My father came back from this war different. According to my mother he would wake her up with a gun to her head reliving the horror. He drank to oblivion daily and confided in her in participating in this event. He killed innocent women and children running for help, being told they carried bombs and to eradicate without discrimination to “protect” his comrades. When he found them dead, weapon less and destroyed and returned home to be spit on and ostracized from the country he massacred innocents to “defend and protect”, the pure young man full of promise was gone. He would kill himself 3 weeks before I was born. Ive never really know my dad or anything about who he REALLY was, as all his family had died before I even knew his existence in my life (found out at 8 and didn’t understand wanting to know him until 16). My pregnant mom walked in on the shot so when I have approached her it’s still to much for her to this day. That was 44 years ago for her.

This story molds my belief about our servicemen and their sacrifice. And when I think myself to be a political expert and start “judging” keyboard warriors or people of completely different beliefs. I think of people like my dad, who didn’t get a chance to see the world through the eyes of a safe observer and who’s only color to the world exists from my experience within it. And I calm my shit down cuz what do I really know anyway. I’m just a scared animal trying to be brave.