Truth Written in the Stars
I don't know if I am any more introspective about my life than anyone else, but during these last few weeks it would seem I have been deeply engrossed in self-examination. There are a million reasons why. Surround yourself with the men of the United States Marine Corps and be the only woman; you tend to pay attention to odd things like the similarities and differences.
It sounds crazy I know, but I've never subscribed to the fact that men and women are equal. So when I am in a situation where I am the only female, or one of few, I tend to find myself looking for what makes men and women so different. Call it a hobby. Call it crazy, call it a waste of thought and time--but I do it.
The men, they have better upper-body strength, no doubt about it. I, of course, have better endurance and can multi-task far better. They can focus so specifically that it would appear nothing else exists. I can keep the broadest of open minds, allowing for insights a tight bead of focus misses out on. Over all, when you combine me with my male counterparts, we are as the Marines say, Outstanding! We're not men, we're not women; we're Marines. OORAH!
Of course, I have to be completely honest here and say sometimes I miss the more girly side of life. Male Marines have high-and-tight haircuts. No fuss, no muss. I, however, am obligated to keep my hair within the strict grooming regulations of the USMC. I don't mind it, but, ladies, do you know what desert sun and heat do to your hair? EEK. And let's talk nail polish, or moisturizer, or luscious things such as mud baths... they don't happen here. It's okay though; one good thing about being around my fellow Marines is that we're all grungy. I don't have to look like a model here, and that is a bright side.
But truthfully, the differences go beyond the physical. Sometimes I see my fellow Marines bottle up their emotions. We know when the others are hurting but there is an odd, respectful distance we keep--unless your fellow jarhead comes to talk to you. Home is always the nearest and dearest thing to our hearts, but we try to keep our thoughts of home to a minimum. We need home to motivate us, but we're careful not to let missing it depress us. Very few tears are shed here, and usually the ones that do escape our eyes come from the news of death or loss.
It's things like what I've just described that I have been paying attention to lately. You see, my whole life I have been around the Marines. My first memory is standing beside my daddy as he saluted while my country's flag was lowered for the night. I was three. The Marine Corps is in my blood, and always has been. It's also why I was such a tomboy growing up.
From my first memory on I wanted to be just like my daddy. I had my own utilities. We had makeshift rifle ranges where I learned proper care and maintenance of my weapon. I can sing cadences that would get the deaf on their feet marching. I've buried the fleas on Paris Island, climbed and rolled down Mt. Mother <edited> in California. I've been all over Yuma, Cherry Point, Lejeune... and Okinawa. Daddy wasn't happy with my actions there and that is all I am going to say about that!
I always prided myself on being able to "hang" with any jarhead. I've always loved it. But a few weeks ago while talking as jarheads do, I heard one of my men say something that floored me. Marines can have crude mouths at times (ask me, I teach them new words all the time!), and when a one uttered an expletive another Marine commanded, "Watch your mouth, there's a lady present."
The lady referenced was me, of course, but my fellow jarheads sweetly broke into a debate. "She's no lady, she's one of us," the swearing Marine defended. My heart skipped a beat. In my opinion, there is no finer compliment then the one he just gave. It almost brought a tear to my eye. Of course, not all of the Marines present agreed. To some of those men, I was still a lady, even if others thought I was just like them. And it was that debate that began my deep introspection. What kind of woman am I?
Boy, is that a hard question to ask yourself. I spent weeks observing myself, recalling my life and going over all my finer and worst qualities. I was bound and determined to find out what kind of woman I was. What a task. I'm 38 years old. 've been divorced; my children were killed in a car accident. My family has passed away. I became guardian to nieces born of a twin sister I never knew I had. I've been alone, worked my tail off, done things that most never dream of, and yet I had no idea what kind of woman I really was.
I never found an answer really, at least not one that fit. Yes, I am a tomboy. I hunt, fish, work on cars, love motorcycles, and think camping is the bee's knees. Yes, I love dressing in ball gowns, painting my nails, wearing silk stockings and garter belts. I can be quiet and demure, and I am massively loud and obnoxious. I care deeply and I tend to over-nurture underdogs. But those are all facets of who I am... they don't tell what kind of woman I am.
I didn't have an answer. I was depressed.
There is a reason the United States Marine Corps is known for being sent in first. When you want something done, you send in the Marines. They do not know the meaning of the word fail. As I sat lost in the sadness of not knowing what kind of woman I was, it was a Marine who completed the mission.
It happened by accident. I don't think he intended me to see it. But one night as I sat talking, my eyes spotted something. "What is that?" I asked the Marine I was sitting with. Our eyes met and in an instant this normally bravado-filled man looked shy.
"Uh," was his only reply as I pulled the image I spotted closer.
"Oh my God," I whispered in awe. As my trembling fingers reached out to lightly trace the stunningly beautiful artwork he had tried to hide, my eyes filled with tears. I looked up to the Marine, unable to voice my questions--I was that stricken. The look in my eyes must have spoken my questions for me.
"Well, you know...." He shrugged, making light. My eyes traveled back down to the beautiful picture. "You're always star-gazing... and you kind of remind me... well, you're twinkly," he finally offered shyly.
What I was looking at was the most gorgeous pale yellow crescent moon outlined in a deep royal blue. The artist who drew it was incredible, and the coloration was awe-inspiring, but what really moved me was not the beautiful moon itself. You see, from the tip of the crescent spilled hundreds of twinkling stars--and they spelled my name.
That was a moment I'll never forget. I couldn't hold back the tears. I didn't understand why I had them to begin with. I couldn't hide my amazement. That any person anywhere would think of me as twinkly... well... it floored me. That this Marine had shown me my answer to the question of what kind of woman I am--that made me proud.
In the time since seeing this artwork, I realized something. You know, we're all twinkly. Each talent and ability, along with our faults and our fears, shimmers just like a brilliant star on an inky night. So that was my joy in these last six weeks--I went from grungy and unknowing to twinkly. How much more Joyful could I be? I hope that all of my readers take a moment during these beautiful summer nights in the northern hemisphere to look up to the stars. Twinkle on, folks, twinkle on.
To All My Fellow Country and Coalition Service Members: Keep Doing What You Do; It's Worth It and You Make Me Proud!