Where to begin…? I feel like this is probably the first thing addressed by any author ever; so I suppose I should start from the beginning of this series of events and experiences and we'll see where it goes from there.
My name is A.J. Boruk, and I'm a Timber Wolf with tawny fur and hazel eyes. I was raised in a middle class den and was never really conscious of lacking anything growing up, so I guess I was fortunate in that. Like many wolves, I have siblings, a brother and a sister, and am fortunate enough that both of my parents are still around. Growing up, my mother worked at least part time and my father worked construction and spent time at various projects that took him away from home a lot. I don't remember exactly when that started, but I do remember always being aware of the fact that his being away for work meant that there was always enough food to eat and a warm, dry roof overhead. My mother worked from the time my younger sister was old enough for our grandparents to watch us and that never really bothered me either.
Most of our childhood, our father's parents watched us, though there were several years when another local family took care of us after school or during summer breaks so that mom could work a little more, and I suppose, work on her studies.
Growing up, we lived in a fairly heavily wooded area, not particularly old growth or anything, but dense enough to play hide and seek or go for long walks in the woods and listen to the birds singing in the trees, or watch the smaller mammals go about their daily lives.
I was even a Ranger Scout, all the way from the youngest group of kits & pups through to the top award, which I didn't actually receive confirmation of until well after the deadline of my 18th birthday.
Unlike our parents, all three of us 'pups' felt the call of Service to our country, with my older brother being the crazy one and joining the Zootopian Navy, where he learned to hunt submarines from a helicopter and to jump out of said helicopter to rescue people in the water. My younger sister joined the Zootopian Coast Guard, where she became a Marine Science Technician and learned to check ships coming in to port to make sure that they weren't bringing foreign contaminants or invasive species of marine life into Zootopian waters. I had thought of applying for the ZCG Academy when I was in high-school, our father's parents having had a few connections in the Government; but ultimately the recruiters from the Army of Zootopia got hold of me before I could follow through on that plan.
Despite a mostly happy and carefree childhood, I couldn't wait to get away from home and see the world. So I did. Sort of.
During my Senior Year of high school, with my parents permission, I enlisted in the Army Reserve as a 17-year old. I figured I'd maybe go on a couple of peacekeeping deployments to a couple of war-torn countries, come away with some fun stories and access to G.I. Bill money for college. Plus, there was an enlistment bonus...
That was 8 months before the Zistopian terrorists attacked. The day my world changed. At that point, I knew that wherever we wound up, it would NOT be a peacekeeping mission.
The job field that I had selected for myself: Psychological Operations, which sounds way more exotic and bad-ass than it is. Don't get me wrong, I loved doing it and had a lot of fun. In a nutshell, if you've ever seen a movie where soldiers use loudspeakers to blast music on the battlefield (think of the Air Assault Scene from Furpocalypse Now with Ride of the Valkyries blasting over the loudspeakers as the helicopters swooped in), that was what I did. I never actually got to blast epic music from a helicopter during an assault landing like that, but I was one of the loudspeaker guys.
In a nutshell, our job was to go into an area and communicate with the locals. We would find out what sort of issues they were having, and try and convince them to tell us what they knew about the Enemy, and to do what we needed them to do instead of what the Enemy wanted them to do.
The Army wasn't all sunshine and blueberries, especially during Basic Training, but I came away with more fond memories than traumatic ones. Like so much of life as an 18 year old, Basic Training at Fort Rhinox had its share of Ups and Downs. We learned the basics of soldiering. The three key elements of combat, how to Shoot, Move, and Communicate; as well as land navigation, weapons handling and maintenance and, of course, first aid & casualty care.
At one point, I was physically and mentally exhausted and a buddy and I told one of the Drill Sergeants that I'd had enough and wanted to go home. That went over like a loud fart in a quiet church, let me tell you. The Drill Sergeant, a burly warthog who we'll call DS Ranger, took myself and the other private, a ram about my size, who'd been with me in speaking out and walked us in to the hallway on the 1st floor of the barracks, the one where we filthy privates were never supposed to go unless summoned by cadre. He posted us up at parade rest in front of a pair of mirrors at opposite ends of the hallway, probably 20-30 feet apart, and instructed us to remain at parade rest, look at ourselves in the mirror, and reflect upon the fact that we had made a commitment to serve our country. To think about whether we really wanted to be that guy, the one who makes a promise, gives our word, and then backs out when things start to get a little tough. Did we want to go home to our friends and family and have all of them knowing that we were a coward who couldn't handle some exercise and being yelled at.
Four hours, I stared myself in the eyes, at parade rest in that hallway, with the Drill Sergeants, cadre, 1st Sergeant, and even the CO occasionally passing by and shaking their heads in disapproval. Quietly asking me to suck it up and not be that guy.
That was an extremely formative four hours. It worked. I stayed. I received a lot more attention from the Drill Sergeants, got rode pretty hard for even minor infractions; but in the end, the pride in my parent's faces when they came to see me after graduation, the pride I had in myself for earning the right to call myself a Soldier, was absolutely worth it.
I went on to Advanced Individual Training (AIT) and learned how to do that job I described earlier, with the loudspeakers. I also learned how to conduct general observations of a population and formulate strategies to influence their behavior via broadcast and printed media. I learned how to craft loudspeaker scripts and design and disseminate printed products like leaflets and handbills (yes, there is a difference!) There are a surprising number of parallels to what the civilian world calls marketing.
I may not be in fighting trim now, nearly 20 years later (holy crap!), but I do feel that my experiences in Basic and Advanced Training are still a part of me, and always will be.
A/N: Hello to anyone who has actually taken the time to read to this point. Thank you for taking a stab at reading my story. I hope it has not been too terribly boring. I sat down this evening wanting to finally start a fiction story, mayhaps to start developing writing skills because I've always dreamed of writing a book (or God willing, a series of them!)
I had not intended on creating a character so heavily based on my own life, but I'm finding that there is a sort of catharsis in sharing my own experiences as the background and introduction for the introduction of a new character into the fun and lovable world that is Zootopia.
I'm hoping, once I've finished chronicling some of my more memorable experiences here, that I'll be able to convey this character into a story that will fit into the genre (and maybe not be written in the 1st person, since I do hope to break into fiction and had not intended to write an autobiography...)