All Is Grace_ A Ragamuffin Memoir - Brennan Manning [17]
I don’t ever remember getting caught by my parents. If I was sixteen, that would make my sister seven, and my mother’s focus was on Gerry, as it should have been. I’m willing to bet my mother had some idea, seeing as how my father struggled with alcohol too. But maybe at that age she thought I was going to do what I was going to do. As for my father, I believe he knew as well but perhaps felt he had waited too long to broach the topic with me. If some things aren’t said before a boy leaves home, it’s probably too late. I do wish my father might have tried to say something, anything. But I don’t believe he got those kinds of fathering “cards” from his father, and as my mother said, “If you don’t get ’em, you can’t play ’em.”
7
My decision to attend college was mainly fueled by encouragements concerning my writing I had received along the way. I enrolled in St. John’s University in Queens with an eye toward being a sportswriter. I remember two things about my freshman year at St. John’s: that I had a gift and that I liked to drink.
I learned about the gift in a speech class I was taking. I can’t remember the content of the speech I gave in class that day, but the class response was positive. My professor asked to see me briefly after class. He didn’t prolong the moment but simply said, “Richard, you’ve been given a great gift. Use it well.” That was the very first time anyone had said anything about my ability to speak, probably because that was one of my first public-speaking experiences. I’m hesitant to say my professor’s words changed everything, but they did change something, something about how I saw myself. Sometimes one sentence can stand up against years of hearing “He won’t amount to much.” I was thrilled my professor believed in me, but I was also just a little unnerved. Someone had given me a “great gift,” which meant that somebody beyond my professors believed in me, maybe somebody big.
The other memory of my freshman year is just as vivid but not nearly so poignant. By some miracle I was a B student, even though I don’t remember ever studying. What I do remember is drinking. Larry Chaffee and I would go down to the Dodger Cafe after classes, about 2:30 p.m., and drink until dusk. Some days I would skip class, but I had perfect attendance at the Dodger Cafe; everyone there knew my name.
Early in my sophomore year at St. John’s three of my friends—Joe Mulligan, Tom Fitzgerald, and Charlie Peterson—decided to join the Marines. They threw the invitation my way to join them, and I said, “Sure, why not?” I don’t think I joined because of peer pressure but more because of the feeling of potential it gave me. I remember thinking that I could either stay in college, or I could join the Marines and I might just win the Silver Star, possibly nab a Purple Heart, maybe even a Bronze Star, potentially come home to a hero’s welcome. Then those closest to me would finally approve of and affirm me. So in the spur-of-the-moment way college sophomores often behave, I dropped out of St. John’s in October 1952, and as an eighteen-year-old, I enlisted in the Marine Corps.
Sooner than I expected, I had moved to Parris Island, South Carolina, for basic training. On my first day, I was among forty other young men getting cleaned up and then experiencing esprit de corps by having our heads shaved.
Drill instructors are notorious for being able to spot hopers and dreamers like me, and Sergeant James Whistler put a bead on me from the very beginning. One morning he approached me and asked, “Did you shave this morning, boy?” I lied through my teeth and said yes; the most I had grown at the time was peach fuzz. But the Sergeant liked clean and smooth. He retreated on a dime and returned with a dry razor and the command to “Shave! Now!” I was trying to be a good Marine, so I stood in formation and shaved. Although shaving cream or lotion would have been nice, I would have