Hillbilly Elegy

Island, South Carolina, an angry drill
instructor greeted my group as we
disembarked from the plane. He ordered
us onto a bus; after a short trip, another
drill instructor ordered us off the bus
and onto the famed “yellow footprints.”
Over the next six hours, I was poked and
prodded by medical personnel, assigned
equipment and uniforms, and lost all of
my hair. We were allowed one phone
call, so I naturally called Mamaw and
read off of the card they gave me: “I
have arrived safely at Parris Island. I
will send my address soon. Goodbye.”
“Wait, you little shithead. Are you
okay?” “Sorry, Mamaw, can’t talk. But
yes, I’m okay. I’ll write as soon as I