Heroes: I Do What I Want Because Others Make it Possible

I woke up this morning—okay, this afternoon—and the first thing I did was crack open a Pepsi and light a cigarette. I caught up on a little primetime TV on my DVR. Just before work I took a shower, and shaved my head. Well, part of it, as of late I am sporting a mohawk. A blue one. And yes, I have tattoo's. I then went to work. I'm a bartender, and most of the night I sat and served customers. It's a great job. I get to talk with them. I joke with them. Most
find me a funny guy. Some find me charmingly strange or eccentric. A few think I am down right weird. Do you know why I do all of this? Because I can.

You see, we have an extraordinary group of men and women who assure the fact that I can dress and act as I want. They are called military personnel; army, navy, air force, and Marine Corps. Each one a super hero in my mind. Wearing a camouflage cape and Kevlar helmet. What makes them super? The fact that they do, every day, what I can not. As I sit in my Lazy Boy and sip Pepsi, they wake up in the sand (or jungle, or ice capped mountains) and stand guard over my very freedom. It is because of them that I can write this very blog, and you can read it. It is because of my father who was in WWII and Korea. For those I have met who were in Vietnam. My friends who were in Iraq the first time, and those who went in for the sequel. For those I have never known and those I will never get to meet. There is absolutely nothing I can do to repay them, except to say thank you and maybe send a package every now and again. The biggest thanks we can all give them is to remember their sacrifice.

I grew up with stories that were never told. My father would not, or could not, talk about it. If he did, they were tales to caution me. To try and get me to understand. To try and understand why I picked small slivers of metal from his skin. To try and understand why, when he talked, it was like his voice box was filled with gravel due to a battle wound to his throat. But most of all, to try and understand why he screamed at night for those long lost to him.

The stories from my mother's friend, when I asked him at 15 if I could interview him for a school report and he said, "Yes," but called me two days later to tell me he couldn't because as soon as he thought about it his nightmares came back.

From my best friend, who I was fortunate enough to spend several days at Camp Pendleton with, who had just left the U.S. Marine Corps and as soon as the bombs hit again in Iraq, he re-enlisted saying, "Those are my brothers over there."

To me, these are true super hero's. Real live Captain America's. So I propose to you this, we owe them. War time or not. When you see a service man, say thanks. Buy them a drink. If able, buy them a car! A house! And it does not matter if they're in now. Because those who served in any war, or none at all, they did it for themselves, for me, and for you.

Thank you all!