MELINDA QUICHOCHO
Veteran
U.S. Army, Guam Army National Guard
The Decision to Join: Yo’ña, 1989
It is 1989, and Mel is thinking, I need to get out of here, do something with myself.
She is eighteen years old, a freshman at the University of Guam, living with her family in the village of Yo’ña. She is being raised by two CHamoru veterans of the Vietnam War. Her mother was a WAC, a nurse in the Women's Army Corps, one of the first women to ship out from Guam for the war in the 1960s. Her father, who is not her biological father, was a drill sergeant, and he runs their home like a drill sergeant. Which means growing up in a home that is beyond strict. Which means everything needs to be in its place, its exact place, or you’d need to start all over again. Which means everything is controlled. Tight. Clean. Which means if the couch is out of whack, you’re out of whack—your ass is grass.
Her brother, who is younger, has already joined the Army. It was something they had talked about doing together, Mel saying, “Bro, I’m gonna go with you, we’re going to do this.”
And her mother keeps saying to her, “Go, go, go.”
And her father keeps saying, “No. You’re not gonna go.”
Mel’s mother encourages her to join the Army; she’s proud of her service, and she thinks it’ll be good for Mel to do something with herself. Mel’s father does not believe that women belong in the military. He tells Mel, “You’re not gonna make it.”
Every time he says it, “You’re not gonna make it,” Mel works harder.
At UOG, Mel’s joined ROTC, the Reserve Officers' Training Corps program. There is PT and marching and field training, and she’s enjoying the feeling of being part of a team, of accomplishing things together, and she’s so proud to wear the uniform. “ROTC made me feel good about myself,” Mel says.
She wants to do more—the process isn’t happening quickly enough. She wants to accomplish more, she wants to feel like she is doing something for other people, she wants to be a protector. She sees the military as the path for her, and she wants to join the Army.
And her father keeps saying, “No. You’re not gonna go.”
In secret, Mel visits an Army recruiter.
She says, “I’m going. I’m going to join the Army. What do I need to do?”
She takes the ASVAB, the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery Test. She signs up for the Army’s Delayed Entry Program. She raises her hand and takes the oath. I, Melinda Quichocho, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend.... Then she goes home.
She doesn’t mention the ASVAB, or the DEP, or raising her hand to take the oath.
Two weeks later, Mel is sitting down with her family, eating dinner.
She says, “Oh... I’m leaving.”
Her parents are confused. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to Basic Training,” Mel says.
“‘What?!”
“What?? What? When did all this happen?’”
The family is surprised; her mother is happy and proud. Mel’s taken her advice, has listened to her. Her father is stunned and angry. He can’t believe that Mel has, behind their backs, joined the military.
“Just even him hearing that I was joining,” Mel remembers now, “he was really upset. But I said, ‘I’m out of here.’”
Boot Camp: Fort Dix, 1989
Fort Dix, New Jersey, December 1989
Mickey Mouse boots are meant for the cold. Officially, they are Extreme Cold Weather Boots, designed originally for soldiers marching through snow during the Korean War. The boots are big and black and bulky with insulation, and Mel pulls those boots on over her regular boots before setting out. A ten-mile march is ahead of her.
Ten miles in boots covered in boots in the New Jersey winter, and it’s not snowing, but it’s raining, raining so hard it’s disgusting, raining so hard that they already know the tents they’re going to set up will float, there’s so much water standing on the ground.
Mile One.
Mile Two.
Mile Three.
Mile Four.
Mel’s in pain. It hurts! From the march, from the Mickey Mouse boots, from the rain and the heaviness and the miles left to go. Her feet are killing her.
Mile Five.
Mile Six.
I’m dying, Mel thinks. I’m not gonna make it.
A truck comes driving up to them.
“They came out on the field, looking, and it was like Saving Private Ryan,” Mel says now, laughing, “looking for Private Quichocho, Melinda Quichocho.”
“We’re taking you back,” they tell her, out on that field in the muck and the rain. “Today they’re honoring your patron saint, Santa Maria.”
Nearly 8,000 miles away, it is December 8 in Guam, the day of the Feast of Santa Marian Kamalen and the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. The day of the Mass and the procession in Hagåtña. Mel is Catholic but hadn’t been tracking the days.
In New Jersey, they take her back, away from the march and the rain and the mud. It is crazy, surreal, leaving the march. It feels like a miracle.
She goes to Mass, then stays in the barracks for the rest of the day.
“The thing about it was, how did they know? And all these—I never questioned it,” Mel says, remembering and laughing. “But when I talk to people, I tell them, ‘Dude, that march was crazy, and I was in pain, and Santa Marian Kamalen saved my ass!”’The journey continues.
The journey continues.