06/02/2026
The Song That Made It to Boot Camp
Just before my abduction into the Navy, I made one last trip to Los Angeles.
I quietly said goodbye to my dreams of becoming a movie star and a recording artist. As I rode the RTD bus toward the airport, I was headed toward a new beginning, an uncharted adventure, and a life I could not yet imagine.
Money had been scarce. There had been plenty of Cream of Wheat, Kool-Aid, sugar, and potatoes. There had also been disappointment, uncertainty, and questions that did not seem to have answers.
While riding that bus, I noticed a homeless woman traveling with an elderly person in a wheelchair. The brake on the wheelchair would not hold. Every time the bus stopped or started, the chair rolled up and down the aisle, bumping into people who clearly did not want to be bothered.
Most people looked away.
I understood why.
But I also understood that she was trapped.
So I quietly placed my foot against one wheel and the floor to keep the chair from rolling. I did it for the rest of the trip without saying a word. Nobody applauded. Nobody thanked me. I simply did not want her dignity to be taken away in front of a crowded bus.
What I did not know was that the same foot would become my problem.
When I arrived at Navy boot camp, I had to pass the physical readiness test. Push-ups. Bodybuilders. Jumping jacks. A run. I failed and was running out of chances. The pain in my foot was excruciating.
I was terrified.
I had left everything behind.
If I failed again, I could be sent home.
On my final attempt, I remembered something.
Not my mother's favorite song.
Not my grandmother's favorite song.
Not my father's song.
Not my pastor's song.
I remembered the song of a little old woman who came to prayer meeting at Second AME Church on Hoover Street in Los Angeles. Every week she sang the same song. Everybody already knew what she was going to sing before she opened her mouth.
"This little light of mine, I'm going to let it shine."
As I ran, I began singing her song.
When my body said quit, I sang.
When my mind said quit, I sang.
When fear said quit, I sang.
Then something amazing happened.
Four other young men who were struggling joined my cadence. They didn't know the woman. They didn't know the prayer meetings. They didn't know the history behind the song.
But they knew we needed each other.
For one lap around that gym, five exhausted young men shared one rhythm, one determination, and one finish line.
The rule was simple: if the lead runners lapped us before we finished, we were disqualified.
They never got the chance.
We crossed the line together.
Many years later, I realized something.
The little old woman never went to boot camp.
But her song did.
And when I needed it most, it was waiting for me there.
