This Veterans’ Day, as is the case every year, I remember my Army reserve and Calverton Memorial-buried grandfather, who reminded me constantly until his passing two years ago that it was Armistice Day first.
I remember his brother, my great-uncle, a Vietnam War Veteran of the United States Marine Corps (USMC). He shared not only my name, but also my nickname, as I learned from the soldier helmet I saw displayed at his funeral services a few years back—a sight that struck this mere journalist-filmmaker hybrid with even more reverence for his elders. It was a moment filled with downright “just forgot my lines in real life” solemnity.
I was incredibly sad to see my uncle go. My grandpa, too, soon after that. But I’m damn proud to have known them. And even more proud to continue to surround myself with those in our family and out who view the American Flag as something to hang high and always on one’s property, and not as something to take down due to woke mob mentality.
Not just on Veterans Day, but on Memorial Day, on Flag Day, on the Fourth of July, hell, on any given day, I think about the Greatest Generation, those that inspired them, and those they would come to inspire—and am smacked with the notion that I ought to more often put my highs and lows into proper perspective.
These great men fought greater fights than I and others my age will ever have to, so we don’t have to, lest we medically and athletically qualify for, and choose to soulfully surrender to an enlisted life.
I think about the military personnel I have had the great fortune of interviewing or collaborating with over the years. Formerly a USMC recruiter at a local post himself before being honorably reassigned, my friend tabbed me—per the Marine Corps’ dime—for an all-expense paid, four-day tour of Parris Island, South Carolina last year.
I and 60-plus local educators and influencers completed our interactive and intensive, simulated boot camp workshop under drill instructor supervision, and with lecture coursework included—designed to destigmatize military life for grade-schoolers contemplating college alternatives.
This was a fascinating, loaded experience all around, which I still wrestle with reflecting upon further in article form, or if I should just save it all for a sure-fire screenplay instead—not quite “Full Metal Jacket,” but certainly healthier brainfood than Pauly Shore’s “In the Army Now.”
I think of my four days at “boot camp”—in quotations, because it was more like starring in a play where half the cast knew their lines (the drill instructors), and the other half were allowed to freely improvise (the rest of us), and how it made me more punctual. More patriotic. More proud.
I think about how more people need to know that our heroes aren’t monsters. Nor are they programmed to be. It’s called “the duality of man” for a reason, and we are committing a dereliction of duty as citizens every time we are afforded opportunities to commend servicemen for exploring their multitudes, yet do not.
I think of the Veterans I know, and the Veterans I don’t, and think, “who am I to cry?” All these anxieties I possess over small potato plights and champagne problems, while those that serve have to endure much worse, and with no margin for error nor reprieve from said unrest.
But those trained to terminate are also versed in de-escalating, are they not? They wouldn’t allow me to wear this cloak of guilt for a second. So God Bless Uncle Sam’s most esteemed nephews and nieces. They may appear as if they are thriving on the surface, but just may be suffering inside.
Everyone has a heart. So why can’t everyone do their part? Pay it forward to Veterans in need. To Veterans who are homeless. They wouldn’t just do the same for you; know that they have done even more for you without you knowing, and wholly need not ever go into specifics.
I encountered drill instructors on the Parris Island grounds, in the very sandpits where they make Marines. I spoke with said Marines in the making in the Mess Hall, utterly prepared to foreclose on their individuality, should the nation call for it.
I was invited not to see behind the veil, but to capture a glimpse, an impression in demonstration of how the few and the proud live.
What I learned: is that those who serve have courage, and that those stateside who don’t, only have at all because those who do see but three colors register during vision tests at their annual check-ups:
Red, white, and blue.
To Veterans, to all who have given, and would give their lives to save others: thank you for your service.