I was a freshman in high school when, along with probably half the lowerclassmen, had a huuuge crush on the then Battalion Commander, Pinoy-Norweigan Moses Ipsen. In his tight green CAT uniform and authoritative look, he made rifle-toting and shouting "Siryesir" look hot. We thought the CAT officers looked cool, and the authority that comes along with their rank was an enticing prize for a teenager like me.
When my friends decided to undergo COCC (Cadet Officer Candidacy Course), which is the training to be CAT officers, when were in junior year, I said yes right away. It was only a few months, and the thought of wearing those Cadette Captain pins and making male classmates do dozens of push-ups with just a flick of my eyebrow tided me over those long months of training. We started ut as more than a dozen of lemmings, which eventually whittled down to a handful. I'm sure my former batchmates would say they did it to learn discipline, to earn respect, as if other people's awe of you can be measured by the number of pumpings and squats you did. That was my party line too. We were virtual robots, at the beck and call of the officers, speaking only when spoken to, eating only when ordered to, and even our bowel movements were decided by our superiors. It was a frenetic lifestyle, and I lost all contact with my civilian friends and classmates. We were to stand up rod-straight against the wall at all times, looking blankly straight ahead. Smiling was out of the question and mingling was to be avoided like the plague.
I now realized I did not really respect the people above me, nor my batchmates when they became my officers the following school year. I mean really respect, in the truest sense of the word. I followed them, yes, blindly because well, that was what I was supposed to do. It dawned n me what I felt then was fear. I feared them because they had the capacity then to inflict physical pain to me, but I did not follow them because they inspired me. I felt no burning desire to die for them, and the training left me not with a giddy feeling of patriotism, but with a bitter taste in my mouth.
I quit. And I'm sure after I did, they all went around chanting those rhymes and mantras about quitters never winning. In way, maybe I did. I did win. I won back my freedom, my ability to think and speak for myself. I made choices that weren't limited to how many spoonfuls of rice I can eat during the square meals or how neatly tucked my shoelaces were into my black, uber shiny leather shoes.
One of my bathcmates then, who, due to typical teenage close-mindedness, was ridiculed because he was a closet gay. I saw how even when he was commanding the troops, he was joked at and criticized behind his back, and I couldn't stomach that for myself.
This is not to say I am maligning the people who underwent the training and successfully completed the course. I did feel a pang when they donned the same officers' uniforms and black felt cap I longed for for years. Some of them did deserve the hnr and privilege, and some of them, well, "abused" them later on.
I did miss the bond we developed during those three months I spent with them. We were each others' family, whether we like the other person's morning breath or not. I had killer abs when I was in training!
But I guess when you joined something you're heart is really not a hundred percent into, when the novelty wears off, you're left with an empty feeling and an insatiable dissatisfaction. I guess part of it is I joined it for less than noble reasons, and I wasn't dedicated enough to finish it just for the sake of coolness or belonging.
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