Shoveling & Sorting Rocks

When I was a kid, my dad used to punish me by making me do all sorts of menial and labor-intensive tasks such as raking leaves, but not just our leaves, the whole neighborhood’s leaves; mowing lawns, but not just our lawn, every lawn within eyeshot; and, of course, shoveling dirt and rocks, his personal favorite (because supposedly Rocky Marciano, his favorite boxer, used to shovel rocks during fight camp).

Before I got my first “real job,” I mowed lawns, shoveled snow, raked leaves, and performed various odd jobs for neighbors and elderly people in the community who didn’t mind shelling out $10 or $20 to some ten-year-old kid who was more than happy to hustle for the dough.

Once I hit thirteen, my father took me down to Michael’s Auto Repair in Chesterton, Indiana, where I became, as the guys would say, “the shop bitch.” I was tasked with cleaning the toilets, refilling the coffee machine, mopping the floors, replacing hand towels, landscaping, and performing a wide variety of otherwise shit jobs none of the older guys wanted to do.

One day, a dump truck dropped off a full load of gravel rock. Michael’s plan was to use the gravel to fill the roadway that formed a horseshoe around the back and sides of his shop. Massive potholes dotted the path after years of vehicles, some small, many large (we do live in the Midwest), made their way to or from the Boneyard of Cars.

As a teenager, I knew what this meant: my summer would consist of shoveling and wheelbarrowing gravel from one end of the property to the other, back and forth, day after day, until the pile of rock was gone. Fun.

Almost immediately, the shit-talking began: “You’re gonna have a fun summer, Vinny!” Belly laughs commence. “Hey guys, do you think this little shit can move that pile of rock or will he find a new job?” The ball-busting and jokes continued until I grabbed the nearest shovel, snatched the wheelbarrow, and walked toward the heaping pile of gravel.

I won’t lie: the first few days were brutal. The sun was beating down, as it does on a hot June afternoon. I told myself, “If you let this pile of rocks defeat you, if you let it beat you down, not only will you have to answer to those guys in the shop and your Pops, but you’ll also have to answer to yourself.”

The thing is, a pile of gravel is a pile of gravel. It exists. It doesn’t change. It doesn’t talk back. It doesn’t do anything. It just is. To quote Henry Rollins:

The Iron never lies to you. You can walk outside and listen to all kinds of talk, get told that you’re a god or a total bastard. The Iron will always kick you the real deal. The Iron is the great reference point, the all-knowing perspective giver. Always there like a beacon in the pitch black. I have found the Iron to be my greatest friend. It never freaks out on me, never runs. Friends may come and go. But two hundred pounds is always two hundred pounds.”

Two hundred pounds is always two hundred pounds. That’s what I’m getting at: the pile of rocks doesn’t fight back. Other than its natural gravity, it doesn’t provide resistance. It doesn’t talk. It doesn’t feel. It’s just there, as a pile of rock. And my job was to move it.

Each night, I remember coming home, eating food, and immediately going to my room. No TV. No playing outside. No nothing, really. I liked the routine. I enjoyed the feeling of exhaustion. Then, each morning, I’d wake up and feel a new sore muscle, many I never knew existed. I was getting stronger. I liked that too.

A couple of weeks later, the pile of gravel was no more. My skin was tan. My hands were callused. And my spirit was strong. The guys in the shop toasted me with ice-cold Coca-Colas, ordered a bunch of pizzas, and took the rest of the day off. We cranked the boombox and shot the shit until my Pops showed up to take me home.

Eight years later, I’m standing at parade rest (Merriam-Webster: a formal position assumed by a soldier in ranks in which he remains silent and motionless with the left foot 12 inches to the left of the right foot and with the weight resting equally on both feet and clasps the hands behind the back with the palms to the rear), waiting for orders from the Headquarter & Service Company Gunnery Sergeant.

He walks into the room…“Emanuele, listen up! Because you’re a shitbag wannabe hippie motherfucker [at the time, I had refused a third deployment to Iraq and was awaiting administrative discharge papers], here’s what I’m gonna have you do: you’re gonna rearrange all of the rocks outside of HQ. How does that sound?” Of course, I gave the obligatory response, “Yes, Gunnery Sergeant!” Notice I didn’t answer the question, just “yes.”

At the time, I was stationed in picturesque, Twentynine Palms, California, Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center (MCAGCC), located in Southeastern California, otherwise known as the ‘Inland Empire.’ In July, the average high temperature in Twentynine Palms, California, is a balmy 105 degrees Fahrenheit. Nestled in the desolate yet gorgeous Mojave Desert, MCAGCC was a place where boys become men, men act like boys, and everyone leaves a radically different person.

Back to my predicament…The gunny (short for gunnery sergeant), upset with my political antics, sought to make an example of me, so my task was to rearrange every single rock (there were thousands) into single-file rows of rocks that would form horizontal and vertical patterns across the front of the building. Because Twentynine Palms is located in a desert, there was virtually no grass to mow, hence the river rock that was tossed about in the sand for some inexplicable aesthetic reason.

Nevertheless, I quickly began rearranging rocks and did so for several weeks until I was moved to yet another company to perform a wide variety of both menial and absurd tasks such as cleaning bathrooms that no one used and picking up marines from the airport who had recently been arrested for going AWOL, otherwise known as UA (Unauthorized Absence) in the Marine Corps. Yes, that’s right: the USMC had me, a marine who refused deployment on political grounds, picking up marines who fled for similar reasons. Anyone who tells you that the U.S. military is a rational, well-oiled machine is a liar or has never served.

In any case, I enjoyed moving and arranging and rearranging those rocks. Each day, marines would walk by and talk shit, but I didn’t care. It was just me and those rocks. Whenever a higher up would walk by, I’d have to stand up, salute if they were an officer, or stand at parade rest if they were enlisted, and give the proper greeting: “Good morning/afternoon, [rank]!” Then, I’d kneel down or sit with my legs crossed and get back to moving rocks, one by one, minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day, week after week.

I would think back to that experience at Michael’s Auto, shoveling that gravel and wheelbarrowing it back and forth, day after day under the hot sun. Here I was, once again under the blazing sun, but this time, moving rocks delicately and intentionally.

In both circumstances, I had plenty of time to think. With no earbuds, iPhones, or mp3 players around (nor would they have been allowed), it was just me and those rocks. Most of the time, silence, or the rhythmic sounds of my own breathing.

Some days, I would fantasize about murdering everyone in the HQ building, sorta like the scene from the original, Terminator, when Arnold bursts into the police station and slaughters the entire force. Other days, I would try and recall every single person I’d ever had a sexual relationship with, each experience, in as much detail as possible, with names, locations, and backdrops. One day I might try and name every Super Bowl winner and the year in which they won, or repeat the dialogue from some of my favorite movies. Another day I might sing entire albums, from to back, over and over.

On my best days, I would transport myself to different worlds, entirely new universes, crisscrossing black empty spaces on rocket ships while searching for extraterrestrial life, battling cyborg invaders, and unleashing top-secret armaments from my neverending arsenal of advanced weaponry.

Other days, I would ground myself in a visceral, real-world landscape, a prison, for instance. I would imagine the military base as a penal institution and I, the prisoner, riding out my remaining days performing mindless jobs for The Warden— doing time, as they say.

Many days, I would meditate on death. I would recall fallen comrades and enemy combatants, relatives, and others who left this earth too soon. Freedom became an almost daily obsession, the primary concept to ponder. How much was too much? Could that even be a thing, too much freedom?

My experiences, both as a child and in the Marine Corps, taught me that no one has the power to break your spirit. Only you can do that.

Turns out, life is 90% mental and 10% physical. Yes, the mind is powerful, sometimes too powerful, but it’s up to us to harness that energy and give it a purpose — a mission.

Routines and challenges, however tedious or onerous, are good for the mind. Train yourself to process new information and experiences in a way that’s conducive to productivity, accomplishing worthwhile objectives, and by doing so, you’ll become a more resilient, adaptable, and thoughtful human being.

Humans, in the end, are quite resilient creatures. Sometimes, in our fast-paced world of techno-alienation, hyper-consumerism, and liberal coddle culture, we forget that tough times build tough people. But only if we allow the conditions which surround us to influence our being.

We can run from life, or we can face it head-on. That’s up to us as individuals and as collective members of society.

Vincent Emanuele is a writer, antiwar veteran, and podcaster. He is the co-founder of PARC | Politics Art Roots Culture Media and the PARC Community-Cultural Center located in Michigan City, Indiana. Vincent is a member of Veterans For Peace and OURMC | Organized & United Residents of Michigan City. He is also a member of Collective 20. He can be reached at vincent.emanuele333@gmail.com