I was 28 years old when I arrived in the United States and 29 when I joined the United States military. At the time, I was working at McDonald’s mopping floors when a recruiter approached me. He quickly realized that I spoke no English whatsoever, and for that reason he was patient with me.
When I arrived at Reception, I could not understand what the drill sergeants were saying. I followed the other soldiers and copied their movements. Without the battle buddy who had been assigned to me, I would have been disoriented and likely sent home.
During that week, a young soldier taught me basic English. It was limited, but it allowed me to function well enough to remain in training.
After a physical training session, a drill sergeant informed me that I had not only passed the test but had achieved a perfect score (maxed out). He did not know that I had not even understood I was being tested. Just to show you how bad my English was.
Here is how I ended up maxing out my first PT test. The soldier in front of me performed 51 push ups and 71 sit ups, so I performed 52 and 72 respectively. During the 2-mike run, I stayed behind another 19 year old who had run track in high school. When he took off, I did too. When he turned, I turned. When he finished, I finished. I was not competing against him; I was mirroring him.
In Basic Rifle Marksmanship (BRM) training, the company assumed that I could not shoot. For three weeks I was unable to hit center mass, not because I lacked technical ability, but because I did not understand what zeroing a weapon meant. I never held a gun or a weapon before. I was hitting the target, but I was not grouping the rounds correctly. No one explained the fundamentals to me in a way I could understand until qualification day, when a soldier from another platoon showed me what to do. I followed her instructions and qualified with 29 out of 40.
I completed basic training with only limited spoken English by observing other soldiers and following their actions. Advanced Individual Training (AIT) was a bit easier because it involved reading, which I could manage, although listening comprehension remained a serious obstacle. My first duty station at Fort Bliss, Texas was difficult. I relied on television programs such as Johnny Bravo, Teletubbies, and the Powerpuff Girls, as well as Army regulations, as informal language tools. My English improved, but my accent remained.
As both an enlisted and an officer, my accent became a constant marker of difference. My peers called me Kunta Kinte. They referred to me as the African character from the film Friday who says, “I cannot get jiggy with that shit.” For 24 years, my accent followed me in ways that resembled a professional liability. My unit discounted my competence, and my supervisors often refused to recognize me as a leader.
In 2015, as I was leaving active duty to join the reserves, a position opened at the hospital where I had been working. I applied and was referred for the job. I contacted the hiring manager, who was also my supervisor. He told me directly that he would not interview me because I did not speak English. He made that statement despite the fact that I briefed him daily in a professional setting and received a stellar Officer Evaluation Report from him. I filed a complaint with JAG, and they ruled in his favor.
Let it be known to all and let the record show that the individual they claimed could not speak English had, while on active duty, earned three master’s and a doctoral degree, a level of education exceeding that of most of those making judgments about him.
I did not remain in the military for 24 years because the institution was just, fair, or equitable. I remained because I learned to navigate power structures even when communication was constrained. Over time, it became clear to me that large organizations do not primarily reward intelligence or effort, but rather conformity, familiarity, and the presence of traits that signal belonging to those who already hold authority. My accent was not a professional deficiency, but a visible marker that I did not originate from the dominant social group, and it generated discomfort that was often expressed through mockery or exclusion.
The broader lesson of this experience is that an individual can be highly competent, extensively educated, loyal, and productive, and still encounter systematic barriers in institutions that were not designed to fully recognize difference. I retired after 24 years with an honorable discharge, the rank of Major, and various medals, not because my accent disappeared, but because I learned to build leverage rather than seek acceptance in systems that derive stability from exclusion. Many soldiers thrive in the Army, but me, I endured it, but I am proud to have served in the greatest army in the world.
Bobb Rousseau, PhD