You know, Memorial Day hits different when you’ve walked in those boots yourself. I was in high school during Vietnam (’68 – ’71), and let me tell you – watching soldiers coming home from that war was like walking into a cold shower that never ended. Fifty years later, as I watch my grandkids play in the backyard during our Family barbecue, I can’t help but think about how much has changed, and how much has stayed exactly the same.
While the war raged, I wore a uniform in High School ROTC. Even I was subject of ridicule and slander if I dared walk into a public place in uniform. Back then, wearing the uniform made you a target for spit and harsh words. Folks would cross the street to avoid you, like you had some kind of contagious disease. We were the “baby killers,” the ones who supposedly chose to go fight an unpopular war. Truth is, most of us were just kids – barely old enough to vote, but old enough to carry an M16 through rice paddies half a world away.
My situation was mitigated somewhat because I lived in San Antonio, Texas. At that time SA was home to five separate military bases. So most of my neighbors were affiliated, but there were still other civilians who saw us differently. I had a very close friend who was more the hippie type; long hair, long tail nehru shirts, and sandals. If we went somewhere together people would say “what’s up with you two? Trying to compensate for each other?”
I knew vets who had other problems. Job interviews were exercises in creative storytelling – you’d dance around your military service like it was a criminal record. “What did you do for the past three years?” they’d ask. You’d mumble something about “government service” and pray they wouldn’t dig deeper. Some of my buddies grew their hair long and tried to blend in with the hippies. Others just stayed bitter for decades.
Then came the ’80s and ’90s, and it was like someone flipped a switch. Desert Storm changed everything. Suddenly, we had yellow ribbon magnets on every car, parades with actual crowds cheering, and people actually saying “thank you for your service.” It felt surreal at first – like we’d stepped into some alternate universe where soldiers were heroes instead of villains.
I’ll never forget watching those Desert Storm parades on TV. There were the boys coming home to crowds of thousands, confetti falling like snow, bands playing, kids waving flags. Part of me felt happy for them – they deserved that welcome. But another part of me felt a pang of something I couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was jealousy, or maybe it was just sadness for what we Vietnam guys never got.
The country had learned its lesson, it seemed. They’d figured out how to separate the warrior from the war, how to honor the service even if they questioned the mission. It was a good lesson, even if it came about twenty years too late for my generation.
But here’s the funny thing about public opinion – it’s like the weather. It changes. After Iraq and Afghanistan dragged on for years, I started seeing some of that old skepticism creep back in. Not the outright hostility we faced, thank God, but a weariness, a questioning. The yellow ribbon magnets started fading on car bumpers, literally and figuratively.
But here’s what I’ve learned over all these decades, what I’ve tried to teach my kids and grandkids – the politics change, the public opinion swings like a pendulum, but the truth at the heart of Memorial Day never changes. Whether people loved us or hated us, whether they waved flags or burned them, there were always those who gave everything.
I knew families who lost loved ones in Vietnam. Doesn’t matter one bit if folks back home supported that war or not – they’re still gone. Thousands of names are on a black wall in D.C., and mothers still light candles for their lost ones every year on their birthday.
Same goes for the young men and women who didn’t come back from Iraq, Afghanistan, Somalia, or any other godforsaken place where America sent them. Every generation has their pain from war. Every generation has families who get a folded flag instead of a homecoming hug.
That’s the thing about sacrifice – it doesn’t depend on public approval ratings or political polls. When you’re 19 years old and scared out of your mind, you’re not thinking about whether the war is popular back home. You’re thinking about the guy next to you, about doing your job, about maybe making it home to take your girl to the prom or help your dad fix the fence.
All gave some, some gave all. That’s not just a bumper sticker slogan you see on pickup trucks – it’s the truth that connects every generation of service members. Whether you came home to ticker tape parades or a crowd throwing tomatoes, whether you served in the “Good War” or the unpopular one, that bond remains unbroken.
I think about the World War II guys, the ones we called heroes from day one. They had it right in terms of public support, but they still lost friends on beaches in Normandy and islands in the Pacific. I think about the Korea vets, fighting in what they called the “Forgotten War” – not quite heroes, not quite villains, just forgotten. And I think about today’s veterans, coming home to a nation that says all the right words but sometimes struggles to back them up with actions.
The politics will keep changing. There will be popular wars and unpopular wars, presidents who Love the military and presidents who view it with suspicion. Public opinion will swing back and forth like it always has. But through all of that noise, the essential truth remains: some people are willing to write a check to this country for any amount, up to and including their lives.
So when I see these young folks today thanking veterans at the grocery store, when I see how much things have changed since my day, I’m grateful. It’s better than the alternative, that’s for sure. But I also try to remember that the real meaning of Memorial Day isn’t about how the living are treated – it’s about honoring those who never got the chance to see how the story turned out.
They’re the ones who deserve our remembrance, every single day, not just the last Monday in May. The Vietnam vet who never got to meet his grandkids. The Marine from my neighborhood who didn’t make it back from Fallujah. The Army medic who died saving others in Afghanistan. They’re the ones this day is really about.
This weekend many will focus on sales at the stores or online. They’ll toss a ball and eat too much. When you fire up that grill tomorrow, when you’re laughing with family and enjoying the freedom to speak your mind and live your life, take a moment to remember the fallen. Because while all of us gave some, they gave all. And that sacrifice transcends politics, public opinion, and the passage of time.
Here’s to them. The ones who never made it home.
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