What it Takes

Submitted by: Tracy, FL

Lead photo courtesy of Amy Shertzer Photography

In June of my 17^th year, I left home for basic training and started my march toward adulthood. I learned of my acceptance into the US Air Force Academy just a few weeks prior, my long, red wavy locks cut into a thick, pragmatic bob, the freckles on my nose slightly pronounced from a spring playing softball on carefree Sunday afternoons.

I loaded my bag into the trunk of my parents’ car, packed only with the few essential items required from a list—toothpaste, deodorant, underwear—just enough for the road trip from small-town Louisiana to Colorado. The rest would be issued upon arrival. I took a breath and one last look around at the dead-end street where I had spent over 15 years of my life; the cypress trees outstretched their mossy limbs, hugging me farewell as they stood sentinels along our driveway. I stepped out of the humid air, wiping my brow and my eyes, smiled, and retreated into the air-conditioned backseat.

We arrived after a long cross-country drive, the desert and mountain panoramas forever in my imagination. Somewhere in the vast New Mexico expanse, Dwight Yoakam’s “A Thousand Miles from Nowhere” played on the radio, impeccably timed (my mom and I still text each other anytime we hear that song). I’ll remember the desert reds and oranges giving way to the crisp pine air which welcomed me to the mountains. And then, upon turning and waving goodbye to my parents, who stifled their tears, I boarded a blue bus full of excited and terrified strangers. 

As some of the readers here are intimately aware, the first few days for a new cadet at the Air Force Academy are . . . less than hospitable.  My freshly cut bob was mercilessly hacked down with clippers, resulting in an unattractive mass that I could neither pull up nor leave down, eventually stuffed resignedly into my issued gray cap. As I stood waiting for immunizations in a warm, sun-filled hallway staring straight at the newly buzzed head in front of me (no gazing allowed!), I saw the tall guy next to me in my periphery begin to sway then fall forward as if a tree felled by a lumberjack.  My immediate reaction, of course, was to reach out to help him.  Just as I did, a booming voice barked at me to “get back in line, BASIC!”  The shocking reality of that moment brought a stark awareness that Toto and I weren’t in Kansas anymore.

After hours of standing in line and staring straight ahead, being addressed harshly and abruptly as uniform items were piled upon me like a pack mule, I approached a table where two upper class cadets were handing out tags for our issued bags.  The male cadet asked in the kindest voice I had heard all day, “What’s your name?”  In a momentary mental lapse, I drawled with a smile, “Tracy.”  The response was swift and severe—“Not your first name, BASIC, your last name!”

The ensuing days were a whirlwind initiation for a young girl who had never been yelled at.  Still, I was in awe that I was exactly where I wanted to be, determined to perform at my best.  On night 3, long after the playing of Taps and the indication that we needed to be in our beds or face the consequences, I hid behind my bed, flashlight tucked low in my hand, memorizing all four verses (who knew?!) of the national anthem, one of our many pieces of “knowledge” required for memorization the next day. 

Day 4 was Independence Day.  Little did we know, we would be treated to a spectacular fireworks show that night.  We paid for that brief reprieve with the worst “training session” yet—backs to the wall, elbows pinned, chins in, all available upper classmen screaming inches from our faces as we were made to recite various quotations and bits of history. We transitioned from floor in pushup position, to attention, to wall squats, in a seemingly neverending dance, a mess of teenagers standing and squatting and leaning in sweat, stink, and solidarity. Then, the cadre demanded that we recite the “Star-Spangled Banner.” 

As we began, it became apparent that I actually had the whole thing memorized.  I began to slow my speech and enunciate dramatically so that my classmates across the hall could follow along.  Just then, Cadet First Class Timothy F. Dowd approached me for what I thought would be an attempt to break my concentration and result in another round of pushups. His countenance was surprisingly soft but with a resting smirk which often belied annoyance at our lackluster performance. Surprisingly, he leaned in and whispered something in my ear that I will never forget.  “You have what it takes to make it here, Waller.”  In the intense stress of basic training and the pain of homesickness, that was the moment that brought me to the brink of tears.

That fleeting demonstration of pure kindness and encouragement was quite possibly the greatest fuel for my next four years.  Sadly I learned a few years ago that Tim passed away.  He likely never knew the impact he had on me, because that gesture seemed so small.  At a very formative time in my life and amidst adversity, Tim’s words were, unequivocally, a vital contribution to my journey and graduation. Thereafter, it’s always served as a reminder to me that the smallest gestures, especially in the most difficult circumstances, can make the difference.