In addition to seeing the disparities in evaluations of male and female recruits by the DIs and black shirts, I quickly found that the female recruits were not held accountable to perform all of the tasks. By that point in the training, the drill instructors were there not only to observe and evaluate but also to have mentorship discussions with the recruits at the stations.
Yet many of the drill instructors did not make the mental shift from yellers and screamers to coaches and mentors.
Through it all, the male recruits and drill instructors were watching from afar.
Still, by the end of it, the recruits were blistered, mosquito-bitten, and sunburned. They were tired, and they had sand in places they didn't know they had before they joined the military.
In theory, the recruits had gotten some sleep; but, really, it's South Carolina. Sand fleas. All over. Snoring. Hot. Humid. You're either pulling something over you to avoid the sand fleas or throwing something off you to avoid the sweat. Stinky. Oh, man—so stinky. And they've hit that point where they're so tired that they can't quite fall asleep. They're practically hallucinating, but we need them to know just how tough they are. After moving all day for days straight, they've had three Meals Ready to Eat in three days, which amount to about 1,200 calories each—if you eat the creamer and the flavored drink powder, and if you can stomach whatever you happened to get. (Mmm, cold spaghetti and meatballs.)
And just when they thought they couldn't do any more, they had to complete a nine-mile hike. After two or three hours of sleep, we woke the recruits at two in the morning, and they forced their swollen and blistered feet into their boots, and formed up in the dark for the final test of their resolve: a stiff, painful, and blister-filled hike through the woods and swamps and then on hard pavement, carrying packs with fifty pounds of sweaty, stinky gear, as well as their nine-pound weapons, back to the Iwo Jima sculpture on the main parade deck. You know it: There's one in Washington, DC, too. It's based on the famous World War II Associated Press photo of the Marines raising the American flag after they've taken Iwo Jima. It represents everything that's important to Marines.
The hike culminates with the “emblem ceremony,” and it's rich in ritual. Back in 1996, the Marine Corps decided that recruits should know what it felt like to be an actual Marine before they left Parris Island, so they didn't keep acting like recruits at their next unit. It was basically a way to integrate them into the Marine Corps. So, they started the emblem ceremony. The emblem, of course, is the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor (EGA)—or that shiny bit of business you see on the collar of a Marine's dress uniform. It means a lot to us.
At the end of the hike, the recruits gather around the Iwo Jima sculpture on the Gray Deck, and they are a mess. They're sweaty. They're hurting. They stink. (I might have mentioned that. Lord.) They're trying to look good, because it's one of the most important moments of their lives so far—straightening each other's uniforms, squaring their shoulders. But they're absolutely bawling. All of them. There's snot everywhere—both the men and the women. As the chaplain leads them in prayer, it's like a wave of sniffles going through the ranks.
It's absolutely gorgeous.
This is where you become a Marine.
After a motivating speech by one of the first sergeants, the recruits take the Oath of Enlistment. We hand them their very own EGAs, and there's more sniffling, and the drill instructors act like proud parents. The new Marines now call the drill instructors by their ranks and names, rather than “sir” or “ma'am.” Or, more specifically, “Ma'am, yes, ma'am!” And then, finally, they all join in a rousing rendition of the Marines’ Hymn.
The men would be standing chest-out, chin-up at attention during the ceremony.
Sounds motivating, right?
But lined up behind the female formation stood a conspicuous row of chairs. If any of the women, the ones about to become part of the few and the proud, felt tired or light-headed, she was invited to sit.
I'm having a hard time thinking about it even now.
Generally, the women sitting in the chairs were the ones who had gotten into the van that trailed behind the hike to pick up strays because they were “too tired or sore” to continue. They had not gotten into the van because they were pushed past all exertion. Even during the Crucible activities, they weren't being pushed. They were the ones who throughout training had not been held to a higher expectation for performance.
Oh, it was humiliating!
If you don't think the new male Marines weren't looking sideways at the female Marines sitting in those chairs, you would be mistaken. They watched and judged. And, it was heartbreaking. We have whole generations of female Marines who sat in those chairs and will never understand what it feels like to earn their emblems.
Some of them were my drill instructors, who just a few years before had been too tired or sore to stand for the ceremony. And it didn't end there.
A week after the Crucible, the families and friends of the new Marines gathered on Parris Island for the grand finale: graduation. The new Marines wore their dress uniforms, and they looked pretty slick: patent-leather shoes, a brand-new physique, fabulous posture.
We had them out on the parade field, with their families watching from the stands, as we read out the lists of accomplishments while they switched from attention to parade rest to attention, and there was a band and flags and plenty of pomp and lots of circumstance.
And as the female battalion commander, all I could think was, “Please don't fall out. Please don't fall out.
