Soldier Girls by Helen Thorpe Page B

cinched at the waist—and left her house at dawn. She drove her mother’s old gray Chevy Citation north on Highway 231 until the engine sputtered and fell silent. She did not make it to the breakfast.
    While caring for her infant son, Desma also began babysitting for a man who lived down the street—his name was Keith and he was a single father. After several months, Desma began dating her employer. “It was convenient,” she said. “We were already there. He lived right up the street from me.” Soon Desma and Josh moved in with Keith. As Josh began to speak, Desma’s boyfriend prompted her son to call him Dad, and Josh and his surrogate father developed an enduring relationship, such that Keith essentially became voluntary kin to the boy. After she and Keith broke up, Desma got an apartment of her own, but Josh continued to spend time with Keith. When Desma’s first set of foster parents called to ask how she was doing and heard she was living out of a cooler, they took her to the Whirlpool store and bought her a refrigerator. After only six months, it became clear that she could not afford the rent, and she and Josh and the refrigerator moved back into her mother’s house.
    Desma likes to say she joined the military on a dare. It’s a story she tells often. “A friend of mine showed up at the house,” said Desma. “We were neighbors, and she was dating a recruiter from the National Guard. And she says, ‘Hey, come with me. Let’s go take the ASVAB test.’ ” It was March 1996, and Josh was three years old. Both Desma’s older brother and her new boyfriend, a man named Dennis Brooks, had served in the navy. At the time, she was making office credenzas at Jasper Desk for $8.65 an hour. “I ain’t got nothing better going on, and Josh was with Grandma,” said Desma. “She was keeping him all night. So I jumped in the car with her and the boyfriend and we went to Evansville and I took the ASVAB and scored really well.”
    Two weeks later, the same friend showed up again and urged Desma to take the physical exam, too.
    â€œI don’t want to join the army,” Desma said.
    But the following day, her friend showed back up, along with the military recruiter she was dating, and they urged her to join the Army National Guard. It was not such a big commitment, they said—just twelve weekends a year, two weeks in the summer.
    â€œI dare ya,” her friend said. “Just go do the physical—I bet you won’t make it in.”
    Desma’s friend said she was planning to sign up, too. They drove down to Louisville, Kentucky, together. At the military processing station, Desma made the rounds, culminating with the duckwalk in her underwear. “And they herd you all into this one big room and there’s some guy with a big, powerful voice telling you that it’s the finest thing to serve your country and the next thing you know, he’s like, ‘Raise your right hand and repeat after me.’ And I couldn’t hear a word of the oath he said. All I heard was, blah blah, blah blah blah. So that’s what I did, I raised my right hand, and apparently that meant I was in the army [National Guard] now. Completely unintentional.” Afterward, Desma found her friend crying in the canteen—she had failed the physical because she had psoriasis. Desma refused to speak to her for months.
    The story Desma never tells is the one about the military recruiter who actually processed her enlistment. Her friend’s boyfriend had introduced Desma to the recruiter who handled her paperwork. “Turned out to be a real dirtbag,” said Desma. He sexually assaulted her after she signed her contract, according to Desma, although she never reported the incident. Desma enlisted for three years and received a $2,500 bonus. She was told to be ready to leave for basic training at the end of the summer. Perhaps