Read Consequence for Free Online Page B

the graduation ceremony. The instructors place the shiny pins on our left breast pockets and then push the sharp edges up against our skin. They do this gently. After the ceremony they collect the jump wings and say, “Wait till tonight.”
    In the barracks, we receive our jump wings again. We stand in the hall and wait for higher-ranking soldiers. They pin the wings on our uniforms again and shove them into our chests. The pins penetrate. Then we fight our way down the hall as other soldiers grab the pins and shove them further. Some twist them. Some punch them. One soldier swings a Kevlar helmet. Everyone bleeds. Everyone laughs.
    2.1
    In December 1995, I begin studying Modern Standard Arabic. The Defense Language Institute (DLI), in Monterey, California, is the U.S. military’s primary school for foreign-language instruction. All languages are covered, but the largest classes are in Korean and Arabic. I arrive at the reception office and hand the duty sergeant my orders. The orders say the program will last for seventy-three weeks.
    New arrivals spend the first week in briefings. Officers and career soldiers get up front and chide us for having it so good. Never again, they say, will the Army see fit to station us in such a wonderful place. We don’t deserve it, they tell us. We haven’t been soldiers long enough. They say we should be suffering in some place like Louisiana, Kentucky, or Tennessee, just the way they did when they were young soldiers. We’re confined to base for the first month. Like any other soldiers in training, we wake up, we clean, we run, we shower, we train, we run again, we clean again, and we sleep.
    We master the Arabic alphabet on the first day. We learn to write the letters in script on the second. We learn to read from right to left. We learn to count, we learn the days of the week, the months, the colors, and the seasons. By the end of the first week, we are reading simple sentences.
    Tests are scheduled every two weeks. Fail two in a row and you’re out. Fail any combination of three and you’re out. Fail to impress the instructors with your overall progress and you’re out. The class consists of forty students broken up into four classrooms. I begin the course with twelve students in my classroom. At the end of week five, two students are out. By week seven, three more have joined them. Like most students, I assume my days are numbered. I survive each test by a thin margin, and I am pulled in by instructors and berated for my work ethic and study habits. One instructor in particular, an Iraqi civil engineer named Mumtaz, seems to enjoy berating us more than the others.
    Mumtaz is the lead instructor. He is large and imposing. Students are afraid of him. Other teachers are, too. Occasionally Mumtaz enters a classroom unannounced to observe the other instructors. When he does, they become angrier and less patient. They scold us for mispronouncing words, and lecture us about our poor handwriting. The teachers tell Mumtaz they are working as hard as they can; the students simply aren’t smart enough to keep up. We are lazy. We are dumb. None of us are going to pass the course. Eventually, Mumtaz takes over the class and lectures us some more.
    After twenty-six weeks, there is a weeklong break. We’ve lost more than half the class. The remaining students show the most promise. We assume the vast majority of those who remain will be allowed to stay with the class through the final exams.
    The pace quickens. In addition to basic language classes, we begin to study Middle Eastern history and politics. We visit our teachers in their homes and travel with them to Arabic-speaking communities in San Jose and San Francisco. Entire weeks are dedicated to immersion. We speak Arabic in class, in formation, at physical training, and in the barracks. DLI offers us a world-class education, and exposes us to the incredibly diverse and complicated Middle East.
    Mumtaz