Letters Home From Boot Camp: 'Hi Mom, This Place Really Sucks'

My daughter joined the Army just after she graduated from high school in 1999. I'll never forget her first letter - particularly the first sentence of that letter - mailed from boot camp.

"01Aug99

Hi Mom,

This place really sucks.

We aren’t in basic training yet so I can’t give out an address to mail my checks to or letters or anything.

I was ready to come home the first night.

We (the 63rd platoon) were moved into barracks, and I’ve been to sick call to see a doctor. He just said get some rest and eat some more bread and fruit.

I went to the non-denominational church service this morning and I have a much better attitude toward the situation.

I failed the running part of a test so I go to an extra physical training thing away from my platoon for a while. Once I can run a mile in 11 minutes or less I can go to basic.

I tried to call you at work but the first time you were busy and the second time you had gone home.

The chaplain was talking about his son. It made me think of Damon and I started crying.

I better go. I have a ton more letters to write.

Tiffany "

Tiffany could have - should have - gone to college on scholarships. Her achievement tests placed her in the 95th percentile of other kids her age, and some of her military test scores were the highest her recruiter had ever seen.

But because she didn't apply herself in high school, we didn't feel comfortable investing our meager financial resources in sending her to college and informed her she needed to consider other ways to to pay for higher education. She chose joining the Army and the financial opportunities it offered for education.

A few weeks before Tiffany went to basic training, she had her beautiful, thick, waist-length hair cut off. The stylists at the shop used it to practice dye jobs for weeks.

The result of the hair cut was a cute chin-length bob, shorter than Tiffany had worn her hair since she was in grade school. Back then I made her wear it short because she wouldn’t keep it brushed. Once she began taking care of her hair and was too “grown up” for me to tell her how to wear her locks, she grew it long.

By the time she entered high school, it was long enough for a toss of her head to make her hair swing wide, past her left elbow, then across her back and past her right, a flag waving “look at me” to passersby.

She didn’t even tell me she was getting it cut; just went to the shop and had it done. Tiffany’s lovely long tresses – and the teen years they represented – were whisked away with a few clips.

She had her hair cut off because she knew it would be too much to care of while she was in basic training.

I was stunned.