The past week, I went to a country music concert. It was an artist I had been following since my time in the Army, when I was stationed at Ft. Campbell, Kentucky. I knew this show would attract a different crowd, and feature a different vibe than my usual rock/heavy metal show. The crowd met my expectations of what I would expect at a country music show: cowboy hats, boots, and jeans were in abundance.
About halfway through the show, the artist stopped to talk about the next song, and how it related to veterans (well, the music video did, the actual lyrics don’t). He took about five or 10 minutes to talk about veterans, the work he did for a veteran’s organization, and the USO tours he had done, which is admirable and commendable. Then he started talking about how all who served were heroes. This was followed by the crowd chanting, “USA! USA! USA!” while the lead guitar player held up his guitar, which featured a confederate flag.
When my dad and uncles were honorably discharged from various branches of the military after World War II, they just wanted to get on with their lives, which had been interrupted by war. Most of them, for disparate reasons, rarely if ever talked about their service. They worked in a variety of jobs where no one called them heroes, mainly because so many of them served.
I once talked to a World War II veteran about the experience of attending college after coming home, and asked if it was jarring to sit next to those who never served. I wondered if veterans huddled together under the umbrella of mutual understanding and thought less of civilians who never shouldered a rifle. His answer was surprising. They were proud of their time in uniform, he said, but for many, the war interrupted their lives, and education was a return to normalcy. Instead of a victory lap, they were more interested in getting back on track.
When I served in the ‘80s and got out prior to the Gulf War, no one ever called me a hero, either. I also could not get a job for the life of me, until I took my veteran’s status off of job applications. None of my friends cared that I was in, or what I did when I served. I never really talked about my service when I got out. I went back to college, and got a job.
Then the Gulf War happened, and things began to change. People would thank me for my service from time to time, and businesses started offering discounts. Still, beyond a “thank you” here and there, no one really cared if you had served.
Sept. 11 was the day that changed everything, in more ways than one.
Military service members and veterans started being placed on pedestals. Events across the nation started recognizing veterans and those currently serving with regularity.
To give you an idea of the stark difference between the time I served and today, I will tell a little story. While serving with the 101st Airborne Division, I came home on leave. I thought it would be cool to wear my dress greens when I went out with my friends. We went down the University of Wisconsin—Madison campus, and started bar hopping on State Street. When I walked into a room, in that uniform, people would move away from me. It was like there was an unwritten rule that they had to stay 10 feet away from me at all times. One guy did walk up to me and said drunkenly, “Fucking Airborne, never thought I would see that around here.” I am not sure if he was trying to pick a fight, but is sure did not make me feel welcome in my own hometown.
Today, if I walk into any establishment in that part of town and I am wearing a 101st Airborne Division hat, I have people thank me and buy me drinks. This is also why I rarely, if ever, wear my service-related hat anymore: it gets embarrassing. I am not a fan of being thanked for my service. This New York Times article from 2015 says it better than I can:
Mike Freedman, a Green Beret, calls it the “thank you for your service phenomenon.” To some recent vets — by no stretch all of them — the thanks comes across as shallow, disconnected, a reflexive offering from people who, while meaning well, have no clue what soldiers did over there or what motivated them to go, and who would never have gone themselves nor sent their own sons and daughters.
To these vets, thanking soldiers for their service symbolizes the ease of sending a volunteer army to wage war at great distance — physically, spiritually, economically. It raises questions of the meaning of patriotism, shared purpose and, pointedly, what you’re supposed to say to those who put their lives on the line and are uncomfortable about being thanked for it.
Now, I am not a recent vet by any means. But I still get the thank yous, which are often accompanied by (and this is a male phenomenon), “I would have served, but ...” followed by a litany of excuses as to why he could not serve. Yes, veterans are put on a pedestal—and that pedestal does far more harm than good.
So civilians clap at football games. They applaud returning troops in airports in outward appreciation, satisfied with their magnanimous deeds. Then—for many of them--it’s back to more tangible concerns, like the fragile economy. A veteran’s résumé might come across your desk, but if you’re like more than half of these surveyed hiring managers, you harbor suspicion and fear about post-traumatic stress episodes in the workplace.
That’s the problem with viewing something on a pedestal: you can only see one side at a time, and rarely at depth. It produces extremes—the valiant hero or the downtrodden, unstable veteran.
Thank you for your service. But we’re looking for someone else.
To me, the heroes are the guys who came home in a flag-draped coffin. They are the ones who deserve the accolades. As for the rest of us: Sure, you can thank us. Maybe ask us where we served, what we did, show some interest. But also understand that we are not really any different than you are. I look back on my time in service fondly. It was and still is a big part of my life, and helped to shape who I am today. I am neither a hero, or an unstable veteran. Most of us who served are not heroes, nor are we unstable. All we want what our fathers and grandfathers also wanted: to get on with our post-service lives.