Full of Heart: My Story of Survival, Strength, and Spirit

by J. R. Martinez

  As we walked the campus, I pictured myself playing football as a UWG Brave (this was before they changed their names to the Wolves because of controversy over the use of a Native American term). The team was part of the Gulf South Conference of NCAA Division II.

  At the tail end of the tour. I got the chance to speak to a counselor about my potential admission. He looked at my records and then fixed his gaze squarely at me. “Sorry, son,” he said. “You’re not eligible to play football at the college level.” I didn’t have enough credits at that moment. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might be turned away, and I was crushed. Now what?

  At the beginning of my senior year, my Dalton High counselor had told me that I needed more credits toward graduation than I’d be able to earn in a regular school year. I was shocked and ashamed, though I knew very well there was no one to blame but myself. The fact is, I was more dedicated to being everything except a good student. I chose that road because I didn’t understand the advantage of good grades nor did I know how school could help me in the long run. Also, I hadn’t really noted the fact that I needed to complete certain specific classes for graduation.

  Since college football now seemed out of the question, the effort of making up the credits would be for my mother. I didn’t want her to feel as if I had been half-assed about my schoolwork (although I had) when she had worked so hard to give me everything. I begged the counselor for options. Again, I thought about my mother and what a privilege it would have been for her to get an education past the third grade. I felt ashamed of once again not focusing and taking my opportunities for granted. How many second chances would I get in life?

  The counselor had recommended night school, but I had to wait until the spring because my fall semester was dominated by football. Monday through Thursday nights, from six to ten o’clock, I dragged through two classes from dinner until bedtime. Usually I’d go straight from school to Sonic, the burger chain where I worked a shift, and then on to night school. It was anything but fun, but I felt that I could and would do anything to be able to graduate with the rest of my classmates.

  I busted my ass in night school and was rewarded when my mom got to see me walk across the stage with my Dalton High classmates to receive my diploma. But that thrill faded as quickly as the applause. I had nowhere to go and not a lot to do. I managed to get an inventory job at a local cable company, and all day long I’d count splitters, cable lines, and screws. I found the job incredibly boring and I hated it.

  During my off hours I lay around, dejected and moping, watching hours of sports on ESPN. I berated myself for believing I could go to college and make something of myself. I began to panic about what I would do for the rest of my life. Work at a monotonous job for the next fifty years? Again and again I asked myself: What are you going to do with your life? I hadn’t considered a single option. I guessed I really was a Multicultural Idiot.

  Until the day a commercial for the U.S. Army came on. Be all that you can be. It spoke right to me.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Uncle Sam Wants Me

  “I’m going to enlist.”

  “Mijo, what?”

  Military recruiters had come to Dalton High a few months before graduation. At the time, I had convinced myself I was going to go to college to play football so I only half-listened to the recruiters’ pitch.

  But now their words came back to me—opportunity, patriotism, a chance to see the world. I could save money for college in case I eventually decided to enroll. I would be more independent and it would allow me to give back to the country that had given so much to my mother and me.

  My mom wasn’t so thrilled. Having experienced the horrors of Salvadoran civil war firsthand, she had a very real fear of losing me. And I knew she thought often of my sister Anabel, the child she’d already lost, not to mention her other daughter left behind in El Salvador. She was fully aware that the war in Afghanistan had begun on October 7, 2001, less than a month after the planes hit the Twin Towers in New York, the Pentagon in Arlington, Virginia, and crashed near Shanksville, Pennsylvania. And while Operation Iraqi Freedom technically would not launch until March 19, 2003, U.S. troops had been gearing up for months in preparation for the invasion.

  On September 11, 2002, my mother drove me to Walnut Square Mall to meet with the recruiter before I’d board a van for an overnight trip to the Armed Forces Recruiting Center in Knoxville, Tennessee. Once there, I would be required to pass several tests to clear the way for enlistment. (I’d already made the trip to Fort Knox a few times during the summer for initial tests.) Assuming all went well, from there I’d go straight to Basic Combat Training at Fort Benning, Georgia, home to the U.S. Army Infantry School.

  At his office, the recruiter handed me some documents to fill out. While she waited, my mom looked around the office. She concentrated on framed photos of kids who had recently enlisted and others of those who’d already been in the Army for some time. Some showed soldiers in the field, and I could see those made her sad. At the same time, she was proud to know that I was willing to step up and wear the uniform, that I would be a man.

  But when I was finished with the forms, she reminded me that I was still her little boy. “Mijo, you have to eat,” she said.

  I looked at the recruiter. “Do I have time to grab something before we leave?”

  He nodded. “It will be a little while before the van arrives for you.”

  We found a Chinese place and sat down to have one last meal together. My friend Gabriel joined us. We talked and joked about everything except the fact that I was leaving. We walked back through the mall to the recruiter’s office, laughing.

  The van arrived and the driver appeared in the office. “Where’s the young man I’ll be taking?” he asked.

  I stood up and reality sank in. At the van the driver grabbed my bag and threw it into the rear of the vehicle. I put my arms around my mother. Though I felt enthusiastic about this step, I was suddenly frightened of the unknown. I was going to be away for a long time.

  I took one last look at my mother, who gave me a wide smile that couldn’t hide the fear in her eyes.

  I settled in for the two-hour ride to Knoxville.

  When we arrived, I checked into my hotel room and headed down to the recreational area reserved for those of us who planned to swear in the following morning. It had been a long day, but I was restless. I decided to take a walk into town to see the sights.

  My goal was to check out the stadium where the University of Tennessee Volunteers played. I wasn’t a fan of the team, but Celestino was, and I figured it would be cool to see it. I wandered the streets and sidewalks, feeling foolish and wondering why I hadn’t thought to consult a map or ask someone for guidance. I finally stumbled on the campus and made my way to Neyland Stadium, which accommodates more than one hundred thousand fans.

  I stopped at a pay phone to call my mom and Celestino to describe it. It was fun to hear Cele’s excitement but it was bittersweet for me, because I saw my college dreams on that bright green field. I imagined the spectators filling those seats to cheer for me and my teammates.

  As I began the long walk back to my hotel, I changed my focus from the regrets of the past to the future. Tomorrow I would become a soldier.

  The brrrrinngggg of the phone broke the dark quiet of my room at 3 a.m. with a wake-up call. Back in Dalton, my mother also woke early. She put on her makeup, an ocean-blue blouse, and heels. She, Celestino, Daniela, and Gabriel met to begin the two-hour drive from Dalton to Knoxville to see me sworn in to the U.S. Army.

  When they arrived, I pulled my mother into a big bear hug before acknowledging anyone else. We walked into the building where the ceremony would be conducted and sat down to wait. Eight other young men were there for the same reason. An officer entered the room. We lined up and one by one recited the Armed Forces Oath of Enlistment:

  I, Jose Rene Martinez, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against a
ll enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice.

  So help me God.

  I was officially the property of the U.S. Army, a soldier. I felt an unanticipated, physical surge of pride as the officer shook my hand, his eyes meeting mine.

  My mom’s disposable camera clicked and whirred. The snapshots from that day show me in a white T-shirt, black jeans, and the new Nikes I’d bought to train for the Army physical fitness test. My hair is cut short on the sides and curly on the top, and I have a skinny mustache.

  Everyone hugged me one last time, and my mother cried.

  “I love you, mijo,” she whispered, her arms tight around my waist. “I’m proud of you. Be strong. And you’d better write to me.”

  I boarded the van and found a seat alone for the five-hour ride to Fort Benning. My mom wanted to follow the van as far as she could. I looked out the window and watched my gold 1996 Nissan Maxima trailing with my loved ones inside. That made me smile. After a while they fell back.

  I slipped in the earbuds to my CD player, trying to calm myself with some music. Nelly and Tim McGraw’s “Over and Over” came on, and I started to cry soundless tears.

  Despite the burgeoning homesickness, I was excited about this adventure. I wasn’t thinking about the drill sergeants who would be yelling in my face. I actually thought of it like going away to football camp. I was looking forward to living somewhere else with new people, hanging around a bunch of dudes, pushing each other and sharing laughs. Boy, was I in for a rude awakening.

  I arrived at Fort Benning on the evening of September 12. I was pleased to find that everyone was pretty nice, and I started to think that it was going to be exactly as I had imagined.

  The next morning we were herded into the barbershop, and that hair the girls had long admired ended up in a pile to be swept off the floor. For the first time I could remember, I felt a breeze on my scalp.

  One by one we privates stood for our basic training photos. The drill sergeants told us to look mean because we were infantrymen, tough and unfriendly. My turn came and without thinking I broke into a giant smile, corner to corner. This earned me a lot of teasing.

  From there we boarded buses to go to our unit areas. We were ordered to sit with our heads down so that we wouldn’t be able to see where we were going. I tried several times to sneak a peek but the sergeant caught me. After a while, the bus crawled to a stop.

  I heard men yelling outside. “Get off the bus!”

  I’d just had a quiet ride resting my head, and now this? The second I stepped down there was a man in my face.

  “Get down! Get down! Give me push-ups!”

  It was almost funny when I heard one of the drill sergeants say to no one in particular, but loud enough to mock us, “Dear Mom, I’ve made a mistake!”

  Once the drill sergeants made their unpleasant introductions, they rushed us into the barracks that would be our home for the next few months.

  “Drop your gear and hit the floor!”

  I’d thought the push-ups phase was over. But no. In the Army it’s called “smoking.” It’s a form of hazing, or a “corrective measure,” whereby privates are compelled to repeat an exercise, such as push-ups, until the bosses decide they can stop. I probably did a few hundred push-ups that first day, until my arms were quivering and numb.

  The drill sergeants assigned each recruit a “battle buddy,” or partner. With the battle-buddy system, each soldier is paired with another guy and expected to keep an eye on each other to improve safety and protection during battle. In boot camp, you’re ordered to stay near your battle buddy—always. Mine was a tall African-American guy, a few years older than me, from New York City. He didn’t say much, but he had a lot of swagger.

  We took our first trip to the chow hall—walking in a straight line, eyes fixed on the shaved heads in front of us—and wolfed down our food. Back in line, I realized that my battle buddy wasn’t next to me. I panicked. I could guess what would happen to me when the drill sergeants noticed. Without thinking, I made eye contact with one of the drill instructors. Big mistake.

  He strutted over to me, frowning. “Why are you looking at me, boy? You like me or something?”

  “No.”

  “No what?” he fired back.

  “No, I don’t like you.”

  “That’s wrong!” he yelled. “From now on you will say, ‘No, Drill Sergeant.’”

  Then the DI noticed the space next to me that my battle buddy didn’t occupy.

  “Where is your battle buddy?” he demanded, his eyes boring into me.

  I gulped. “I don’t know, Drill Sergeant.”

  He pulled me out of the line. “I’m going to smoke you till your battle buddy shows up!” he yelled. “Even if it makes you throw up the food you just ate!”

  I flashed on something my recruiter had told me before I left for basic: “Make sure the drill sergeants don’t know your name. If they find out, you’re in trouble.”

  “What’s your name, Private?” the drill sergeant demanded.

  I was gasping for air as I heaved myself down and up, down and up in push-ups. “Martinez!” I huffed. So here I’d been at basic for only a few hours, and I was already screwed. It was officially over. He knew my name.

  “Well, Martinez,” he said, “if your battle buddy doesn’t show up soon, then you and I have reservations for a date later.” I knew this wasn’t a date I wanted.

  For the next half hour, that date was all I thought about. My battle buddy finally showed up.

  “Where the hell have you been?” I asked him.

  “I got lost leaving the chow hall,” he said.

  “We were all in a single-file line,” I said. “All you had to do was follow everyone else!”

  He frowned at me. Clearly he didn’t care that because of him I’d already been personally introduced to the drill sergeants.

  As my group unpacked our few belongings and loaded them into our lockers, the drill sergeants leaned over us, checking every tiny detail, smoking us when things didn’t look right. The folding techniques I learned in basic follow me to this day. I can fit almost anything into a small bag, just like in a game of Tetris.

  Next, we were invited to shower, basic-style. It had been such a hard day already and I looked forward to a nice, long, hot shower—a little water massage on my tired muscles, some time to relax. My mind drifted into fantasy, but the drill sergeants brought me back to reality real quick. We were instructed to grab our Dopp kits—that’s a man purse for grooming items, for all you ladies and civilians—run to the community showers, and report back within a couple of minutes. I barely had time to wash my newly shaved skull. At least I got a good laugh watching everyone slipping and sliding as they ran in and out of the showers. One guy hadn’t even washed the soap from his head.

  The first day of basic wound down. I couldn’t wait to climb into my bed to catch some z’s. But we were informed that we would be woken up at 4 a.m. I already missed those days when I could sleep in. But for now, this was my life. I peeled back the green Army-issue blanket and starched white sheet and crawled in, laying my prickly head on the flat slab that was supposed to be a pillow. I thought this wasn’t going to be nearly as enjoyable as I’d assumed it would be, and then I fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Maybe ten minutes passed before the world exploded. The drill sergeants rushed into the bay, yelling and banging things. Recruits were a tangle of arms and legs, all struggling to respond to the chaos.

  “Get downstairs and line up!” the DIs screamed.

  A couple of guys didn’t make it down the stairs before the DIs, so the entire group paid the price and we all got smoked. From sound asleep to push-ups within thirty seconds.

  Since I was an athlete, I was in good shape. But the lack of food, sleep, and pea
ce made me wonder if I would last. When the sun finally rose, the DIs sent us inside to get dressed, with orders to hurry up and come back for breakfast. Breakfast was drunk, not chewed—no time for chewing.

  Two weeks went by at about the same pace. It seemed like the drill sergeants all hated life, and they were taking it out on us. Then, imperceptibly, it began to change. The DIs somehow became a little less mean. The mornings became more of a challenge than a calamitous rush.

  By then I had a few friends: Alex from Fresno, Matthew from Wisconsin, and PJ from Nebraska. Everyone called PJ “Nebraska” and everyone called me “Georgia.” Our last names were close together alphabetically, so we bunked side by side.

  Pretty much right away PJ had stood out—he had a mouth on him. I stood out, too, for the same reason. In fact, PJ later told me that the DIs had told him not to hang out with me, a warning he disregarded. It wasn’t so much that I challenged authority, although sometimes I did; the real problem was that I would make everyone laugh when I did smart-alecky things. There was a guy from Minnesota who had the thickest Midwestern accent I’d ever heard. I couldn’t stop myself from imitating him, which never failed to get snickers from the entire company. PJ craved attention like me. That was another trait that drew us together.

  While other recruits in basic talk about pretty girls and fast cars, I’d talk about my mom a lot. People would make those “your mama” jokes, and I wouldn’t go along. I made it clear to others that it was off-limits to talk about my mom. The truth was, I missed her a lot.

  I couldn’t even imagine how much she missed me. It was many long days before we were allowed to make our first phone call home. Even then, that call lasted just thirty seconds, long enough for me to say, “I’m here, I love you, goodbye.” A few days later we got a little more phone time and I was able to chat with her a bit longer, assuring her that I was okay and giving her a blow-by-blow of the routine.

  Beyond that, opportunities for phone calls didn’t come very often. Instead, we wrote letters—carefully printed on ripped-out notebook paper. I’d never written so much in my life. Who could’ve guessed that I’d do more writing in basic than I had during four years of high school? Many of my letters were addressed to Daniela. She wrote back, sometimes sealing the envelope with a lipstick imprint. I told her I missed her, but I felt us growing apart. Here I was training to be a soldier, and she still had three more years of high school.