Pink Freedom

We often hear people say they are thankful for the sacrifices our military make, especially on days of remembrance such as Memorial Day. It is true as a nation we need to take pause to remember, reflect and give thanks and honor to those that have given their lives in protection of our freedom. It is ironic that the liberties we enjoy are at the cost of the liberties they have lost.

Loss of freedom isn't always a life, which is the ultimate sacrifice. But in every day living there are certain freedoms we civilians enjoy that our military does not. This was the most difficult thing for me to embrace when I was a Basic Trainee at Ft. Dix, New Jersey.

I was new to the military life not just because I was a new recruit but mostly because growing up I had not been exposed to the military at all. I didn't personally know anyone that served, we did not live near a base or installation and my family never even talked about the military. On occasion, when in the city (Chicago) I'd see sailors from Great Lakes Naval Base walking around while on their weekend pass--they looked like the sailor on the Cracker Jack box. That's all I knew. Walking into the military life was a complete turn around for me.

While in Basic Training, every very aspect of life was controlled; when to sleep, when to eat, what to eat, how much to eat, what to wear, what to think, what to say, how to walk, how to talk--even down to what underwear to wear. All of our civilian clothes were taken away from us and then we were marched down to this Shoppette, a smaller PX (Post Exchange), and mandated to buy new underwear and toiletries. Yes, they even told us what soap to use, shampoo, feminine products, etc. This did't sit well with me.

One evening I was on KP (Kitchen Patrol) duty and though I didn't have to peel 100 pounds of potatoes, it was still less than desirable duty. I worked in the back scrubbing pans, a job I chose to do because there were no Drill Sergeants in the back and I was in a corner mostly alone. Living with over 100 females in the barracks can wear you down. We didn't even have time to use the bathroom alone so if scrubbing a pan or two enabled me to have a few moments to myself, it was well worth the work.

The kitchen was very hot and humid, no air conditioning. It smelled like a combination of bleach, cleaning products, insecticide, grease, food and sweat. In the back where I was, where all the dish washing took place, there was less air circulating --just a lot of heat and steam. Up front it was much cooler and nicer and nicer still was the dining room, if you could stand Drill Sergeants breathing down your back. I was happy to opt for the heat and steam.  When I finished scrubbing all of the pots and pans, I decided to take a break. After dinner was over, I'd have a stack of serving pots and pans to scrub so I decided to slip out while I could. I stepped out onto the dock where the trucks unloaded the food and supplies that were delivered. I needed some fresh air and the smell of asphalt, exhaust fumes and the stench rolling off of the dumpster was a welcomed change to the bleach burning my nose. At first I thought I was alone and then someone spoke. Over in the corner sitting on an upside down orange milk crate was a civilian woman who worked at the Mess Hall. She was dressed in cook whites, which seemed to illuminate against her dark skin. She was smoking a cigarette and the smoke lingered around her as if she were floating on a cloud. We exchanged hellos and then a little conversation started.

The woman asked me a lot of questions about the Army and basic training, which was odd to me since she worked right there on post you'd think she knew more about it than I did. She said they, the civilian workers, really weren't allowed to talk to trainees. Ordinarily that would have made me paranoid like a Drill Sergeant was going to bolt from around the corner, snatch me up by my collar and, "DROP AND GIVE ME 20!" But our clean and crisp Drills wouldn't be back on the dock, I felt safe back there. I felt safe from them but for the first time in weeks, I felt safe to by myself. too.

I was a mess. My hair was pinned up in its regulatory off the collar fashion but the humidity made it frizzy and small strands of wet hair were falling around my face. I felt damp all over and I knew I had soaked in the smells of the kitchen into my uniform and skin. Despite the fact that she was working too, she was cleaner and her hair was perfectly pinned up, all nestled neatly into a hair net. She wore make-up and as she puffed her cigarette a trace of pink lipstick was left on the filter. I was so jealous of her for all of those reasons. I'd even light up a cigarette just to see the evidence of my pretty pink lipstick left behind. In contrast, I felt ugly and a prisoner of my own BDU's. Looking at her, an older woman that wore more years on her face that her birth certificate probably told, made me feel ugly and keenly aware of my stiff cross your heart Platex white bra and white cotton grandma underwear that went clear passed my belly button. Reeling there in those thoughts the woman asked me what I was going to do first after basic training,  The question was geared towards those little freedoms I had been striped of; favorite foods, movies, friends, sleeping, driving . . . .

As she asked the question, from the outside of my olive-drab t-shirt I lifted up the bottom of my cross your heart Platex bra to allow the sweat to drip down instead of pool up on the shelf the 2 inch wide elastic band had created.  I let the bra go, causing a slight snapping sound and I looked up at the lady and I said:

"I'm going to wear pink panties."

Today as we celebrate Memorial Day people will be dressed in their patriotic red, white and blue but for me, today I am going to wear pink --simply because . . .

I can.

Thank you to the men and woman that so bravely and sacrificially serve.  Thank you to the families that give to us their sons and daughters.