Our boys

I have had the privilege of teaching Tagalog to a group of Marines at Camp Pendleton. The experience has been surreal at first – seeing men in uniform every where I go… having to drive 15 mph and getting reprimanded by a senior officer when I drove 5 miles above the speed limit, having to go through checkpoint, and seeing ammunition and tanks just a few feet away.

The boys, I mean—men, are extremely bright, articulate, and also incredibly funny. Now they have basic understanding of the language, they are able to make jokes and be understood in my native tongue.

As I am getting more comfortable being around them, and they with me, I am learning more and more about the marine life I would have never encountered as a civilian. From getting a cool new glove to prevent callous hands when crawling on the ground, to the air-tight packed tortillas with enough calories to last them a day, they openly share about them.

I witness the respect they have for each other, but also the taunting when time permits. They look tough with their tattoos, calloused hands, firm built, and tan faces. Yet they appear young and vulnerable when asking about a language and culture they have yet to explore. A few look embarrassed when unable to pronounce or recall learned words.

One young marine emailed me a list of certain military commands he needed translated. My heart broke when I opened the document. The point of the language instruction became real. They are not going to the Philippines for a cup of tea and friendly chat.

They need to know commands, instructions, and warning. “Stop or I will shoot, put your weapons down, lie on your stomach, you are a prisoner.”

This is life or death. They need to know these words, either to say themselves, or to follow orders when they hear it.