. There were a couple of low key meetings with the former Marine group leaders. Dirty’s interest was held long enough that he decided to go to the week long “boot camp.” A buzz cut and some clothing purchase later, and he was ready to go.
We took him to the far off wilds of the Sacramento River Discovery Park at some ungodly hour. He’d been excited-nervous and had hardly slept a wink. It was still dark. My civic cruised through the sentinel teens standing at attention. As we rounded the corner, chaos erupted. Other uniformed youngsters jumped out of bushes and began to yell and bark at “recruits.” They aimed to unnerve and they nailed it. Kids scrambled and ran; to what, they did not know. The leader was decked out in his dress blues. He was a stark contrast to the bedlam as he calmly walked down the row of cars at drop off. “Don’t worry, your child is safe. Parent night is Wednesday” whilst behind him children run as though fleeing a burning building, wheeled suitcases being drug, items falling in disarray, terror on their faces.
I did worry. 9 is pretty young to be turned over to the para military experience. But it seemed to be what he wanted, so I left without him.
The young Marine program is for kids 8-18. There were a couple of little kids there, but most were middle and high school aged.
The program encompassed elements such as verbal/written tests, memorization of procedures/codes, drill skills, physical aptitude, and uniform presentation. And my baby boy had decided of his own free will that he wanted to excel at all these things. He learned to iron and understood the purpose of sizing spray. He bloused his pants out of his boot tops with precision. His cover (because young Marines are too cool to say “hat”) had to be in exactly the correct position. His push-ups had good depth. He continued to run after his little pasty face turned red. All with ZERO prompts from adults.
Wednesday took forEVER to come, but when it did I trucked myself out to see him at camp. His eyes were wet with tears threatening to fall as he said (and I quote), “This is the hardest thing I’ve done in my life.” 9.
While I was there, he told me that he’d hoped to win the PFC award. Private First Class would be given to the recruit who performed the best in the cohort. I thought that was a cute goal to have since he was a baby amongst nearly fully formed adults.
But wouldn’t you know it. When I saw him again on Saturday for graduation; that little dude had won that award. His little 4th grader chest looked about to burst with trying to keep in the pride he felt.
To this day, we don’t really know why he took the whole thing as seriously as he did. I guess some folks are just wired for things like structure, order, and service.
Skip forward to his bright ass being accepted into Cal Poly San Luis Obispo to study winemaking. A career destined for some pretty cool shit. However, young Dirty did not enjoy the dorm life experience in the slightest. He was more than a little grateful for a lockdown to send him home.
I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d find his way where he did.
Police academy lasted a little longer than Young Marine camp and they don’t have parent night. Also, no children were pepper sprayed at Young Marine camp (that I know of), nor were they issued guns. There are a lot of similarities between camp and academy though. Drills, Physical Training, uniform stuff, written tests, scenario tests, and the like. Once again; of his own accord, young Dirty wanted to do well. Once again, he did.
Dirty just wrapped up academy and is now able to move on to the next phase of being a tadpole cop; field training. There’s a lot to learn still, and entering a field training program does not guarantee becoming a fully fledged officer. It’s a strange mix of pride and horror from my social work parent self. I’m incredibly gratified that he’s chosen to serve in an honorable way as those who have before him. Nonetheless, I’ll be still worried about all that law enforcement is. I’m sure I’ll spend time wishing he’d become a barista instead. But I’m very excited for him that he’s passionate about what he’s trying to accomplish. And super hyped that he’s so focused at the tender age of 21 and small change. At his age, my goal was to bump up to better days on the schedule at the truck stop. Tips were best on Tuesdays. Everyone knows that.
I’m thankful he’s got strong positive examples and that it’s important for him to do things right. He and I probably have very different hopes for how boring the job should be; but much like when that 9 yr old learned to iron to impress Commander John, turns out this isn’t about me. (*eyeroll) Congrats Officer Adams! And PLEASE be safe!
Bifocals and Barbells 