Sgt Arthur Flores

Marine Corps | Correctional Specialist

Dates of Service: no date specified

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I was born in Chicago 1956. I was in kindergarten in East Los Angeles 1962. Our family was poor and forced to leave our roach and rodent infested duplex on Gerhardt Avenue because the landlord didn’t want Mexicans as tenants. Housing discrimination was legal prior to 1964. My early childhood memories are surrounded with bigotry, domestic violence, child abuse and random acts of kindness. My big sister would shoplift round steak and tortillas to feed us at home, God bless her. I remember the East Los Angeles riots of August 29, 1970. A disproportionate number of Chicanos, coming home from Vietnam in American flag draped coffins sparked the riots on Whittier Blvd. When I registered for the draft at age 18, my mother wanted me to steal a car to stay out of the military LOL. After watching the fall of Saigon on the CBS evening news April 30, 1975, I went to the Marine recruiting office in East L.A. on Whittier Blvd several days later. At age 18 I enlisted four years to serve my country as a rifleman. I graduated from El Rancho High School, in Pico Rivera, Ca. June 13, 1975. My Mom and Dad were there again. I got on a chartered bus, for Marine Corps Recruit Depot (MCRD) San Diego October 7, 1975. Marine training was the beginning of my intense fear and anxiety when scuttlebutt of a recruit, beat to death during “pugil stick” training cycles at MCRD reached platoon 3115. As a result, Washington initiated congressional investigations on Marine Corps drill Instructors, performing the daily rituals of Vietnam era leadership similar to Stanley Kubrick’s film “Full Metal Jacket”. After dehydrating 70-lbs. in 11-weeks, I graduated from boot camp New Year’s Eve 1975. My Mom and Dad were there again. I was promoted Private First Class of “Kilo” Company, 3rd battalion, 3rd recruit training regiment. I had orders to attend the United States Army Military Police School at Fort McClellan Alabama. I was at Fort McClellan from January 5, 1976 through February 27, 1976. I later learned after graduation I was exposed to hazardous cancer causing PCBs in the area that effect, the endocrine system and neurological properties of my body. The chemicals came from a nearby Monsanto waste site, in Anniston Alabama.( Disaster Health Registry Act 411) Since then, I endured two minor surgeries to remove golf ball sized, benign fatty tissue tumors(Lipoma). One was behind my throat, extracted through the back of my neck near my spinal column. I have no family history of tumors. I was never in combat but my prison guard experiences at the hanging centers in 1976 were not peaceful. My recollections of violence, from restraining and a dozen out of control sailors into strait jackets have blurred together. The incidents were numerous and uniformly similar. It was my duty to protect prisoners from the face of suicidal death during my three tours as a correctional specialist at the hanging center at age 19. I was ashamed to reveal any weakness, so I never complained. I always responded quickly from my post to save my fellow servicemen from their personal adversity. It took courage to intimately wrestle the “world’s finest” trained killers from hanging themselves. I was uniformed with an empty black duty belt, a Motorola radio and keys. Hand to hand without weapons inside the hanging centers. Nobody died on my watch. I was promoted meritoriously to Lance Corporal (L/Cpl) March 2, 1976 at Marine Barracks, Great Lakes Illinois north of Chicago. I started sending Mom and Dad half my pay check to help them back home. After several months, the mission of Marine Barracks was deactivated December of 1976, so I left with orders for Okinawa’s Joint Forces Correctional Facility at Camp Mctureous. After a few months of more suicide watch, I landed an opportunity 20,000 to one, to work a Temporary Additional Duties (TAD) assignment as a broadcast specialist with the American Forces Radio and Television Service (AFRTS) near Kadena Air Force Base. Because of my voice quality, I was eligible to attend Department Information School (DINFOS) Fort Benjamin Harrison, Indiana, where the military trains broadcasters and journalists. In the meantime I moved into a new barracks at Makiminato Army Base in 1977 for several months. Later I learned Makiminato, is where I was exposed to the toxic chemicals agent orange, (Dioxin). Evidence of agent-orange cases from Makiminato, are currently ignored in a pending Pentagon probe of blanket denial with the Veterans Administration. I finished my 1-year tour of Okinawa with orders for Marine Corps Air Station (MCAS) El Toro California as a correctional specialist in January 1978. There I achieved the rank of Corporal, May 1, 1978. A month later, the base Public Affairs Office asked if I wanted to write for the base newspaper, “The Flight Jacket”. I extended my original enlistment, and accepted the TAD assignment as a combat correspondent. I was banging out hometown news releases for 3rd Marine Aircraft Wing (MAW) deployments aboard CH-46 helicopters, traveling extensively on two aircraft carriers, and one amphibious assault ship the U.S.S. Tarawa covering all 3rd Marine Aircraft Wing (MAW) training exercises. I dated a woman named Elizabeth Freeman, who graduated from my high school with my sister Eliza. Elizabeth invited me out to dinner at the Fern Leaf Café, on Pacific Coast Hwy. in Corona Del Mar. I met the owner of the restaurant, Pilar Wayne. It was a fancy place, way out of my league. Elizabeth worked for Pilar as her personal secretary. I didn’t know who Pilar was until I traveled with Elizabeth to pick up two children, John Ethan, and Marisa Wayne, at the John Wayne Tennis Club, in Newport Beach. We took them home to a gated community where the movie star, John Wayne lived. I became a familiar Marine, in peculiar social settings with Elizabeth. This was a different kind of anxiety because protecting the privacy and safety of the kids was priority. From what I saw, John Wayne, was a wonderful, warm, father figure and always called me Marine with the appropriate greeting of the day. Most people were unaware the Duke spoke Spanish fluently, and was dying of stomach cancer. Elizabeth gave me an autographed cowboy picture, “Happy Birthday Arthur, John Wayne” in August 1978. I took the picture to work to share with fellow Marines at the Public Affairs Office. In the days that followed I was ordered to report immediately to my commanding officer, Major Ruth Pulaski. My anxiety shot through the roof because I thought I was in trouble. I reported at attention in front of the Major’s desk, and noticed the office was full of officers and senior enlisted. “We understand John Wayne is a personal friend”? I tried to explain the circumstances surrounding my relationship to the Duke. My mission was to deliver a letter from Major General J. Koler, USMC of MCAS El Toro. The Public Affairs Office was riding on my back to invite the Duke to the Marine Corps ball, November 10, 1978. I immediately excused myself from the Major’s office to make a quick phone call to Elizabeth. My anxiety was keyed up when Elizabeth said, “He’s at home, bring it over”. I reported back to the Major’s office, “The Duke was at home and able to accept the letter”. Major Pulaski suggested I pick a member of the staff to go with myself. I looked around the office and saw my superiors staring at myself with intense anticipation. For that brief micro moment in my Marine Corps career, I had all the power. I asked Lieutenant Sue Miller, if she would accompany me to Newport Beach Harbor, where John Wayne’s yacht, “The Wild Goose” was moored. I selected the Lieutenant because she always treated me with firm, professional respect when I worked with her on various community affairs projects. I drove a giddy, Lt. Miller, in a big, shiny green U.S. government sedan I never drove before. Upon arrival at the front door, a beautiful tall, blond, secretary greeted us where I introduced the Lieutenant to the Duke as he accepted General Kohler’s Invitation. On the way back to MCAS, the Lieutenant explained that all previous attempts to invite John Wayne to host the Marine Corps Ball, were declined in the past by the Duke’s business associates in Beverly Hills. Deep inside I wasn’t at liberty to disclose the Duke’s serious medical condition. Several days later, the Duke apologized in a letter to the Public Affairs Office. It wasn’t possible to host the Marine Corps Ball, grateful that the Marine Corps always regarded him as a member of the Marine Corps family. I often wondered what would have happened to my Marine Corps career if the Duke said affirmative? I was at Defense Information School, Fort Benjamin Harrison Indiana when John Wayne died of stomach cancer June 11, 1979. I was unable to attend the burial at Pacific View Memorial Park, near Pilar Wayne’s, Fern Leaf Café in Corona Del Mar, Newport Beach, California. I passed the three week segment of learning the inverted pyramid style of writing at Journalism school. However, I had difficulty with my secret anxiety attacks at broadcast school. The bright lights and television cameras were overwhelming. It was a necessary part of the curriculum and I was unable to graduate. I noticed my Marine Good Conduct Medal arrived late in the mail without pomp and ceremony dated October 7, 1978. When I returned to MCAS, I was shit canned back to the hanging center. Now I had an intense, overt compulsion to compensate for my anxiety. I joined the sport parachute club on base and mastered the military static line deployments, jumping 3,000’ on October 6, 1979. I was promoted to Sergeant January 1, 1980. I was the recipient of a Meritorious Mast, May 5, 1980. Finally, the Leatherneck marathon of 26-miles 385 yards on June 7, 1980. After almost 5-years of active duty service, I was honorably discharged, September 8, 1980. Part of my mental health challenges is constantly wondering if the Sailors and Marines I saved, ever amounted to anything? I marched out the main gates of El Toro for the last time hoping the sting of anxiety would stay in the land of Semper Fidelis. I later learned I was exposed to trichloroethylene, also known as TCE. It was discovered in portions of the groundwater basin beneath the MCAS in 1985. TCE is a volatile organic compound (VOC) widely used as an aircraft cleaning solvent for the 3rd MAW. As a result, Marines and their families, including children, are dying similarly, to the groundwater disasters of Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. MCAS El Toro closed permanently, July 2, 1999, and is now another Pentagon probe of blanket denial. I had a big blanket of denial also. I sensed something was wrong but, the warrior stigmas of my Marine Corps past continued to surround me with haunting mental health issues. Ashamed and confused, I continued to stay silent and alert. I didn’t know how to correct or understand my intense character assassinations or who to talk to. Marine Corps leadership trained me to believe I could do anything, but I couldn’t shake the anxiety and intense mood swings. I dedicated myself to mainstream into a criminal justice degree hoping for a better life and to assist myself with understanding my intense anxiety disorders from the Marine Corps. I then met a beautiful French woman named Marie Ange Alarcon. We were friends in high school. I wanted to marry her but I needed a full time job. I applied for a job as a police officer with the City of Oxnard while in college. After several hundred candidates applied and processed by the City, I was selected with 6-other candidates for psychological screenings, polygraphs and background checks. I immediately took off on a bicycle ride from Whittier California to Salem Oregon to get in shape the summer of 1981. September 21, 1981 was the beginning of my struggle through 4-months of intense physical and academic training with the Ventura Police Academy. My intense anxiety attacks went undetected by the academy’s strict training officers. I was still in the greatest shape of my life. At age 25, anxiety was still my best kept secret. I continued to salute sharply and carry on through graduation as the cadet guide-on, January 15, 1982. Three Oxnard cadets quit the academy and four remained with the City of Oxnard. My Mom, Dad and newlywed wife were there and I didn’t want to let them down. Today, one out of the four officers is now dead and I’m still alive. I was still afraid but, my Marine Corps pride, and attitude of courage and self-sacrifice endured until I finally reached my breaking point as an Oxnard police officer. I was dealing with a fatal gunshot victim killed inside a liquor store on Ventura Road and Channel Islands Blvd. I could still smell the gunpowder, so I sensed the suspect was near. I watched a white female, my age, bleeding profusely from a pulsing, steaming head wound. She was convulsing violently, bleeding all over the Lays potato chips display on a dirty floor. As I pied the store looking for the suspect, there was nothing I could do but watch her die. I could smell the victim’s blood. I needed to focus, stay alive, and do my job. To this day I don’t eat Lays potato chips. Who said nobody can eat just one? Now I was in pursuit of the victim’s paroled boyfriend, in a dark “tweaker” house. I interrogated one of the tweaker residents who assured us, “nobody else inside the house”. I entered to search the home with a loaded Remington-870, 12-guage shotgun with three other officers. With my finger on the trigger guard, I “pied” my approach to search the bedrooms in pursuit of an armed murder suspect on parole. The dispatcher quoted the suspect , “I’m not going back to prison and I’ll kill the first officer on scene”. I could hear my pulse pounding inside my ears as I trekked silently forward inside the house. I was sweating profusely. My knees were trembling, with rapid shallow breathing. I felt that familiar intense feeling of impending doom from saving my Marines from the hanging centers. I was suddenly shocked when I almost shot a child running out of the bedroom. Too close for comfort I finally had enough. As for the suspect he shot and killed himself during a traffic stop with other officers later that night. I forced myself to resign my badge and Smith and Wesson Model-39 to the chief of police, Robert Owens. It was the toughest adult decision of my life. I had never quit anything before. The hanging centers continued to haunt me with anxiety and intense mood swings for the next 33-years. Now I couldn’t forgive myself for almost killing a child. At the time I didn’t know I was eligible for V.A. assistance. My Marine Corps pride prevented myself from seeking help I already desperately needed. Nobody but my newlywed wife knew I was seriously messed up in the head. Fast forward, March 17, 2008. I was now the President of Art Flores Bail Bonds Inc. The recession slowly started to kill my business as Alzheimer’s slowly killed my mother on St Patrick’s Day. I never owned a Mercedes Benz, BMW, or Corvette. Deep inside I was still making sacrifices like a Marine. My big sister was my mother’s primary care giver until I noticed a couple of years ago how Suezanne’s health was seriously declining. It became necessary for myself to place Mom in a special Alzheimer’s home. I was able to afford the best Alzheimer’s care money could buy. I was also able to save my big sister from the isolated exhaustion that kills primary caregivers of the disease. Suezanne was the young girl, who shoplift to feed us round steak and tortillas back Gerhardt Ave. in East L.A. 1962. My company was once a thriving business writing a necessary minimum of $300,000 a month in bail bond contracts just to stay in business. I suffered a final breakdown trying to save my staff of military veterans by sacrificing my personal income and property to meet payroll demands. My staff had their own families to support. Sacramento’s Prison Reform Act, Proposition AB-109 was implemented on October 1, 2011. It controversially paroled thousands of felons on the street. The county jails were full of convicted inmates serving long prison sentences in jails, due to prison overcrowding. Bail bonds became obsolete, because inmates were released on promise to appear at the local inmate reception centers throughout California. Washington’s Immigration Custom Enforcement (ICE) placed immigration holds at the local jails. ICE left me hanging dry on the vine because 25% of my clients were undocumented field workers who made their court appearances. Defendants who broke their promise to appear in court, forced me to keep my promise to arrest and return defendants to jail and exonerate their bail bonds. Now the government whose laws I was sworn to uphold and protect put me out of business. The bail bond industry was turned upside down. Like millions of Americans, Nothing prepared myself on how to lay-off my Bail Agents. I lost $250,000 in accounts receivable when my doors closed and I lost everything. By this time in my life, I lost my marriage of 27 years, a half million dollar house, both my parents, and now a small business I created with my own hands and determination. You discover who your friends are when you lose everything. Now my haunting cycles of anxiety became the ugly voice of depression inside my brain housing group. My Marine Corps pride still prevented myself from seeking psychological assistance. I felt my Marine Corps mentality jeopardized my American ambition of the pursuit of happiness. I walked into the Oxnard V.A. clinic for help for the first time in July 2012. The V.A. shrink was an Asian female that asked if I was gay? Boy was I pissed off. I was immediately put on 50mg sertraline and eventually an additional 150mg of bupropion. Unfortunately, my life of assisting others frequently has physically and mentally declined like an NFL athlete. Harrison Ford said it best, “It’s not the age it’s the mileage”. I’m slow, distracted easily, and mentally unstable to focus. I flunked out of a Swift Truck Driving School course April 2014 in Phoenix. I couldn’t focus. I hit a utility light pole in a parking lot while executing a right turn driving an 18-wheeler, It was the first time I was ever kicked out of anything, LOL. Today I’m a divorced, 59 year-old homeless bounty hunter dragging my eagle, globe and anchor. My surveillance van became my primary residence since I went out of business. After several attempts to jumpstart entrepreneur projects, and working temporary, part time jobs in California and Arizona for slave wages, I suffered another mental breakdown, still haunted by my Marine Corps pride. It was Robin Williams’ suicide that pushed me into believing, “If it could happen to him, it could happen to anybody”, but why Robin Williams? He was so popular and loved by everyone. I was starting to understand my philosophy behind the Marine Corps hanging centers when standing near a bridge. I thought of hanging myself on that bridge in Temecula California, but I didn’t have any rope. On August 18th 2014, I woke up under some public lawn sprinklers, wet and soaked before God winked and I finally checked myself into a bed bug infested veterans homeless shelter. (U.S. Veterans Inc. March Air Reserve Base California). I completed a 60-day rehab program for marijuana and sex addiction covered with 100 bed bug bites. My sex addiction was my affinity to save dysfunctional middle aged women with domestic drama. Rehab revealed to me that sex releases endorphins similar to a drug. It was endorphins I was after not sex. Endorphins offered temporary relief from acute anxiety. Today the jokes on me, my growing prostate gland and the meds took care of that. I learned these behaviors as a stressed out, 20-year old correctional specialist when I was still a virgin. I flash back on the Okinawan brothels outside gate-2, Kadena Air Base, on B.C. Street. Prostitution was legal in 1977. Sex cost between $3 and $5 American dollars. I felt like a fat kid chasing the ice cream truck with $20 in my pocket. I filed my first claim for military PTSD through the V.A. and was denied. I tried to continue living at the homeless shelter for seven months. I was on the Hud/Vash list seeking housing assistance in Riverside County until I was forced to move out of the area. A despondent homeless veteran threatened to shoot and kill us in our sleep at the unarmed shelter. So I’m back in Oxnard, still living a parasitic existence in my surveillance van with expired registration tags I can’t afford to pay. Ticketed by CHP, I can’t legally drive my van anymore. I have a great motorcycle but my hands numb after 10-minutes of operation. And of course, traffic anxiety from riding my motorcycle safely under inclement weather conditions and poor visibility because I need glasses. I recently read a story about a correctional specialist named L/Cpl Alex Padilla, who was awarded the Navy and Marine Corps medal for preventing his first suicide April 15, 2015. To understand the significance of this award, President John F. Kennedy was awarded the same medal for his valor aboard P.T. 109 in WWII. According to a recent Swedish study anxiety is not genetic but environmental. Parents teach anxiety to their children. The Corps does the same with its Marines. Police departments the same with its officers. I feel discriminated by the Veterans Administration and social security disability for denying my PTSD and disability claim because I didn’t serve in combat. I’m not looking for a cold war medal. I’m just tired of feeling mentally ill. Semper Fidelis, Always Faithful.