BOBO'S CAMOUFLAGE PAJAMAS
I wrote this article toward the end of my Navy career when I was still
stationed at Parris Island in South Carolina. At the time, the article served as
a sort of therapy for me. I had compromised my own values to the limit, not
realizing that doing so would have such a powerful effect on me. Still today
I do not regret having served in the Navy. It is somewhat true that doing
uncomfortable things makes you stronger. Nevertheless, I would never
compromise my values to that extent again. In that vein, I am adding this
article to my site. I hope you enjoy it.
by Dr. Daniel A. Bochner
Parris Island is a complicated morass of contradictions. It stands for
integrity while it breaks every rule. It represents our country’s ultimate
fighting force, yet it is partially created from society’s most wretched
misfits. Its leaders maintain the finest military deportment and presentation
to the world, but their institutional fealty causes grave family discord at
home. Its troops must possess maximum flexibility, but only the most rigid
of them will find acceptance among their ranks. It is yet another
contradiction that I am here, a liberal minded psychologist, wearing my
camouflage uniform, and trying to balance, on one hand, commitment to the
organization I serve, and on the other, empathy for the clients I see.
On a typical day, driving onto Parris Island, I search for my “cover.”
Should I put on my “cover”? The word “cover” refers to any hat worn by
military members while in uniform. Can I even find it? I sort through
miscellaneous debris on the passenger seat and find my cover off to the far
side jammed against the passenger door. Parris Island is where the Marine
Corps trains more than half of its new recruits. This is Boot Camp or, to use
the approved military parlance, “recruit training.” Lately I’ve been wearing
my cover on the way through the front gate. It used to be something I didn’t
consider. It’s not that I was being intentionally disrespectful. I simply
wasn't aware of the importance of this issue. Here at Parris Island, military
decorum is always at issue. Nowadays, after years of subtle indoctrination, I
typically find my cover and avoid the pang of guilt that seizes me on more
disorganized mornings.
There is only one road onto Parris Island, a winding, palm-lined two-lane
through snake and alligator infested swampland. It is breathtaking in beauty,
with clumps of marsh grass waving gently over green inlets under what is,
more often than not, a brilliant blue sky. On some mornings as I cross the
bridge from Beaufort and look down the Broad River, I can see the
shrimpers working their boats in the dawn. It is a peaceful, lazy, moss-
covered landscape that makes a person want to head for the beach, go
fishing, or just sit a while and draw in the balmy salt air. But the crisp salute
of the armed gate-guard, and the plain brown sign just right of the entrance
that reads “We Make Marines,” jar me back into the knowledge of a
different reality. There is an industry at work here. I am back at the factory.
I am the department head of the Mental Health Unit (MHU) at Parris
Island. The medical clinic that houses the MHU was built in the 1950s. It
has few windows and little light but makes due with exceptional cleanliness
and the recent improvement of new computers and internet access. In the
morning, as I enter the northwest hatch, it is common to experience the bone-
shaking bark of a drill instructor (DI) disciplining recruits in the characteristic
and powerful, but alien, Marine “froggy” voice. Recruits will often appear
as though ready to wet themselves while maintaining the position of
attention. They’ll stand there, erect and shaking, and they’ll struggle to keep
from wiping the DI’s feral spray from their bewildered, apprehensive faces.
Although recruits will often fumble under this dramatic scrutiny, sometimes
evoking ever-greater expressions of disdain and disgust from the DI, the
necessary response will inevitably be induced, a stridently enthusiastic, “yes,
sir.”
Recruits
For the recruits brought here, observing the area’s beauty on the way in
the front gate is impossible. New recruits are brought in at 1:50 AM and
many perceive the road past the gate as a journey into endless darkness.
Driving that road brings with it a transformation from youth to adulthood.
While for some the transition will result in promising careers or payment of
college tuition, others cannot get past the initial darkness. Recruits prepare
themselves for hell, some anxiously awaiting an opportunity to test
themselves, others wondering how they could have been so foolish to enlist.
As a clinical psychologist, I triage and treat the emotional casualties of the
training process. Mostly, I see recruits who think they made a foolish choice
coming here. Recruits come to me after telling their drill instructors that they
want to kill themselves. Sometimes they’re brought after saying they’ll kill a
drill instructor. Far less often, recruits are seen in my offices because it’s
been noticed that they’re suffering.
Recruits think about coming to Parris Island for many reasons. They
want to serve their country, to do the toughest thing imaginable, to be the
best, to make their families proud, or even to impress a girl back home.
Some come because they want to toughen themselves after growing up
thinking they’re too soft. For whatever reason a recruit thinks about coming,
once he’s talked to a recruiter it’s a done deal. There is no doubt that the
Marine Recruiter will be ultimately persuasive in pushing him over that final
decision-making hurdle.
No one here would deny that recruiters lie. The pressure on the recruiter
is tremendous. He works 80-120 hour weeks, and is expected to maintain
the best mood and social graces. He is a “picture-perfect” Marine and his
message is, YOU can be like him. He is armed with benefits for college and
stories from his own exciting adventures. He also has a quota, and there are
never enough recruits. The recruiter gets people excited, talks about how
great boot camp is, discusses the merits of seeing the world, tells every
potential recruit that every opportunity awaits him.
He also tells them to keep quiet about their pasts. Pasts of drug and
alcohol addiction, psychiatric hospitalization, and criminal activity are
common. But the Marine Corps is not only the “very best,” it is also a
second chance for those who have been anything but the best.
Camouflage Pajamas
Parris Island is almost universally disliked. Many in the medical and
dental staff are miserable here. And there is even griping among the Marine
Corps officers and enlisted who are here to train the recruits. Because Parris
Island is the “factory” for “making Marines,” it gets lots of attention.
Because it gets lots of attention, the leadership here is especially hard core.
There is a universal teaching in the military: “perception is reality.” The
leadership here wants everything 100% “squared away”… boots shined, and
uniforms starched sharp. The teaching, “perception is reality,” leads to a
very conspicuous polarity between all things revealed and all things
concealed. Maintaining that polarity causes widespread stress.
Before I entered the military, I thought camouflage was the equivalent of
aggression. But I like to wear the camouflage uniform (the “utilities”).
When I was growing up in suburban Chicago, the fourth boy of five, born to
extremely liberal-minded, intellectually stimulating parents, I was not allowed
to have guns. I was never interested in G.I. Joe. The most aggressive act in
my childhood occurred when I killed a small birch tree in the front yard
while playing Don Quixote tilting at windmills (my mother is still mad about
that). I did learn to fight when it was necessary, but this came only after my
father made its necessity clear. Any aggression that might have been natural
to me had been all but trained out of me by the time I was five years old. I
thought aggression, in all its forms, was bad. So, of course, the camouflage
uniform, from my view, was a uniform worn by bad, aggressive people. But
there is no military uniform I’d rather wear.
Wearing camouflage is like wearing pajamas. You’re not allowed to go
into town wearing them, just as you wouldn’t go to work in your night shirt.
Camouflage is ultimately comfortable, too. It’s all cotton. The sleeves roll
up in the summer and provide great warmth in the winter when the uniform
can be worn with a green sweat-shirt underneath. Although at Parris Island
the uniform should always be worn very crisp and the black boots should be
shiny, within the medical community these guidelines are less respected and
less complied with. I am not the only person here whose shoes are rarely
shined and who lets the pressed creases fade from the uniform long before
bringing it back to the base laundry for renewed vigor. But perhaps I am
one of the few who has to work so hard to balance my true beliefs and the
alien beliefs of this military culture.
I came into the Navy in 1995 (the Marine Corps is part of the Navy, from
which it receives medical services) while still working on my doctoral thesis.
There is a time expanse in the training of psychologists, between the end of
formal schooling and the goal of licensure, which for me seemed like an
eternity. This is a time when the hallmark of doctoral level study, the
dissertation, must be completed. When the dissertation is completed, a new
doctor must complete a year of post-doctoral supervision, pass the national
and state exams, and then, before getting licensed, wait three months for
notification of his examination scores.
My wife and I had a child in 1994. Stay-at-home parenting was an ideal
about which my wife and I had very strong feelings. It is a central trait
typical of men, but perhaps especially true of Jewish men with the mensch
(my father as a good example) held in high esteem, that they feel it is
imperative to be able to support one’s family. The inability to support one’s
family is felt to be disgraceful. And while I think our society is getting past
this traditional expectation, with most mothers now working and enjoying it,
I continue to be partially stuck in the past. I’m just now accepting that my
wife will have to work at some point. At the time that I started to look into
military service, I was terrified of failing in my obligations. My wife wanted
one of us to stay at home. I wanted my wife to stay at home. I was
desperate to make a living.
Military programs for psychologists are extremely attractive, offering a
good basic salary at the rank of O3 (Lieutenant in the Navy and Captain in
the other services), healthcare for the whole family, and also offering what is
called an American Psychological Association (APA) approved internship (a
highly touted resume booster). With these benefits, and despite great
trepidation about joining a sect of society that I knew would make me very
different from my peers, I embarked on the monumental effort of convincing
one of the three main military branches that I would make a fine military
officer. Military internships in psychology are competitive, with
approximately 200 applications to each branch. I traveled to San Diego, CA,
Washington, D.C., and Portsmouth, VA, visiting as many of the trustees
from these programs that I could, and in January of 1995, on a date known
as the “Universal Notification Date for APA internships,” I was relieved, and
excited, to be offered an internship with the Navy. It was my first choice.
That same day, although I tried to hide it, my apprehension, sometimes
approaching outright fear, began to grow.
I have been in the Navy for six years and I have never fit in. My inability
to mix with my brethren officers has largely occurred because appearances
are so important in the military. In my upbringing I was taught that
appearances do not matter at all. One time, when I was six years old, while
looking in the mirror I asked my mother, “why am I so ugly?” My mother
responded affectionately, “Honey, looks don’t matter anyway.” Although I
didn’t know it at the time, my mother thought that I was a good looking kid,
but she was completely against the idea of judging a book by its cover. In
that moment it was more important to her to let me know that looks don’t
matter than it was to comfort my distress. My mother’s views had their
effect. Although I am not concerned about my attractiveness, I have never
learned to keep up appearances.
There is no military installation where appearances are more important
than they are at Parris Island. At Parris Island even those who have always
been trained to keep up appearances are distressed by the heightened
scrutiny. The fit between the military and me, and especially Parris Island
and me, is very poor. But I’m lucky to have my camouflage.
We Make Marines
When I first came to Parris Island, I quickly learned that letting recruits
leave was considered bad. I already knew that what the military called
“attrition” was not liked by most military personnel. But there are many
who think “attrition” is good. In fact, many military members believe we’ll
do better in combat situations if the “garbage” has floated to the top and
been let loose for flotsam or jetsam. The problem is, there is a constant
threat that our numbers are dwindling. It doesn’t matter if a person has
many problems or even if he will be a good Marine. We need Marines, so
we make Marines. The last thing the Marine leadership needs is a bleeding
heart liberal in a position to casually release peevish recruits who gesture
suicide willy-nilly. By those who despise attrition, military mental health
services have often been referred to as the “revolving door of attrition.” By
those who want to gain discharge, we are referred to, wistfully, as “the
wizards.”
We tear them down and build them back up again. That is the purpose of
recruit training. Since 1915 recruits have been trained at Parris Island.
Training focuses on discipline, which is defined on the walls of the recruit
sleeping quarters as “the instant and willing obedience to all orders, respect
for authority, self-reliance, and teamwork.” Discipline became questionable
in World War I when many men refused to kill, either because they
considered it wrong or just because it was not natural to them. Parris Island
became a place where discipline would be indoctrinated come hell or high
water, and drill instructors were assigned the task of making sure that this
indoctrination would be successful. The purpose and necessity for
indoctrination are made clear throughout recruit training. All fighting
exercises at Parris Island are accompanied by the explosive shouts of one’s
comrades and leaders, “KILL, KILL, KILL.”
In the first phase of recruit training there is a disorientation period. Just
after they’re brought in at 1:50AM, often through a drowsy wet fog, some of
them using their last moments of freedom to snooze apprehensively, recruits
are immediately subjected to a focused haranguing meant to cause a
complete loss of individual identity and self-respect. The newborn identity
of a Marine, who is part of a larger and more important unit, will foster all
the self-respect that is necessary for complete discipline. The yelling begins
when the bus pulls up to the receiving area. Nothing these new recruits do
will be fast enough, good enough, loud enough, or sharp enough. If they
refer to themselves as “I” as opposed to “this recruit,” or if they look a drill
instructor in the eye, a firestorm of correction will light upon them. In their
first day all their hair will be shorn, their belongings taken, and their uniforms
will bear only their surnames as a way for the DIs to identify them. They’ll
go without sleep till 8:00PM that first night and will awake at 2:50AM the
next morning with a swarm of DIs ordering them on line (toes on a line
drawn from one end of the barracks to the other), “faster, faster, faster.”
The hyperkinetic, inexhaustible, torturous buzz of the DIs throughout
training is intended to establish that the only hope for creating order out of
chaos is the absolute obedience to one’s superiors.
Rules prohibiting physical abuse are strictly enforced, with immediate
relief from DI duty a common consequence for overzealous DIs who step
over the razor thin line between vicious degradation and physical assault.
There have, nevertheless, been many abuses by DIs over the years as they
attempt to walk this fine line. The Marine Corp’s most embarrassing
occurrence is known as the “Ribbon Creek Incident” in which an inebriated
DI marched his platoon into a swamp for disciplinary reasons, killing several
men. Since that time various kinds of “maltreatment” have been prohibited
including: punching in the stomach, burning with cigarettes, forcing to eat
cigarettes, stacking recruits in trash bins, and running the “belt line” (a
gauntlet of belt-swinging recruits). There are also now prohibitions on
profanity and several kinds of hazing behavior such as forcing recruits to
hike with sand-filled packs, dry shaving while running in place, and using
locker boxes as barbells. It is common knowledge that at one time DIs
interpreted these prohibitions as condoning all practices that did not draw
blood.
Physical exercise is currently the only allowable disciplinary action
(known as “quarterdecking”), but it is difficult in this culture for DIs to know
where appropriate discipline ends and abuse begins. All DIs and officers
who are to be directly involved in training are tasked with reading a
manuscript about the Ribbon Creek Incident as well as manuals specifically
outlining what training practices are considered appropriate. Nevertheless,
the culture of training continues to encourage that recruits be treated like non-
entities and worse. To further complicate the issue, DIs expect absolute
obedience, with anything less understood as an affront to the DI’s very
integrity. With the extraordinary level of control and responsibility granted to
the DI, and the great likelihood that imperfect recruit behavior will be taken
personally, it is irrational to expect an absence of abuse.
The process of recruit training is actually very similar, from a
psychological point of view, to the brainwashing process known as the
“Stockholm Syndrome.” Recruits are controlled and abused in a situation
that is much like captivity. Psychological studies use the term “cognitive
dissonance” to describe how the individual recruit develops from a civilian to
a Marine. He comes to believe that the only justification for being treated so
abysmally is that the cause is just. After a few weeks at boot camp, there
could be no brighter eventuality than to become one of the “few, the proud,
and the brave.” Only becoming a Marine, and true respect and love of all
that it represents, can allow the recruit to make sense of being treated like
human refuse.
Suffering
My training in psychology has honed my predilection toward empathy.
While I recognize the virtues of military training and a future military life for
many of the recruits I see, especially those that come from sparse
opportunity or those who have never been able to muster any self-discipline,
I believe the suffering I see is real. No, not every suicide gesture is an
indication that a person wants to be dead. Yes, sometimes such acts are
efforts to gain attention or manipulations of a system that will only allow
someone to leave if they are deeply troubled. But how much suffering is
necessary to make someone engage in behavior that virtually everyone in
one’s surroundings considers shameful, weak, pathetic, selfish, or even
deceitful? These recruits are suffering to such an extent that they can’t care
what others think. Even if getting to that point is not experienced as
suffering, the person is deeply troubled. To be cut off from the lifeblood of
one’s community is to be spiritually dead. The recruits I see are suffering.
I see much of myself in every patient. That is the nature of empathy. A
psychologist must identify with the client and simultaneously recognize the
differences between the client and himself. If a psychologist loses track of
the differences, he loses all utility in being a different person. The suffering I
see is always understandable in spite of the harsh views on psychopathology
that are most common to the military mindset. Most commonly, perceptions
at Parris Island are consistent with the popular Marine phrase, one that I
think is applied to human emotions as well as physical punishment, “pain is
weakness leaving the body.” When I hear that phrase, however, I identify
with my patients. There is something repugnant about being an emotional
healer who is, simultaneous with his practice of caring, associated with such
cold-hearted dogma. This kind of dogma, however, might just be necessary
in creating a great Marine.
Becoming a great Marine is related to being a perfectionist and extremely
responsive to authority. A person becomes that way by developing within an
authoritarian home. In the authoritarian home, standards are held at extreme
levels. It is not just “bad behavior” that meets with parental displeasure, but
even very minutely “childish” or “inappropriate” behaviors that would
commonly be considered age appropriate, and certainly not awful, by typical
parents. The child who will become a successful Marine learns to assume
responsibility and to maintain order for preventing loss of parental approval.
In learning to engender those behaviors that will assuredly meet with parental
approval, behaviors that indicate strength and responsibility, the perfectionist
gives up vulnerability, the ability to empathize with human weakness, and
thus the ability to be intimate with others. Need and vulnerability are
important parts of intimacy and, to the perfectionist, if others are needy, then
they are weak.
The perfectionist replaces intimacy with order. Authoritarian structures
are a great way to have relationships without giving up control. You put
faith in the authority and do what you are supposed to do. That is your
responsibility. And if you are responsible, and do your duty, you can control
your place within the structure. Many Marines interpret their slogan
“Semper Fidelis” as “Semper Gumby.” To be faithful and loyal is to be
maximally flexible to Marine Corps needs. The ability to be maximally
flexible with respect to the Marine Corps, however, is only found in the least
flexible people.
Being flexible in Marine Corps terms means always doing what the higher
authority commands you to do. Such devotion is emotionally simple. But
dedication to the military puts great strain on the family (those whose
approval could be lost if the perfectionist is not responsible enough).
Devotion to family, where the rules of emotions are never specific or
predictable, is emotionally complicated. At some point, the emotionally
simple dedication to the military overcomes the emotionally complicated
responsibility to the family. And often the very real loss of one’s intimates is
the consequence of being a great Marine. There is a military saying: “if we
wanted you to have a family, we would have issued one in boot camp.” The
military mission requires a focus that does not include dedication to the
family, and may even preclude it. I have often treated Marines after their
devotion to work has destroyed their family connections.
On the other hand, the kind of Marine that must be discharged from our
ranks is typically seen early in his career. This Marine comes to mental
health demonstrating little regard for the consequences of his actions. He
threatens suicide, or if that makes him feel too weak, he threatens homicide.
He is unsure of having ever experienced love. His background is so chaotic,
abusive, and exploitative that he knows nothing other than deep emotional
emptiness. On the surface he is whatever is most likely to serve the purpose
of meeting his needs of the moment. Underneath, he is a red-hot cauldron
of aggression, or a trembling leaf of fear; a vacuous cavern, sucking
emotional sustenance, or a voracious, clamping vice, attempting to swallow
whole all emotional contact.
When such a patient comes into my office, it is obvious that, (1) his
suicide attempt or homicidal threat is merely one dangerous action in a long
list, all concocted because gratification cannot be delayed and no amount of
pain can be tolerated, and (2) the chaos he has endured throughout his life is
destined to continue. In his civilian life he has seemed formidable. The
hunger in his personality, the need to have everything a certain way all the
time regardless of the consequences, has made him a victor in most short-
term battles. But in the long term, he fails repeatedly, finding desperation in
the absence of immediate gratification. Ultimately his failures prevail over
any possibility of success. It is an unfortunate reality in human suffering
that, most of the time, the more you have suffered in the past, the more you
will suffer in the future. Life is not fair.
It is common among military mental health personnel to engage in
discussion concerning whether or not one could have made it through boot
camp. Typically, everyone says that they would have made it. But there
are certain attributes that make a person a great Marine that I know I simply
do not have. Although I identify with all of my patients, both long-term
Marines and those that can’t seem to weather even the smallest storm, I am
neither perfectionistic nor impulsive. If I had gone to Marine boot camp, I
would have made it. Although mediocrity does not come easily to me, I
would have made a very mediocre Marine.
Semper Fidelis, Semper Gumby
In spite of the fact that most people who have to be discharged from the
Marine Corps have very severe emotional difficulties, there are many
examples of mentally healthy people who cannot adapt to a military lifestyle.
The Marine Corps is unforgiving. Consider the Marine Corps reputation for
eating its own. In my time here I have seen officers, with 10 years of
distinguished enlisted time before becoming officers, and with morals
faithfully matching those of the Corps, recover from mental health suffering
only to find themselves considered too weak to lead. DIs who take pride in
being nice but disciplined, and who refuse to veer from the Standard
Operating Procedures with respect to treatment of recruits, regularly find
themselves singled out as troublemakers. Many recruiters break down
because, despite demonstrating their ability to deal with stress through years
of service in combat situations, they are essentially shy and cannot, without
hellish discomfort, manage the required social nature of recruiting. These
Marines, though dedicated, disciplined, and tough in most contexts, find
themselves considered too inflexible for any job in the Corps.
There are also recruits who are perfectly healthy before they come here
and then simply can’t make it. They come from good homes where they
have become confident enough in love that they see little reason to be
distrustful of the world. In their limited experience, they have never been
seriously hurt by anyone. They have lost boyfriends and girlfriends, of
course, but they always had confidence that they were loved and lovable. In
this environment, those who have lived through relatively little tribulation will
seem too fragile to their handlers. The DIs will do everything possible to
toughen them up, but to no avail. Because it will not make sense to them
that people can be so mean, these well-loved individuals will not understand
how such treatment can be justified. Their indignation will develop into
acute depression.
I learned a very important lesson about such people. I saw a young
woman who said she was suicidal because she could not stand being at boot
camp. We discussed her family. The love she felt for them was clear. The
fact that she felt extremely loved was equally clear. She was a healthy
person. I talked to her about how healthy she must be. We discussed many
of her interests, her success in school, her many friends (some close whom
she could trust, others held more at a distance), her slow and deliberate way
of getting involved with boys despite great passion, and her hopes for the
future. She agreed with me that she was not suicidal at all, but that she
could not comprehend a place where it seemed that “evil lived.”
She understood it as a game, but she felt to play was to say it was okay. I
told her she could refuse to play, but that she would be responsible for the
consequences – a possibility of a few months in the brig (military jail). I told
her she had great integrity, but that I do, too. Because of my integrity I
cannot, as a psychologist, recommend discharge for those I know to be
perfectly healthy. But there’s something missing in this equation. Two
weeks later I saw the patient in the emergency room just after she had
received stitches in both wrists. Had I missed something? Yes, I had most
certainly missed something. I had missed the chilling capacity of this place
to make even the healthy, sick.
Clearly, it is an important part of my job to distinguish those who must go
from those who should stay. I recently received a Navy and Marine Corps
Achievement Medal for reducing attrition. My colleagues and I decided to
try to differentiate how much suffering is acceptable. We tried to predict
whether the suffering of the recruit would eventually be a liability to the
Marine Corps. In other words, if we thought the Marine Corps could
tolerate the level of suffering it would have to endure by taking the recruit as
one of its members, we would allow the recruit to suffer given the possibility
that becoming a Marine would eventually alleviate that suffering. We were
successful in cutting attrition from 84% of all recruits through our doors to
54%. Out of every 100 recruits we see, we now allow 30 more than before
to become Marines. Here at Parris Island that is considered wonderful.
Within a one-year period, such a reduction was estimated as saving $2.8
million in the costs of getting recruits to Parris Island for training who, in the
old system, would have been sent home. There has been no attempt to
estimate the cost of keeping them.
Bobo
I first heard the term “Bobo” just recently as it has been publicized in
several magazines that critiqued David Brooks’ book Bobos in Paradise: The
New Upper Class and How They Got There. The term is translated as
Bourgeois Bohemian. Brooks uses the term to refer widely to liberally
minded baby boomers who now have loads of money, work in corporate
America, and do their best to continue in their pursuit of liberal ideals. They
also have denial about a wide range of contradictory behavior (for example,
driving environmentally incorrect, but stylish, gas guzzling autos).
“Bobo” is an intentionally oxymoronic term. It reflects a desire to have
one's cake and eat it too. Although I do not have loads of money, I identify
with this group. My oxymoronic fate, however, is that I am a liberal who
has joined the ranks of the arch-conservatives. As a matter of psychic
survival, in order to live within my community, I do not readily reveal my
liberal leanings. I tell myself that people are people, and essentially that is
true. On a daily basis I deny myself.
Denial of the self is essential to the human condition. For most people the
outside appearance rarely represents the inner experience. Such an
occurrence only develops if the inner feelings are warranted and considered
acceptable by others, or if a person is suffering so much that all control is
lost. There are also a few unusual cases in which people are particularly
healthy and capable of maintaining high levels of authenticity. But most of
the time, for most people, the effort at maintaining an acceptable outer
appearance requires denial of the inner experience.
It is a general malady of the human condition that our outside presentation
covers for our internal difficulties, weaknesses, and in some circumstances,
guilt-laden strengths. This is not healthy, and largely mental health is the
integration of the inner and the outer. The mentally healthy person can be
authentic, and spontaneous, without being dangerous to anyone else and, as
a consequence of that authenticity, will spread an aura of good will and
connectedness. But no matter how healthy we become contradictions, or
“conflicts” as some in my profession may call them, can never be eradicated.
A “Bobo” is also a kind of blow-up punching bag. My knowledge of the
Bobo punching bag comes from psychological studies concerning the
modeling of aggressive behavior. I also enjoyed them when at friends’
houses as a youngster. These inflatable punching bags are bottom weighted
so that no matter how many times they are smacked, kicked, shoved, or
otherwise abused, they simply bob right back into position, ready for more
whacking. They were called “Bobos” partially because they had garishly
colorful clown faces. Every slam inflicted was absorbed by a big silly grin
and the imperturbable features of the ideal clown.
The Bobo punching bag took extreme amounts of aggression and never
betrayed a feeling. Marines at Parris Island also withstand their fair share of
abuse, but they’re unlikely to sport a silly grin. Surely if a recruit develops a
silly grin, it won’t last for long. Nevertheless, judging from my observations
here, it’s amazing how easy it is to become inured to even the worst of
situations – to maintain an outer appearance that in no way betrays or
reflects inner experience. In this way, to be a Marine, or to be me, is not
unlike being a Bobo. A genuine circus clown, of course, often conceals a
bitter sadness beneath his comic facade.
Saying Goodbye
At the end of 11 weeks of torturous training and abusive treatment,
recruits go through two major unifying ceremonies. The first is called the
“Eagle, Globe and Anchor” ceremony. Recruits complete a grueling three
days out in the field (“The Crucible”) with an early morning six-mile hike at
the end of which they are given their “Eagle, Globe, and Anchor” pin (the
Marine Corps emblem). This ceremony is the demarcation between being a
“recruit” and being a “Marine.” Every one of these new Marines, finally
having reached his goal, some of them the toughest sons of bitches you can
possibly imagine, breaks down in tears when given his pin. Each of them
now has managed to go through the hardest test of his life, and all of them,
despite their newly developed unit identity, are oblivious to the tears of the
others. The next day is graduation, a ceremony that requires disciplined
unity in these new Marines for a perfect exhibition designed to adequately
reflect their “honor, courage, and commitment.”
The United States Marine Corps was formed in 1775 by the Act of the
Second Continental Congress. Between then and now the Marines have
developed and maintained the fierce reputation that makes them feared as
the “first to fight.” When proudly referring to each other as “devil dogs” (a
nickname earned for ferocity in hand to hand combat at the war of belleau
wood in World War I), Marines suggest the importance of their necessary
reputation and identity. Our way of life has often depended upon these
fighting men, and we continue to rely on them today. It is important to them
that they know this; and it has become important to me. The pomp and
circumstance of the graduation ceremony are steeped in pride and tradition.
At a recent graduation, I observed the ceremony, which in its entirety stands
as a symbol elevating selfless love for one’s country beyond personal
interest. The bleachers were crowded with family members dressed in their
finest for the proud moment when their sons would march across the parade
deck. The General was in attendance, as were many of the Parris Island
high brass. After marching onto the parade deck in perfect order, shining
boots glinting with every deliberate, synchronized stride, and Company
Commanders’ swords shimmering in the Friday morning sun, some 400 new
Marines stood at attention awaiting their next command. All movements
were meticulously choreographed and exquisitely executed. The Marine
Corps Band was introduced and after a few traditional military tunes, our
National Anthem was played. As the band was just beginning, I instinctively
snapped into a salute to our flag. I mouthed the words in unison with this
proud and patriotic crowd. Slowly but surely, a familiar pride welled up
through my chest. In advance of thought, tears gathered in my eyes, and
with a blink, one solitary tear flowed down my cheek.
Soon, I will leave the Navy after six years of service. In serving the
military’s traditions, I have changed. Although I have little aggression in my
heart, through compromise upon compromise, the military is now a part of
me. Just as every person must defend himself against those who would
exploit or abuse him, every nation must do the same. Perhaps by necessity,
the military creates a special condition of humanity where the inside and
outside are especially polarized. When weakness is revealed, life’s natural
processes seem to attack and feed like buzzards to a dying beast or worms to
a decaying body. The military is our nation’s boundary against would be
carnivorous hordes and parasites. Boundaries, though, can be too complete.
We lose access to experience for fear of harm. I have compromised and
allowed the military to enter me, but the fear in the military is simply too
great to allow similar flexibility. My experience leaves me wondering if the
Marine Corps has anything to gain from a change toward kindness. I now
know that its harshness is too harsh for me.
Maybe the military is a necessary evil. Maybe Marine boot camp is a
necessary evil within the military. Many disparate ideals, desires, and
iniquities surround and infuse Marine culture. For me, being a part of the
military has developed my own pride and patriotism. It has toughened me
up where I was once too weak. It has helped to hone my keen empathic
awareness. It has made this sensitive, caring, politically liberal psychologist a
better man. The Marine Corps’ Parris Island is replete with contradictions,
of which I am only one. Here at Parris Island, we make the best from the
worst, the flexible are rigid, we eat our own, and I like to wear my
camouflage pajamas.