I am what I yam: Thank You Soldier!

I am what I yam: Thank You Soldier!: It is not with angst that I write this but with a sense of awe for random acts of kindness for soldiers by regular people. Some grateful a...

Thank You Soldier!

It is not with angst that I write this but with a sense of awe for random acts of kindness for soldiers by regular people. Some grateful and thankful soul, paid for my son's (Marine) and his Staff Sergeant's lunch! So what are we thanking our soldiers for? We are thanking our soldiers for their service, a service ridden with stress, danger and uncertainty of life itself; something they have chosen to do, so that you and I could live our lives secure and safe without worry. Soldiers are the reason that prevents us from agonizing over getting killed or maimed; we still return home intact after a day's work. It's a Soldier that goes through the angst of returning from battle with one limb or none; it's them that a war chooses whether they will ever see, whether they will hear the sound of laughter, whether they will ever sleep a soundless sleep, whether they will be able to quiet those stubborn nightmares of death and destruction, whether their core or ours in the process, will remain untainted.

We thank our soldiers for fighting on our behalf, so we could sit in our kitchens and have our morning tea or coffee, so we could go to work where the maximum damage we will ever face is a pink slip; that is certainly not be a matter of life and death. On the other hand, a tiny mistake by him or others could result in one of permanent disappearance. We are thanking our soldiers because they make it possible for us to come back home most nights to our warm beds and our showers. We thank our soldiers because our brains are not fried and we do not hear black dogs of depression each day and every night. We are what we are, rarely are we what they ask us to be; not with a soldier. He has to abide by a discipline that will not allow for personal distractions; he has to stay mentally, physically and spiritually intact.

Sometimes the enemy is a concrete entity but occasionally the enemy is unknown, but a Soldier must take them down or he will drown in the battlefield. This is not what he learned in school, these not the values he grew up with. Nonetheless he will lie in ambush, crawl in ditches, trudge through forests to seek and destroy his enemy, and ours. He will not give up because he knows they will come back for him, he will be hopeful that somebody will see. This is why we thank our soldiers; they are our children, our husbands, our brothers, our grandchildren, they are humanity!

So here it is: Our heartfelt thanks to all Soldiers, their families and friends. We salute you and just want to say how proud we are of you. May our Soldiers always do the right thing and may they come back home safe. and more than that, may they come back better than they left. It is a fractured reality but that's how war is. Let's honor our Soldiers and say Thank You when we see one. It does not take much to gladden a Soldier's heart. We are indeed proud parents of a Marine, yes that is America's toughest and finest fighting force; the few who go in first and invariably are last ones to leave. Thank You Soldier! May you always be well.

The Few, the Proud, the Marines!

Watching an In-Flight Movie Without Headphones

I watched an entire movie without sound. In fact, I saw the same movie all down the aisle on many monitors hanging from the roof where once upon a time there used to be signs you can take off your seat belts and smoke away! There was so much action, so many expressions and so many dialogues, all in silent mode that I thought this was going to be an excellent experience sans sound. I hate headphones and cannot tolerate anyone or anything sitting inside my ear. I had about 2-4 hours to teach myself how to read lips, how to interpret the slightest twitch in the eye or a tiny smirk that hovered on the mouth or the tiniest glint on those ferocious claws made of steel that served as hands for the hero. In short, I was going to become a body expert or rather body language expert.

As I had no idea of the name of the movie and turbulence of the plane jarred my memory, I quickly settled into a soundless movie experience. The movie progressed and I descended into watching disconnected chunks of actions with rapidly moving mouths, lightning like quick expressions and lots of running, jumping, flying, clawing, peeling. Added to this was also the fact the movie would disappear suddenly and signs of ‘put your seat belt on’ would come on. This kind of interplay between reality and film is enough to confuse people. Consequently, I too became confounded and wondered what kind of film editing did this film present: clawman, seatbelt, heroine, seatbelt, iron monster, seatbelt, fall from balcony, seatbelt, face melting, seatbelt!

This is finally what I figured the in-flight movie was; there was an Australian hunk surrounded by plethora of Japanese actors and actresses. While the steel-claw-man got busy with scratching, scraping, poking and occasionally arranging people on the tip of his claws, Japanese actors steeped themselves in judo chops while flying on samurai ships. There was a woman who either had bad breath or deadly breath because when she blew on people, they literally dissolved into ground. A few other women appeared and disappeared silently with loads of tears and lethal glances. The movie continued silently while the plane rumbled and grumbled towards California in the most choppy manner. I suppose it was the Captain pitted against unruly elements; latter won.

In between chunks of action and disconnect, I pondered on the goodness of words and total silence. There are so many nuances that get lost because of sound. We get busy listening but forget to connect words with real meanings. Are words slowly beginning to cringe? Are we changing their meanings? Do we mean what we say and do we say what we mean? Was the realm of silence the best one discovered for man; could civilizations have made progress without language? 

Nonetheless, as the film progressed, I dozed off and of course lost all track of the story, plot, characters, scenes, script, actors etc. I believed whatever my tired brain told me and my eyes blinked in agreement. Next time, I looked up at the monitor, I saw the heroine tumbling down quite a height! Amazing, I thought she had already fallen down once. How did she mange to climb back on and tumble down again! Or maybe it was another Japanese woman. But I suppose, it was the fact that to  non-Japanese people, all Japanese looked the same and to all non-Indians, all Indians looked the same! I would never know whether the heroine committed suicide or was it pure murder, all done twice! Lawyers could figure out at leisure whether the culprit was going to be charged with manslaughter or whether the act was intentional or accidental. More drama would have played out in court if this woman had survived. Crazy defense lawyers are known to be experts in insanity cases much more than Psychiatrists. 

I settled down in my seat to relish one terrifying action after another. Just when I was oscillating between monitors, in the distant one, I saw a ferocious looking Japanese man being thrown over a balcony. I couldn’t exactly figure out what was said despite my attempts to read their lips. However, I did notice the man was naked wearing only a tie. It is entirely possible, the man with claws objected to the Japanese man wearing only a tie as suitable attire and so in disgust, just picked him with his claws and chucked him overboard. I looked up again just in time to see the admirable steel claws getting hacked off by a steel monster. In the corner of the tiny screen, there was a woman peeling her face and turning it into some gooey stuff. I can safely say that I had indeed made a wise decision for myself; watch all movies in silent mode or devoid of all sound. Forget those in-flight sale of $5 headphones; save the money for a drink of water!

Pesky Online Advertisements Scroll, Spread and Stay

They are everywhere, those pesky ads that move where you move, when you move, and wait when you wait. This is the new breed of ads. Lately, ads have taken to planting themselves on top of the very paragraph one is trying to read and uncannily the pest lies in wait till you are ready to move. Sounds sinister but that's how ads are these days. Moving Ads are my shadows and make T.S. Eliot proud, "Between the Idea and the Reality, Between the Motion and the Act, Falls the Shadow; Between the Conception and the Creation, Between the Emotion and the Response, Falls the Shadow; Between the Desire and the Spasm, Between the Potency and the Existence, Between the Essence and the Descent, Falls the Shadow". And TS Eliot did not even live in a digital age!

I wouldn't mind if Ads just lay there quietly on the side or on the bottom or even on top of the page; what is disturbing is how they cover the entire page or parts of the page. They do not move till they are forcefully shoved out of the way. From what I see in myself, I usually do it with the biggest, loudest curse word and a slamming down on the x button (if I can find it). These days their creators have developed the art of camouflage to a perfection where it's impossible to find the close button and by the time you find it, your attention span has frittered away into oblivion. This is indeed the new breed. Slightly older than these are Ads that still trick people but at least they let them have options of finding the x button either on top right or top left or bottom left or bottom right! It is all the same story of sending hapless individuals into circles or squares!

I don't see how we can get out of this dilemma. This is a reality that has been added to our already messed up reality. We can go the Indian way of treating everything as Maya, an illusion but nonetheless a reality as well. Maybe scrolling-ads-creators can be rounded up or quarantined indefinitely. As everything is so politically liberal minded, a compromise could be worked out that didn't 'hurt' the sensibilities of Ads and their creators, although historically, compromises have never worked in the liberal world. It's all or nothing. But, I wish I could see through Ads that are sitting on top of what I am trying to read. At least that will allow me to do what I to do and simultaneously ignore stubborn ads that will not go away. Currently, they seem to be made from the same stuff politicians are made, they are dense, shameless, pathological liars! Sigh, if only Ads were transparent!

There is Always Time to Feel Blue

Why do I say there is always time to feel blue because just like the inevitability of seasons, my time for descending into the realm of feeling blue is here. This is not about troubles of deep depression but more with oscillating human emotions at certain times of day or week or month or year. Perhaps it has to do with changing of guard when Spring ushers in Summer which leads to Fall and that eventually brings us to closer to winter. Everything must give way to the next and change is inevitable. Yet the Earth spins, Sun rises, tides ebb and flow, birds sing; it's strangely unwavering, steady and comforting. Amidst this chaos and wonder, we struggle to find one unchanging point within rest of chaos. Some call it Life. Some call it the Dance of Shiva.

For the past week, it has been gloomy, doomy and glum; hence I have become glum. Just keepin' pace with the weather. Southern gentleman, JJ Cale sang ain't no change in the weather, ain't no change in me. But, there is a change in weather. It is turning dark before time, days are getting shorter by minutes and weather permitting, I am allowing myself to feel blue. It is not the deep envelope of mourning; it is not the heavy covers of depression I am hiding under; it is also not the debilitating mode which renders everything redundant; this is a blue hue brought on by none other than the weather. 

I must hear mournful music of which there is plenty; I must hear one song on a loop till the loop itself is ready to loop around itself. I must stop what I am doing, stand still, close my eyes, listen to the strings that tug at the heart. Everything moves in slow motion. My walk is slow, my thoughts are slow, my driving is slow; impatient car horns come at me in gentle waves. I am fretting with Landreth's guitar frets, agreeing with Sufis' plaintive cries to their beloved whether earthly or heavenly; savoring the poignancy of moments, once gone will never come back in the same form.

There is a sense of longing and loss and desire, for what, I do not know. Poets got consumed by this question and died of consumption. Philosophers lost their minds and wrote volumes about it; Scientists were able to sort out some then quickly dismissed it with God does not play dice. The Buddha found it under a tree. So, if Saints can suffer voluntarily and the world can cause suffering, why can't I give myself the luxury of feeling blue especially when things are not actually blue. A friend Rob Gunter from Yahoo asked whether something of beauty could at least imperceptibly ratchet the cosmic wheel toward a setting less blue? To which I say, who has been able to stop the wheel from going into its own direction, of a color of its own choosing? Blue is beautiful; to feel the cosmic wheel spinning in a sea of blue, is beautiful; to see blue shifting to black and specks of  red and orange streaking across its face is also beautiful. I will be steeped in the blues for a while.

Recommended Books for reading and enjoying:
After Lives of the Saints by Colin Dickey
I loved Jesus in the Night by Paul Murray.

Rendezvous with Bees and Wasps

Saturdays was the day for Sophian Boarders of the famous school Sophia Girl's school in Meerut Chhavni. That was the day for our weekly walks. These were pure walks, over the Begum Pul and into the Cantt area in Meerut. Everybody had to get into a line in twos and with partners, little ones in front and big girls in the back. There were arguments as to who would lead because if the leaders turned a certain corner or went down a certain curvy path, all of us were supposed to follow regardless of where the path led. Such was the frivolous nature of the ones who led and ones who were led. Sigh. Sometimes we stopped at old churches in meerut, UP and other times at parks, the latter always full of trees and flowers, some surviving swings but nonetheless with lots of beehives.

We had been warned of bees and wasps and many such stinging creatures. We were specifically told not to throw rocks into trees. Girls did not throw rocks! Well even if we were cognizant of such warnings, the brood of boys in the park and ones who followed us on their bicycles, at a safe distance, were not. Up in the trees hung many beehives and wasp nests. We couldn’t get honey but surely we could dislodge those bees. What did we know about the loves and hates of bees and wasps and more so of their stings?

While some of us played on the swings like good schoolgirls, others got into an ego game with the boys; who could throw those rocks higher and straighter into the beehives and wasp nests? Any time egos get involved, mayhem results and so as soon as some lucky rocks or unlucky ones hit the beehives, some buzzing was heard which soon grew to a loud noise and then into a thunderous one with hundreds and thousands of bees and wasps as they all descended on us in a great deluge. Surely this was ‘pralaya’.

If Sophian Boarders and its Nuns had not seen fear, here it was in its pure form. Girls scattered, girls fell, girls screamed, girls howled. Those who were stupid enough to stand and laugh, the ones who are called spectators - did not survive the onslaught at all. They got stung just the same albeit a few seconds later. That’s why poets warned us ‘don’t stand and stare’. Somebody lit a fire to the many piles of dried leaves. It was hard to tell - which was better or worse – smoke stinging our eyes and blackening our lungs or bees stinging us?

Nuns flew, as did the girls, as did the boys, as did everybody else. Some remembered to curl up, some rolled around on the ground and others just ran round and round the park, got dizzy and fell down. With nothing to pursue, bees must have halted their pursuit as well. I do not know the minds of bees. Finally, the drama ended mainly because the bees were dead and I suppose there was nothing left to sting. All those who could have been stung, were stung. The bees had their fill and had died protecting their honey and territory. A lot of us looked puffy and bloated. Did we walk back in that state or were we carried back; maybe the Sophia Boarding Van ‘Nirmala’ picked us up - I don’t remember. Anything was possible in Sophia Boarding, Meerut with those Nuns!

I am what I yam: When Kids Leave Home

I am what I yam: When Kids Leave Home

When Kids Leave Home

It happened and just like that I found myself with a big chunk of time. I had been wondering for the past 18 years when this would happen and how would it feel. So far, it has been a combination of exhilaration and sadness. I miss them and then I’m ridden with an unbelievable feeling of freedom. It has nothing to do with love because that unconditional thing for kids goes without saying. Now that I’ve got that out of the way, let’s see what I am supposed to do now that I no longer have to do things I did for the past few years. Just about everything has been slashed by half; cooking, cleaning, driving, dropping, picking, screaming; only time has doubled. My brain feels especially free; it is no longer centered on food and feeding; something that I am totally relishing.

Is this an angst with men and dads? Could couples without kids understand this? I doubt it. On the other hand, I now understand the pristine lives of singles and adults with no kids. This twin feeling of joy-sadness is also a phenomenon that is acute with women especially ones who were lucky to get some education and those wanting a career as well. Did I really need a college education to raise kids? Just some school, loads of wisdom and oodles of patience would have done the magic of raising children. The joy and pain is same either way. A small booboo on the knee of a child would hurt the same; a mother would cry louder than the child when his or her baby tooth had to be pulled out.

My husband has been moping around the house since the boys left home for college and the Marines. His glum face so scared his parents that they called to find out what was going on with him and his face! In the past years or so, we saw less and less of the children. Their lifestyle and timing did not seem human; it was more on the level of aliens or owls; hooting and hollering all night long and sleeping all day. No surprises there. I guess it was a way to intimate us of the movement toward moving. It’s the natural order of things; life giving small signs and signals for things to come which humans would rather not see. Kids are always growing up, leaving home, parents moping for a while and then celebrating at finding themselves again and starting the next phase of life.

To combat the effects of empty nest syndrome, my older son suggested getting a dog or a cat or a turtle or worse adopting another child. I was horrified. I could not do this. I had just gotten off the train of raising children and to think of boarding another one was going to give me a combination of toothache, stomachache and headache. Nonetheless, I discovered the long simmering activity of feeding birds and watching them fly away. So far, I’ve put up five bird feeders in my backyard; one was painted a loud red, green and yellow with the help of my husband; he washed all the paint brushes! I’m now giving ‘creating and selling’ bird feeders a serious thought and hoping to turn it into a lucrative business.

So far, sparrows have been having their fill. I’m afraid they might burst with all the birdseed they have suddenly come into. This is how lottery winners would feel. I’m thinking of putting signs directing red birds and black birds and other colored birds to head towards certain bird feeders. It might smack of discrimination but it is not because I’m just directing traffic here, trying to guide them towards the right seed much like we did for the kids. Whether the birds eat the seed or not, whether they flutter close to the feeder or not, whether they invite others to join them or not, whether they have their fill or whether they explore other feeders or not, depends on the birds and their flight. All I can wish is that the children fly nice and strong; whether they choose to fly straight or in circles is entirely up to them.

In Memoriam: My Dad

My Dad

I don't know whether to feel sad or happy because my Dad is not with me any more; he passed on, July 27, 2013 and lived a good 77 years, some pleasant and some not so pleasant. There are many who never had a dad and there are many more whose dads didn't live as long as mine; there are dads who are getting old; we all are. In our rush of marriages and children, parents are sometimes forgotten. There were many times I was irritated because my Dad treated me like a child when he walked in all directions except straight! Occasionally, I wished he would stop fussing. Well, now he will and I am wondering if I were too harsh?

I'd like to believe he's in Heaven because that's what he would have liked. What I'd like to believe is that his goodness surpassed all his imperfections therefore putting him in a good place, right in my heart, in my thoughts and feelings. Was he a perfect being? No. Was he a good dad? Yes. I am where I am because of him. I owe him my upbringing, my love for poetry, my writing, my cussing; I even behave senile like him. I too suffer from confusion like him. Some say I cause too much trouble just like my Dad. I am his daughter after all and that DNA has to be passed down! That is one of the things they leave behind, that entire corrupted DNA, which no one else wants.

I will miss my Dad. I loved him even though I told him that very rarely as an adult. I worked with him and saw him almost every day. What I missed as a child, I got back plenty as an adult. My Dad gave me enough love to scare the hell out of me. He fought with the nuns in school on my behalf. Now that is the most unforgettable thing for me. I cannot believe he is not going to crack his jokes or curse any more. Worst of all, I am no longer going to get my weekly pocket money. May he rest in peace. My Dad will be sorely missed by his family, friends and foes and most of all by me.

Bags and Men

The last time my husband bought a bag was a decade ago.  Somehow I’ve noticed men never seem to need a bag. Are they light travelers? Is that a reason they move quick from undesirable situations and people? Are they more secure in their personas? Are they pickier than women? This is quite a contrast to my women friends and I who buy hundreds of bags in our lifetime. There is one particular friend Vandana who probably has a million bags by now; I think she may have a record for buying bags every few minutes or maybe hours; I can’t be very sure, only time could tell.

So when my husband aka Bapi said he needed a bag, my mind started whirring. What could Bapi need a bag for; does he have to hide some secrets in that bag; will the bag come with furtive pockets; was he planning on a clandestine trip; was this a precursor to a separation and so on. The search for this bag began in stores and ended on Amazon. Bapi found a few, went crazy trying to choose between black and grey, abandoned some rather quickly when he saw them being advertised by men who looked very un-manly and the kinds who stood with their hips stuck out to one side; he also watched videos about the bags he took a fancy to, read reviews, ordered them, placed them in the cart, changed his mind, cancelled them and thus the bag saga went on for a while. 

I was told to stay out of it because I picked up some pansy looking bags. Bapi needed a very manly bag, which could either be grey or black and I asked him if he was deliberately trying to confuse life or me by including two colors. I suggested he carry a cardboard box, which came only in one color and one shape. The bag had to be big at least 15 inches in length and could not show the manufacturer’s name anywhere. I immediately felt sorry for the maker who could not even claim credit for the marvelous piece whenever it would have been possible for it to be possessed by some man. Finally I had to ask what exactly was he planning on carrying in this highly desirable bag. Bapi said he had his Chap Stick and keys.  Is that it, I asked because I seemed to have the entire globe in my handbag.  

Vonage Phone Service and My Dad

Vonage is a phone service that goes via the Internet and thus keeps costs low. They also offer the additional service of transcribing or translating voice messages into emails. At most times, they do a fine job but somehow get terribly confused where other languages especially Hindi or Urdu are concerned. Added to this is also the hard time they have in understanding my Dad’s messages. My father leaves these long winding messages, which even I can’t understand; he mumbles and fumbles, forgets half way what he’s been saying and leaves sentences hanging half way somewhere. Vonage is incapable of picking up dropped stuff.

Meanwhile, my Mum is on the other extreme end of the spectrum; she refuses to leave any messages but insists on calling every two seconds! I know my Mum called because I see red lights blinking furiously on my answering machine, however when I replay, there are yawning silences interspersed with sighing, bits of coughing and some oofs and ooffo and chhh sounds (all very familiar Indian sounds of displeasure). Vonage cannot translate these silences, nobody can. 

Vonage Phone Service struggles with trying to decipher what my father says. I don’t blame them; my mother, my husband, my children, my sister and just about everyone I know have a similar refrain of complaint, ‘What is he saying?’ So, yesterday, my birthday came around, my parents forgot (for which they will pay dearly with some extra cash) and my Dad tried to make up by leaving oodles of blessings and loads of good wishes. In the process, he left total mayhem in the phone service and its struggle to translate his speech. Below is what Vonage thought my Dad said. From what I gathered and heard, this is not what my Dad said.

"Father Dan there-dad-vodka-and-orange (?) just wanted to see you. Hey happy birthday. May God bless you. When you go down and then lot of prosperity. Right you-go (?) up it's like a little about that (?) I'll be done (?) I'm calling you at home. I love you, may not be able to get you in your ticket as it is. God bless you again-once (?) bye bye."     (Brought to you by Vonage)

Domestic Terrorism in America

If something is your home, it is your duty to defend it from dangerous elements. That being said, America has not been responsible with its immigration policies. A little worse than this is that it has not emphasized assimilation of immigrants into its land. But the worst is that it has abandoned the 'glue' that keeps people together. By harping on diversity, America has become a land of different groups of people insistent on their own language, culture and ways. Its citizenship pledge clearly exacts a promise from its to-be-citizens to give up all support and allegiance to foreign governments and people inimical to America.

Mark Stein explained it very aptly by saying that some first generation Americans have grown up without a sense of connectedness and allegiance to the land they live in. As a result, they tend to find their identity in something more solid and defining however evil that might be. Unfortunately, most youth in America unlike some unfortunate youth around the world, don't have much to worry about. Ease of life has tended to veer them toward something more exacting, more exciting, more lethal like Islamic Jihadism. This has been evident in the Boston Terrorism, Fort Hood Terrorism, and the most recent arrest of a young American headed off to Turkey with Al-Qaeda links, with the intent of committing violence in the name of Islam.

These homegrown terrorists seem well adjusted but also harbor malicious feelings toward a land and its people. They and their families had no compunctions in receiving various benefits and opportunities in this land but when it came to defending its values and freedoms and what America stood for, they found themselves pledging their allegiance to people and causes completely inimical to America!

Homegrown terrorists are now intent on destroying themselves and other innocent men, women and children for some strange ideology. They are willing to destroy something they never built nor created. Images of people dying or being killed in distant lands of their fathers and forefathers have become their rallying cry for destruction of America! A religion they never grew up with but became fascinated with its twisted ideology has come to dominate their life. Did these people consider leaving America and living in the distant lands they were willing to kill innocents for?

How much blame can be placed on the current American education system in schools and colleges - a lot because most schools and colleges are rife with anti-American, hate America, America the villain, blame America - kinds of teachings. A majority of the teaching staff weighs heavily in favor of socialist ideas and makes no bones about declaring them to the students. Coloring their teaching with political leanings of any kind, is not the job of teachers and professors. At most, they can give their students both sides of a problem or situation and insist the students decipher it themselves.

Incidentally socialism and communism have wrecked havoc wherever they have been! Schools and colleges here are not about teaching pride in your nation and helping students understand why America does what is does but more about condemning America. It is not uncommon to hear that America is the worst place to live in. Meanwhile millions of immigrants continue to stream into America which remains top destination for all immigrants.

It is disconcerting to think of all immigrants who made America their home when they saw a country with new opportunities and a good life. The stifling governments systems they left behind are unfortunately being glorified in the American schools and colleges their children attend. The current tilt of American education indeed makes a mockery of America's way of life and what it stands for.

I should have been a Drill Instructor

If not a mother, I would have liked to be a Drill Instructor. I experience calamity every time my college kid comes home. Clothes adorn every chair and sofa in the house, bags are placed in the middle of the room, protein jars opened up and little mounds of protein powder are visible everywhere. We sent them with things in pristine shape, they come back with not even one thing in order. Between my son and his friend, just in a span of few months, they successfully managed to bust their TV, microwave, and the refrigerator; the phone is busted too along with the ipod. I know when the kids enter or exit the house by thuds of doors and trails of clothes. Shirts have been tried and dropped, their labels torn and flung on bed, jeans have been worn and relinquished, socks turned into furry balls and sent flying from one end of the house to the other. Music is loud and I am warned about the rap song Mouli Mouli; it's about drugs! 

As far as the other Marine-to-be kid is concerned, I'll wait for him to go and come back from the Boot Camp. I've heard good stories about it and I'm hoping to hear some yes ma'ams and seeing some real life miracles occurring in my home.

Getting ready for Marines Boot Camp with help from Staff Sergeant Toby

At the Boot Camp, Drill Instructors encapsulate a mother's revenge on kids who chose not to pay attention to a mother's plea for years and years. Forget what you learned in school about indoor and outdoor voices. Drill Instructors only have outdoor voices, which fall between growls or rumbles. It's best to yell 'Yes Sir' every second and intersperse it with some 'No Sir' at appropriate intervals. Drill Instructors can melt Metal, Metal heads and Head bangers in one shot. Nobody knows what the Drill Instructors say, but everybody understands them, comprehends them and fully digests the pearls flying from a Drill Instructor's mouth. If you look at them, they'll give you hell, if you avoid looking at them, well you might as well give them your ears voluntarily; they're going to be chewing it anyway. I think every house could do with a Drill Instructor.