There are the stories we tell ourselves, the stories we are told, and then the stories intertwine into a life of their own. Sometimes, stories are colorized with secrets, mistruths, shame, and other flaws.
I was going through old newspaper records on Friday. I found that the narrative about my father's military service is not the tale I was raised to believe. The story begins with a 17-year-old boy's eagerness to answer President Eisenhower's call to fight communism. His sense of patriotism and duty to the United States does not ring quite as true for me.
I called my Godmother for insight on this story. There was a very long pause. Her initial response was you can never leave things alone. I utilized the free Mother's Day offer in my hometown newspaper to find typical records of my father. I didn't expect to uncover this story. The complicated relationship between myself and my Godmother didn't make this an easy conversation. I did quip; it may be time to let all the family secrets because I will be searching for more.
My father served in the military. It wasn't exactly his choice. My father had committed a youthful, nonviolent offense. He was given the choice of joining the military or serving jail time. He elected to join the military.
Does it reduce the meaning of my father's service? No, he served for over a decade. He did active duty. He died of a service-related exposure to Agent Orange. He is not here to discuss this discovery. This discovery didn't sit with me because my father was pious about serving his country and extremely pietistic to those who didn't serve their country. In fact, he was militant with those who didn't serve in Vietnam.
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