As An Air Force Cadet, I Did Something Taboo

The sign at the Air Force Academy said not to feed us, but I couldn’t resist breaking the rules to save my sanity

As a cadet in basic training, Melonie San Pietro learned some Air Force Academy rules were made to be broken to save her sanity. Photo by Joshua Hoehne on Unsplash

“DON’T FEED THE BASICS.” This was the warning posted around the Air Force Academy the evening of July 4th, 2000, one week into basic training. Apparently, we’d become the exhibit.

Of the 1369 brand-new basic cadets, about 180 of us, myself included, were women. With no outside influence, it had been easy to conform. We were blank canvases, told what to do, when to do it, and how to do it. Each day, the military institution added another brushstroke to our new identities, and we absorbed each one.

We’d come from all over the country, and all had different reasons for choosing a service academy for college: some had lifelong dreams of becoming fighter pilots, some had legacy to live up to, others aced the ACTs and SATs but couldn’t afford tuition so chose the academy where academic standards are high and all cadets are on full scholarship. Still more were recruited to play Division 1 sports. I was in the last camp, recruited for soccer and basketball.

I’d grown up a military brat, so attending a military academy seemed like a reasonable next step. When I received my congressional appointment in my senior year of high school, I was ecstatic. About a month after my high school graduation, I showed up carrying nothing but my worn-in combat boots, laced with all the naivety of a motivated teenager. The rest would be issued to me, because at service academies, the first matter of business is basic training.

On that Independence Day, we were let loose to watch the fireworks. It was our first night of freedom since arriving. It was also our first time seeing—and being seen by—outsiders.

We were put “at rest” for the night, which meant we could talk to the people whom we’d marched next to in tight formations since arriving. I’d laughed with the people who lived across the hall, felt their breath on my own face during shoulder-to-shoulder push-ups in long sterile hallways. I’d locked eyes with them each morning while sounding off, “Yes, Sir! No, Sir! No excuse, Sir!” We’d encouraged and supported one another, held one another’s rifles, carried each other up hills, but never exchanged a word.

I knew who most people were by the sound of their voices, but probably couldn’t have pointed them out in a lineup. It sounds a bit brutal, but there had been good times too. One morning, a female upperclassman was whispering in a basic’s ear, berating him. No one could hear what she was saying but him. Then, he suddenly blurted out, “No, I will not make out with you!” Our expressionless faces curved into smirks until we all exploded into laughter. Her rage, and the hour of push-ups and sprints that followed, were worth every illicit giggle.

It felt surreal walking around freely for the first time in the cadet area—a large, square cement slab of the Air Force Academy campus called the terrazzo bordered by our dorms, the academic building, and our cafeteria. One side had a tall cement wall, leading to another level where the cadet chapel stood, and the ever-present Colorado mountains served as the majestic backdrop to it all. It was at the top and the other side of the wall where visitors made the habit of coming to watch the cadets. We were a tourist attraction in Colorado Springs.

On the Fourth of July, they come to watch the basics watching the fireworks. We were like animals in a zoo. The posted signs said not to feed us, but they did anyway.

Onlookers watched, captivated, as we foraged through the Starburst and Snickers bars they dropped for us, watching us frantically fill the cargo pockets of our camouflage uniforms like squirrels on crack. When our pockets reached capacity, we found room in our undergarments to hoard our treasures (sports bras for storing contraband were a rare advantage for the vastly outnumbered female cadets).

It felt like Christmas in July. A really weird, fucked up Christmas.

Some spectators brought Big Macs or Chipotle burritos. These were the most sought-after, causing outright brawls between the starving cadets who, very often, didn’t get a chance to eat enough at mealtime due to so many rules that made it difficult to actually take a bite of food. Just a week in, many of the guys, especially the larger football recruits, had become shadows of their former selves.

Some visitors even dropped down porn for the male basics, who had nothing to look at but girl basics who looked like boys. This was back when they would chop females’ hair two inches from the scalp upon arrival, a practice that has long since been abandoned.

There was one casualty amidst the chaos. One basic looked up at the wrong time and got hit in the face with a six-pack of beer. For weeks after, he wore a patch and became both a legend and a cautionary tale. Rumors floated that he’d lost his pilot qualification because his vision was permanently damaged.

My family lived just 20 minutes away, in the house where I’d grown up. What seemed like a comfort, though, ended up being more of a hindrance than a help during basic training, and throughout my four years at the Academy. I was like a dog being dragged away from its owner: As long as the owner is still in sight, the dog resists. But once there’s enough distance, the pull weakens, and the dog eventually moves forward. I was never far enough away to stop resisting. The pull of home never let go.

I knew my mom would be there on the wall that steamy July night. I hadn’t been a rebellious teenager, never went through the stage where I resented my parents. After school, if I didn’t have practice, my mom would rebound basketballs for me as I shot in the backyard, and we’d go for long walks with the family dog, talking about everything. I scanned the crowd and eventually spotted her, peering down, searching for me, her youngest daughter. I screamed up at her, and she finally saw me. This was her first time seeing my butchered hair and uniform. It was clear she didn’t recognize who I’d become since she dropped me off seven days before. I don’t remember the fireworks or flyovers that night, but I remember the way her face changed when she saw me, how it sent my stomach into my throat and tears into my eyes, and how I suddenly didn’t want any candy anymore at all.

I was saved by a loud horn. Like robots, we straightened our backs, stopped talking, stopped scavenging, and ran to find our flights—otherwise known as our new “families” of about 36 basics each that we’d been assigned to on our first day.

Falling into formation as if we’d been doing it all our lives, an upperclassman then called cadence and marched us back to the dorms. Forward…harch! Left, right, left, right.

Once out of sight from the prying onlookers, the rhythmic “hup two three four” turned into chaos: unrestrained screaming, aggressive pat downs and, of course, push-ups.

All my candy was confiscated immediately. All except one piece that had slid down to rest at the bottom of my issued white underwear. I felt like the luckiest girl in the world.

That night, after the lights went out, I ate a fun-size portion of freedom, rebellion, and triumph. I squeezed the partially melted bar straight from the wrapper into my mouth to make sure no chocolate touched my hands. I held the bar in my mouth, only swallowing when I ran the risk of salivating all over my pillow. Not even my roommates knew what was happening under those stiff white sheets. I didn’t know if they could be trusted.

Was I worried about the cleanliness of my little stowaway? The answer is no. That never crossed my mind. Basic was a time when I’d have eaten a forbidden treat regardless of whose undercarriage delivered it to me. Having been a basic, I can confirm that we’re desperate, hungry, and very gross.

The next morning at 4:30 a.m., reveille blared. Cadre screamed and banged on doors, and we jolted out of our beds.

I marched down the long, stark hallway toward the bathroom, my heart pounding as I waited in line to pee. Shoulders up, back straight, eyes forward, and one sweet secret. Once I locked the stall door behind me, I reached into my underwear and pulled out the hidden wrapper.

Adrenaline surged through me, and I smiled widely as the evidence of my defiance disappeared down the toilet. I mentally tallied up a point for myself and thought, Maybe I’ll get away with a few brush strokes of my own. Maybe this is how I make it.

Melonie San Pietro is a writer and business owner in Washington, DC, where she lives with her husband, two daughters, and a scruffy terrier. She’s written for The Los Angeles Times and Ms. Magazine, serves in the Air Force Reserves, and is currently at work on a memoir about her time at the Air Force Academy. She’s drawn to stories that sit at the intersection of identity, power, and everyday absurdity—especially those concerning women and institutional expectations. Find more of her work at her Substack, Suck Less Tomorrow, and at wanderpups.com.