I always feel like I need to say something profound on Veteran’s Day, but it usually ends up sounding trite. Still, here goes.
For a long time, I wasn’t able to take pride in my service. Any time Veteran’s Day—or anything that put focus on veterans—came around, I was told how “entitled” we all were. My memories stayed packed away in a box in the closet.
Okay, entitled—let’s roll with that.
We are entitled. Many of us, like myself, saw the military as the only path toward a better life. It was a way out—out of tough interpersonal or economic situations—into something that at least offered steady pay, food, shelter, and job training. But that opportunity came with a cost: standing in harm’s way for our country.
Some of us served during times of peace; others served while the nation was at war. Regardless, we stood up, we served, and because of that, we are entitled—at the very least—to the respect of those who never had to make that choice. And yes, that includes proper medical and psychiatric care for the problems that service can leave behind.
We all came from different walks of life, yet somehow, we managed to get along. Why? Simple: we had each other’s backs. We had to. There was nothing selective about it, and we didn’t play favorites. I don’t see eye to eye with all my veteran brothers and sisters, but I’d still go to bat for them—just like they would for me.
Even years later, it was my veteran friends who reached out when the fertilizer hit the ventilator. Some of them I hadn’t talked to in ages, but their first concern was that I wouldn’t become one of the 22 a day. They know how easy that decision can seem when the weight of service and trauma collide. That’s the kind of quiet loyalty that never fades.
Even through my silent service—being gay and serving under the old rules, when discovery meant discharge—I was supported. Later, I was told I hadn’t hidden it nearly as well as I thought, but my fellow soldiers had my back anyway. That’s a bond I’ll always cherish.
Veterans are the reason I always wanted to work for the VA. It lets me keep giving back, supporting fellow vets on their own journeys. The VA isn’t perfect, but believe me—the front-line staff, both veterans and civilians, genuinely care. When the fertilizer hit the ventilator for me, my psychiatrist and primary care doctor both called while I was still waiting for the police and coroner to leave. They didn’t tell me to make an appointment—they told me to come in, because they wanted to see me face to face and make sure I was okay. That’s what compassion looks like.
When people thank me for my service now, I’ve started replying, “You’re welcome—and I have no regrets. It was a privilege to serve this country and myself.”
Cheesy? Maybe. But I mean it. It was an honor to serve alongside so many quality people—including, of course, my dog and my mom.
Happy Veteran’s Day.
