Silly, I know.

But, it works.

Sunday, September 19th, 2010.

I write this iReport from my hospital room.

The story below is an excerpt from a longer piece.

I was not allowed to photograph.
I was not allowed to use my real name.
I was not allowed to use instructors’ real names.
I have permission to write this story.
This story ends in disaster.

SWAT school: my best worst day ever - part 1

FIRST SERGEANT TRAVOLTA: “HARRIS! Are you a faggot?”

ME: “SIR?”

FST: “HARRIS, are you gay, SON? …Do you TAKE IT UP THE ASS, HARRIS?”

Lifting my face from the goose shit covered lawn, I watch the other students from this year’s SWAT school crawl past me. Future elite warriors slithering through the grass in the classic battle prone position.

ME: “SIR, no, SIR,” I below at the top of my exhausted lungs.

FST: “Do you want me to fuck your ass, BOY?”

ME: “SIR, NO, SIR!” I blast out past the confusion in my head.

Why am I being singled out? What could crawling possibly have to do with a person’s sexual preference? The next words rained down like dragon’s breath.

FST: “YOU NUMB NUTS MOTHERFUCKER!! You crawl with your ass in the air like that and it’s gonna GET SHOT OFF!! YOU MAKE MISTAKES OUT HERE, PEOPLE DIE, SON!”

Pressing my pelvis and face hard into goose shit, I rip the skin off my elbows trying to catch the rest of my team. I haven’t made it six feet. I have not even been given a chance to close the distance to my team when an instructor named Bird jumps my shit.

BIRD: “HARRIS! YOU NO DICK MOTHERFUCKER, IF YOU FALL BEHIND - ONE OF THESE MEN WILL HAVE TO GO BACK AND GET YOUR SORRY ASS! …HARRIS, SMITH OR WHATEVER THE FUCK YOUR NAME IS… GET OFF MY GODDAMN P.T. FIELD!“

Day one of SWAT school is infamous. I am only 5 hours into what is lovingly called “the Death March” by nostalgic SWAT veterans.

My name is not Harris, Smith, faggot or Mr. No Dick MOTHERFUCKER. My name is Colt, Johnny Colt, and this is MY BEST WORST DAY EVER.

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