On the Trail With Don't Ask, Don't Tell
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On the Trail With Don't Ask, Don't Tell - Marin Nikolov
sergeant.
Coming to America
I was adopted at the age of seven from an orphanage near Plovdiv, Bulgaria in 1990. My parents—the nicest people you’ll ever meet—chose to take on an orphan whom the orphanage in this small town didn’t want to release. The director of the orphanage, or boys’ home, must have had her own motivations as to why they should not adopt me. According to my parents, the caretakers of the orphanage admired me and wanted me to stay at the orphanage as I was helpful in their daily duties. The director of the orphanage told my parents that they should allow another family without children to adopt me. My parents persevered and challenged the director. They continued to campaign for me, right up to the short period of time before boarding a flight to the U.S. The lelias, or nannies, of the orphanage wanted me to be adopted because they knew that a life outside the orphanage would be better for me. My parents, the director, and the nannies in the end agreed that I would be best placed with my family in the U.S.
The week after I was adopted, my parents, and their two daughters and I boarded a plane bound to the U.S. My parents came to the U.S. under the student visa program, which allowed us to stay in the U.S. while they went to Regent University in Virginia Beach, Virginia (VA). We entered the country through New York City, New York, as most immigrants did at that time, and proceeded towards Virginia Beach where I was raised with my new siblings. After my parents completed their program under their student visas, they applied for and were granted asylum under the temporary protective status program, which allows citizens of select countries—Bulgaria in our case—in the U.S. to remain here while conditions in the formerly communist Bulgaria improved.
Fast-track to my grade school years. I was for the most part, I believe, a reasonably good student. I knew no English upon arriving in the U.S. in 1990, but quickly assimilated to the American way of life. I started kindergarten one year later than most kids my age since I had to go back a grade in order to learn the English language. My mother told me that I was a teacher’s pet. One of my teachers, Mrs. Louis, I remember, took me to Busch Gardens (an amusement park in Williamsburg, VA) with her family while I was in kindergarten.
Joining the Army
I remember that my mother was hesitant about me joining the military. What made her nervousness constant were the frequent visits an Army recruiter made since she lived down the street from us. The recruiter would come and give her daily spiel about all that the Army had to offer, including the benefits, college tuition, and job training I would receive, that I would otherwise not receive in the civilian sector. She would also come to my high school to recruit prospective volunteers who would potentially commit at least the next four years of their lives to the Army.
I joined the Army under the split option program, which allows high-schoolers and college students to enlist, complete boot camp, return to high school or college for the next school year, and then go on to their advanced individual training (AIT) the following summer. Those who completed high school and or college would continue from their split option delayed entry option directly on to AIT. Active duty recruits would generally go through the one station unit (OSUT) route, prolonging their time with their basic training drill sergeant for that much longer. Since they had no school obligation, OSUT recruits would go through basic and AIT consecutively.
Joining the Army in 2002 and going through boot camp was, in my opinion, not the most challenging of decisions…at least for me. Whether or not I fully knew what I was getting myself into, I wanted to join the Army. But bygones became bygones, and I ended up enlisting during my junior year of high school. I remember sitting in my high school chemistry class in Chesapeake, Virginia in October 2001 while the U.S. invaded Afghanistan. I was anxious and nervous about joining, but all the more excited that I would potentially be going to war.
Going to Army Boot Camp
I remember my first day of boot camp vividly. A van from the Richmond, VA Military Entrance Processing Station (MEPS) chugged along southbound to lovely (not really lovely, if I must be honest) Fort Jackson, South Carolina, in June 2002. All the passengers (future recruits) were nervous and quiet, not knowing what to expect when the van dropped us off. Tired from the hurry up and wait at MEPS, I tried to fall asleep but couldn’t as the bumpy ride and nervousness kept me wide awake.
When we arrived on Fort Jackson, we were met by a drill sergeant at the front of Reception. Reception (120th Battalion, to us drill sergeants) is the in-processing and uniform-issuing center for all recruits at Fort Jackson (120th being particular to Fort Jackson). The drill sergeants at Reception didn’t yell or scream as much as I would later learn that drill sergeants in basic do—shocking, I know. This was when I regretted listening to my recruiter because I packed enough clothes to last two months, as she had advised, but it turned out that we would not be wearing any civilian clothes for the duration of my stay at Fort