I shudder to take myself further down the rabbit hole of memories as I remember things I kept locked away. Some people, or some things, are better left in the past as you look on to the future. I can think of many people whom I admired and subsequently disappointed me. They range from family, to friends, to co-workers, to leaders, to subordinates who have been a cornerstone in my model for self-improvement, but failed me in the end. None of them impacted me more than myself. All my life I was too small, too slow, too stupid, too lazy, to handle things that came my way. That is, according to others. I always met these challenges with open arms and a cocky smile, because I knew I was none of those things, until a few years ago.
My seventh, eighth, and ninth grade years of school were hell for me. I was small, quiet, chubby, poor, and unpopular. I regularly took beatings from up to ten people at a time in the gymnasium or after school. By the final quarter of my freshman year, I had received my last concussion at Leetonia High School. My mother ripped me from the school, and insisted that my work be sent to me, and that the school provide a private tutor. All demands from the 5’ 5” Italian fireball that is my mother were met, though reluctantly. My sophomore year, I was transferred to the Joint Vocational School (JVS) and placed in the Occupational Work Adjustment (OWA) program. OWA was nothing more than a program for those kids that slipped through the cracks. The program was chalked full of gang members, drug users and dealers, and all around just kids that had a serious problem with authority. I didn’t belong here! I wasn’t a bad kid, just a wimpy one.
There was a lot of talk back at my home school of where I landed at the JVS. During two-a-days and conditioning for football that summer, I heard it all. “Oh, now Wining is a crack head!” “Hey! Wining, Couldn’t hang with a real high school?” They had written me off as “one of them” at this point, but I was determined to write my own ending. I did. I was top of the class in OWA my sophomore year, and went on to be top of my class in auto body repair, as well as National Vocational Technical Honor Society by the end of my senior year. Not to mention being a 5’ 9”, one hundred seventy pound starting defensive tackle on the varsity team my senior year. That’s saying a lot in comparison to our 6’ 1”, two hundred fifteen pound quarterback and an average 6’ 4”, two hundred ninety-five pound front line. So much for too lazy, too slow, and too damn small! I had overcome the first of what would become, many disadvantages in my underdog life. Still, that and a buck o’ five would get me a large McDonalds coffee.
Did I mention I grew up poor? Or wait, it’s monetarily disadvantaged now, right? Well either way, coming from a two-bedroom house with five people living there, and a food budget of one hundred fifty dollars a month, college was out of the question. My parents’ busted their collective butts to give us what we had. My two younger brothers and I shared a room that made the county jail’s general population lock-up look like the field at Cowboys stadium. Money was never an issue, because it was an undisputed fact that there wasn’t any.
I certainly couldn’t afford college on my own. What could I do? Well, around the end of September of my senior year, a friend approached me with a proposition. All I had to do was go talk to his Marine Corps recruiter, and he would receive a brand new set of camouflage fatigues (Cammies, in accordance with Marine Corps lingo). My only real incentive was to help out a friend. My first words were, “I’m not joining the f’in Marines man.” Wouldn’t you know it, a week after, I had raised my right hand and the rest went something like this: “I, James Wining, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all 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.” Wow, I still get chills just thinking about that day. I get choked up thinking about that oath. My chest swells with pride and my eyes well up with tears thinking back on everything I’ve gained, how much I grew as a man, and also everything I lost, as a result of that one day in the auto body lab where I agreed to meet with, then, Staff Sergeant Humphries, and the day I enlisted in the United States Marine Corps.
Again, I took the usual criticism, and again, I knew I would rise to the challenge. This time however, it wasn’t just the normal naysayers and pessimists who’s opinion of my ability was less than favorable. My friends were talking behind my back, saying I didn’t have what it took to be a Marine. I must have forgotten that I was too fat, stupid, and lazy to become what I had set my sights on. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe it made me stronger.
Three weeks after I threw my graduation cap in the air, I was on a plane. Destination: Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, SC, “The Island”. Mission: Become one of the worlds finest.
The mission was a success. I stood at the Iwo Jima memorial statue with tears streaming down my face, after thirteen weeks of hell that culminated into what can only be described as the three day death march known as the Crucible, as my Senior Drill Instructor shook my hand and presented me with the one thing that could never be taken away, my Eagle, Globe, and anchor. It was, up to that point, the largest accomplishment of my life. Four days later, my family and friends sat in the bleachers at the Peatross Parade Deck on “the Island” and witnessed the transformation of their best friend, brother, son, and grandson, as I became a bona-fide Marine, forged in the fires that hell dare not possess. Once again, through my actions, I had given a big middle finger to everyone that doubted me. I never looked back to see their faces. I didn’t need to.
Over the next four years, that three-day death march seemed pretty inviting compared to the training we endured, and eventually, the war. Within a year and a half of that incredible day at Parris Island, the ante was up. The stakes were higher. I was no longer responsible solely for my destiny. Now I had nine young guys looking to me for guidance, leadership, and direction. If I failed to lead, my squad would most certainly fail. If they succeeded, it could only be chalked up to their hard work and willingness to put up with my crap. I was no longer little Jimmy Wining. Now, the name was Corporal. I was god on the field of battle to the boys under my charge. They lived, and quite literally could have died, by my every word. Never had I been so empowered, and at the same time, so terrified. I had, what felt like, the striking hand of God at my side, and “the roughest bunch of prick bastards Uncle Sam ever staked a claim to” at my disposal. Now, we just had to survive. Once again, I completed the task at hand and my mission was a success. Our platoon returned to Camp Pendleton, CA minus one man. My squad returned whole. That’s not to say that the loss of Sergeant Rios was a failure. It was just war. After living through close call, after close call, I felt unstoppable. There was nothing put in front of me that I couldn’t overcome. I was on top of the world. Then it hit me.
For some time, I had been having soreness in my lower back. I knew it wasn’t muscular pain. That was different. That was normal. This was something completely different. When the x-ray came back, it was like Manny Ramirez just took a home run swing, and my stomach was in his wheel-house. It took the life out of me. My backbone and tailbone were separated at a stage two, out of a possible four. We were gearing up for another trip to the sand box, and I was immediately moved to the cheering section. In my place was a dear friend and great drinking buddy. While taps played, I saluted his coffin along with eleven other Marines, as it was being lowered into the ground less than six months later. April 4th, 2004, one year to the day after Duane Rios died, Tyler Fey was killed by friendly machine gun fire from a support position eight hundred yards behind him during the battle of Fallujah. That is, effectively, when my life turned a violent 180.
18 June 2004. That was my last day as an active duty Marine. My dreams of retiring as some crotchety old Gunny, Master Sergeant, or God forbid a Sergeant Major, were long gone. Now I was left with a lot of what if’s and what now’s. I allowed myself to quit every job, task, and relationship that came down the pike. I had a job in the field of researching mineral and surface ownership and leasing land for natural gas exploration. I was making entirely too much money for a young guy with no experience. Simply put, I was making funny money! It took one phone call that another Marine I had served with had fallen, to prompt my resignation from the company. It didn’t matter what I was making. The boss was reluctant to grant me time off the job to pay my respects to Brian Kelly’s family, and that landed on the wrong side of my ego. How dare he disrespect something like this? How dare he not drop everything to accommodate my desire to take a Friday off? It was too much for me to handle. For the first time since the ritualistic pummeling I received almost daily in the ninth grade, I was running full sprint away from something. The difference was, in the ninth grade I stood my ground and blackened a few eyes before I was bested.
As a Marine, you don’t run from danger, you run to it. Ah, but this was an enemy I couldn’t see standing in front of me. This was my own self-pity kicking me directly in the back of my front, and there would be no reprieve. This was the first time I felt helpless. No more was mom there to pull me out of something. No longer were friends accessible to lean on. This time it was me, and the guilt that overtook every aspect of my daily life, one on one. Needless to say, I was losing that fight in impressive fashion. I had been a drinker since I turned eighteen, so alcohol was nothing new to me. It was however, my latest and greatest crutch. It certainly didn’t help anything, but it became my morphine. I drank myself to sleep every night. A half-gallon of Captain Morgan or Jack Daniels did the trick.
Spending what little money I had on booze, and not rent, felt strangely liberating for a reason unbeknownst to me. I leaned on anyone that would stand next to me. Cue mom and dad. If it wasn’t for their financial and moral support, I’d have been living under a bridge in Orange County, CA by the fall of 2005. Still, with all the help I was receiving, I couldn’t pick myself up and get moving. The jobs available were what I considered to be, below me. After all, it wasn’t my fault. I had fallen into what former congressman J.C. Watts calls, the cult of “victimology”. It was always someone or something else. It was never my own doing. I wish I realized then what I do now. The only thing I needed was to take responsibility for myself, but that would mean admitting I had failed, and that was not an option.
Over the next couple of years, I bounced around from job to job, and state to state. I hated nearly every responsibility I had. I had a great companion though. A young pit bull pup my ex girlfriend in Klamath Falls, OR had bought for me as a gift. After a little more globetrotting, I moved back home. Leetonia, Ohio. Population 1500, give or take. Shortly after my homecoming, I found out I fathered a baby near Dallas, TX. I told you I bounced a round a lot. At this point I had already joined the Ohio National Guard Military Police Corps in hopes of reviving my military career. I knew that moving back to Dallas was going to take a while, and it did. In the mean time, there were visits every few months and phone calls in between so my son would at least know his father’s voice. To me, this was just another monumental failure in my life. Allow me to explain why. Now I have a son half way across the country, and I can’t even care for him. Will we have the same bond a father and son that have lived together from day one will have? Will he look at me as the father figure, or will I just be looked at like some old guy that comes around every now and then? Will he love me like I love my father? Will he respect me even half as much as I respect my dad? I feared not.
It took almost three years after my son’s birth to get the money and will power to move back to Dallas. And that’s where we are now. I have a fiancé and a baby on the way in Ohio that I’m desperately working to move down here. I started full time in school. I even have a career plan mapped out. Things are slowly working themselves out.
I chose to write about myself because I fit the description of the assignment better than anyone else in my life. I admire the man I used to be. The man I am fighting to reconnect with inside. I do not think so highly of myself as to say that I admire myself more than anyone else. I believe I have overcome adversity, and this paper only scratches the surface, but at the same time I let down the people that mattered most to me, as well as letting down myself. After all I had accomplished, I allowed something so small to defeat me. That is why I feel that while my life has been admirable at times, it has also been a disappointment. I have sacrificed for acquaintances and betrayed a better friend than I ever could have prayed for. My destiny has not been written in stone. I realized only I had the power to change it. I needed to get back to my roots. I needed to never forget how hard people around me worked to ensure my success. The only way to reconcile the past is to honor those I have touched positively or otherwise by ensuring my own success.
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