On May 28th of 2001, I left my house in Kissimmee, Florida and made my way to Parris Island, South Carolina to start Marine Corps recruit training—better known as “boot camp.” What follows is a reminiscence and reflection on that season of my life.

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May 28, 2001 – 6AM
As I exited my room, my sister was walking toward me. She was half-laughing, half-embarrassed, as she informed me of what happened a few seconds prior: “Mom just slammed the door in your recruiter’s face and told him he can’t have you.”

I appreciated my mom’s sentiment, but it was too late. I’d already signed my life away. That happened in March of that year.

February 2000
Mrs. Winnie canceled class one day when a Navy recruiter showed up to give us his spiel. This was a usual occurrence. Recruiters from all branches of the service spoke to our kind—the students with “no future.”

I’m not trying to impugn my own character. I’m simply speaking truth.

Due to a series of poor decisions on my part, I was sent to an alternative school—a program called Project Future. Better known as Project No Future by the beloved students in the program. In the words of one of my teachers, “Someone has to work at McDonald’s for the rest of their lives.” He was talking about us.

So as I sat there listening to the recruiter elaborate on all the benefits of joining the Navy—“you’ll get to see the world, you’ll have a steady pay check, you’ll have money for college, you’ll have medical and dental coverage, you’ll have guaranteed promotions, you’ll have vacation time”—I thought to myself, This doesn’t seem like a bad idea.

I scheduled a meeting with him at the recruiting office near my home. When I arrived, he gave me a practice version of the ASVAB—the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery. Read: The test designed to show me what jobs I qualified for in the service.

Let’s just say my score on the test left much to be desired (I was in an alternative school for a reason!). In light of my scores, he urged me to study for the test before taking the real ASVAB.

He waited too long to follow up.

March 2000
While sitting in Mrs. Winnie’s class sometime later, Gunnery Sergeant Cook—the Marine Corps recruiter—showed up to give us his pitch. A former sniper and Recon Marine (the Marine Corps version of the Navy Seals), he had muscles on top of muscles, and then more muscles on top of those muscles. He commanded our attention, and he had it as soon as he opened his mouth.

His approach was quite different from the Navy recruiter. He didn’t talk about all the financial benefits we’d receive as service members. Instead, he promised us a three-month boot camp that would push us to the brink physically, mentally, and emotionally. He promised us hardship, grueling training, and exceptionally high standards that we’d be required to meet—or face severe punishment.

I set up a meeting to talk with him further.

When I informed Gunnery Sergeant Cook that I was thinking of joining the Navy, he replied: “You don’t want the Navy, Romeo,” and, in typical Marine Corps fashion, continued: “They’re all a bunch of [insert explicative]. If you join them, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. You’ll always wonder if you had what it took to join the hardest branch of service.”

He was right. And I was tired of living with regrets.

Breaking the News to My Parents
When I informed my parents of my decision, I faced immediate pushback. Neither of them thought it was a good idea.

“The Marines are the first to go to war, Joey,” my mom said. “Is that really what you want?”

“Yes,” I responded, not knowing what I was asking for.

Then came the conversation with my dad: “Marines are warfighters, Joey. Do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into? Have you thought about what this could mean for you?”

Of course, I had no clue what I was getting myself into. I was, quite frankly, clueless.

(Background information: This was all before 9/11. Aside from a few skirmishes here and there, our country hadn’t been to war since Vietnam.)

Despite their urgent and frequent protests, I raised my right hand and solemnly swore to “support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic” in March of 2001. I signed on the dotted line.

May 2001
In May of 2001 I shocked both my immediate family and my two closest friends—Jason Vasquez and A. D. Carrasquillo. Without telling anyone, I drove to the recruiting station in early May and asked my recruiter to move up my departure date for boot camp.

“Why?” he wondered. “Don’t you want to go through boot camp with your best friends?”

(Background information: As part of the Marine Corps “Buddy Program,” we all could have been in the same platoon during boot camp, which would have enabled us to lean on each other for support during the three month beat down that is Marine Corps recruit training.)

“No,” I told my recruiter. “I need to do this alone.”

My internal reasoning was that I had depended on Jason and A. D. for emotional support since middle school, and I needed to prove to myself that I didn’t need them. I needed to do this hard thing alone, by myself.

In truth, that feeling had been building up for some time.

March 2000
Remember the ASVAB? Yeah, well, my scores didn’t improve all that much, which meant my job options for the Marines were quite limited: I qualified for infantry (the guys who fight on the frontlines), motor transport (think truck driver) or military police (a cop).

I opted for infantry.

Why?

Because my recruiter told me it was the hardest job in the Marine Corps. And that’s the one I wanted.

A disdain for the path of least resistance was burning inside me. I was eager to start bootcamp. I wanted to taste the exquisiteness of mental and physical exhaustion. I wanted to feel South Carolina’s summer heat and its notorious sand fleas pestering me while I hiked 20 miles with a fifty-pound pack on my back. I wanted the sore muscles and blistered feet. I wanted to know what it felt like to have every bone in my body want to quit—and then defy my feelings. I wanted all of it.

May 28, 2001 – 6AM
I hugged my parents and my sister and walked out the door.

“It’s always hard for mom’s when I pick up their sons to take them to recruit training,” my recruiter said, as we got in the car and drove to MEPS (the Military Entrance Processing Station).

After a full day of signing more papers and answering further questions, a civilian worker yelled to get everyone’s attention.

“If you’re joining the Army, line up over here!” A large group of young men and women promptly obeyed his order.

“If you’re joining the Navy, stand up and get in a line over here!” Another cluster of young men and women heeded his call.

“If you’re joining the Air Force, please stand and make a line near the wall on my left-hand side!” A sizeable portion of people stood up from their chairs and responded to his direction.

“And lastly, those of you headed to Marine Corps recruit training, get in line over here!” He pointed with his index finger to where we were to line up. There were ten of us, in total. One of the Marine Corps taglines dawned on me: “The Few, The Proud.”

May 28, 2001 – 10PM
After nearly a six-hour drive, we pulled into the recruit depot in South Carolina. The words “WE MAKE MARINES” and “WHERE THE TRANSFORMATION BEGINS” greet you at the base entrance.

I wondered: “Would I actually make it?”

The bus was eerily silent. None of us knew what awaited us, but we were sure chaos was about to erupt. Making a final right hand turn, we approached the drop off point. And that’s when we saw him—a male drill instructor pacing back and forth, anticipating our arrival.

Then the bus stopped, the doors flung open, and he barreled in and started barking orders. The transformation had begun.

May 29, 2026
Like all Marines, I have plenty of hilarious (and not so hilarious) stories from boot camp that I could recount. But that’s not my purpose in this post. Instead, I simply want to share the greatest gift the Marine Corps gave me.

After much reflection, I’m convinced that the greatest gift the Marine Corps gave me was never bailing me out, never feeling sorry for me, and never taking it easy on me.

“No one’s coming to rescue you, so figure it out on your own.” That was a constant refrain in recruit training.

Contrast this method with how parents often teach their children. We typically struggle to let our children learn the hard way. We bail them out too quickly. I’m guilty of this, just as my parents were with me. And it harms our children. It doesn’t help them.

Marine Corps drill instructors do not operate that way. They force you to learn the hard way. They don’t let you get away with anything. The yelling never stops. The intensity never subsides. The demands never cease. It’s constant pressure. Every day. Sunup to sundown. For three months. And if you’re struggling to meet the standards, or if you’re in physical pain and having a hard day, guess what?

Nobody cares.

“Go ahead and scream and cry as loud as you want,” the drill instructors would say, “your mommy can’t hear you. You belong to me now, and no one’s coming to rescue you.”

Your personal struggles do not elicit compassion; they earn you more yelling, more screaming, and more punishment. “Pain retains,” is another saying of the Marine Corps.

Concluding Reflections
I guess what I’m saying is the Marine Corps taught me personal responsibility, to take ownership of my life.

The Marine Corps taught me to stop viewing myself as a victim of my circumstances, to stop making excuses, to stop waiting for someone to feel sorry for me, and to stop expecting someone else to solve my problems. When I failed, I had to own it. When I struggled, I had to push through it. When I didn’t know what to do, I had to figure it out.

Life is full of difficulties that no one can solve for us. And when an avalanche of trials comes tumbling down on us, the mindset of the warrior is not to look for a way out or a handout or to assign blame. We don’t need sympathy. We need discipline. We don’t need a pat on the back. We need perseverance. We need grit. We need to prove to ourselves that we can face hard things and push through them. 

The Marine Corps taught me that I was capable of far more than I believed. It taught me that I could survive discomfort. It taught me to expect failure, to own my failures, and to not let failure be the last word on my life.

And these lessons have remained with me long after the drill instructors stopped yelling.