40-Year Fan Proud of the Commanders

So, after 18 long months of wondering, we now know the Washington Football Team’s new name. While it’s not my top choice (I was REALLY pulling for the Red Hogs, but can see how despite its historical connection it could go the wrong way easily), the Commanders is a great name for a team that represents the United States’ capital, in a region that so strongly supports our military and veteran communities.

That black uni is SWEET.

But that’s not what I want to write about. I want to write about why, after years of being uncomfortable with the old name but not militant about it, I decided in 2014 to stop supporting the Washington Racist Nicknames.

I’ve been a fan of that team for as long as I can remember. The first sporting event I clearly remember watching on TV was Washington beating the Cowboys in the 1982 NFC Championship (yes, it was in 1983, but I kept the season’s year). They were showing the Lombardi Trophy during the broadcast, and I didn’t even realize we hadn’t won it all yet. The second game I clearly remember, obviously, was Super Bowl XVII, when Washington shook off the ghosts of 1972 and won their first Super Bowl against the Dolphins. I had no conception back then, and I don’t think most people did, that the name was offensive.

When John Riggins puts cleats on Cowboy faces, you’re a fan for life.

The rest of my youth was a pretty awesome time to be a fan of Washington football. Four Super Bowls in 10 seasons, three of them wins. Top of the pile for a decade, along with the 49ers and Giants. The great old days of the NFC Beast. Classic showdowns with the Cowboys. 1991, the Bandwagon season, when they threatened Miami’s still-standing unbeaten season (and yes, lost one to the Cowboys) and thrashed the Bills in the Super Bowl. Just an awesome era. Still, no real thought was given to the offensiveness of the name.

It’s been a long time since then. The team moved to Maryland since then. Dan Snyder bought the team since then. And after that, it’s been more than two decades of decline. I could go on and on, but none of it is really the point. Yes, the teams have largely stuck. Yes, there have been glimmers of hope. Yes, Snyder seems to actively hate the fans and see them merely as ATMs. Clinton Portis. RGIII. Sean Taylor. Steve Spurrier. Joe Gibbs II. A list of All Pros past their primes, like Snyder was going through football cards from seven years ago to make personnel decisions. That’s all I’ll say. And during this period, starting to get the feeling that the name was racist.

We get past RGIII and Mike Shanahan, and the name issue gets real traction in 2013 and 2014, with Washington being pointed out far more prominently than it has in the past. I’m mad at the owner, the team stinks, and I’m starting to think that the name is racist. Then I’m watching the Daily Show and I see this segment:

Peak Jason Jones, peak Daily Show.

It’s a really funny and insightful bit, but fast forward to 6:15 if you want to get to the meat, my “a-ha!” moment, if you will. TL;DR: a group of Washington super fans stridently defend the team and its name, while a group of Native American activists tells viewers why it’s racist and needs to go. These are two separate groups until Jason Jones asks the Washington fans if they would want to talk to people who don’t like the name about the issue. They say “absolutely,” the Native Americans walk in, and BOOM, all the Washington fans don’t want to talk and are upset about being “ambushed.”

Turns out it’s a racist name.

I felt like lightning hit me when I saw it the first time. While I’m not a Washingtonian, I’ve lived in the region more years than I haven’t at this point (I think, math is hard). I’ve definitely lived here longer than I’ve lived anywhere else. Since I was a boy, I’ve run around with varying shades of burgundy and gold clothing with multiple instances of the Racist Nickname and a Native American head on them. But when I saw that, I had one thought: “If I were to go to a pow wow, or near a protest involving Native Americans, would I want to wear my Washington football gear?”

The answer was obviously “no,” because I don’t want to be a prick. One guy in the video actually said he wouldn’t have worn his Washington jacket if he knew Native Americans were going to be there. That should tell anyone anything they need to know about whether the name is racist. If I’m ashamed to wear something in a given situation, because it might offend someone and make me look like I could be a racist, then I should be ashamed to wear it ANY TIME. Situational ethics aren’t ethics; they’re a selfish way to allow yourself to do what you want in given situations. Ethics should be inviolable.

Once I had this “a-ha!” moment, I decided I was done with the team until the name was changed. I got rid of almost every remnant of gear in this house (I admit holding onto one jersey for sentimental reasons, but it’s back in a closet, never to see the light of day). I pretty much stopped watching the NFL for the better part of six seasons. I tried new teams; as someone who also spent a lot of his young life in Tennessee, the Titans will always be near to my heart, but I will never be able to rally the passion of a true fan. I was done, and I knew the name was racist, and most people got bored when they asked me and I started going on about it.

Then, in the midst of more scandals than even Dan Snyder could handle, he finally did the right thing and announced the name change. The minute I heard the announcement, I was like an exile returning home. Sure, a lot of people were (and still are) militantly upset about losing the Racist Nickname, but I could finally return to my first fanhood. I even got to see them in the playoffs the first year! This year, not so much. But I’ll tell you, I’m glad the change is here. Here’s to the Commanders, a new quarterback (Heinicke is a REALLY great backup), wins to come, and maybe even Super Bowls to come!

The point is I’ve got a lot of hope right now. And that old name? Seriously racist.

Four Years Later

After spending almost two years telling you all about him, I buttoned up four years ago. Donald Trump was my president, and I owed the Soldiers and others connected to me on social media my silence and a generally apolitical stance. Once the candidate became my president, it was time to shut up and color.

I wasn’t perfect. Sometimes I drunkenly rambled on Facebook. Sometimes I looked at what I’d written the next day and thought, “Yeah, that’s a bit over the line” and took it down. Other times I let it stand. But on Jan. 20, 2017, I decided I’d mostly bite my tongue.

Today, we have a new president – Joe Biden. Today, the president to whom I owed some degree of whatever is no longer the president, he’s the former president. Who knows, maybe the impeachment will stick in the Senate this time. Who knows, maybe the state charges in New York will lead to prison time for Trump and other members of his Crime Family. Hope springs eternal.

Before he was elected, I made my feelings about Trump pretty clear: He was a lying charlatan who lacked any shred of decency or honor, and was undeserving of the power and authority we invest in the chief of our nation’s Executive Branch. I argued with friends over his proposals almost from the start. I watched as he insulted heroes, dissembled about his financial obligations, and denigrated anyone who didn’t look like him. Despite all of these disqualifications, enough people in the right states felt otherwise, and we got the dumpster fire of the past four years.

So today, I’m going to go ahead and write everything I’ve thought and said out loud to those close to me over the past four years. I need to get it off my chest, because keeping it in has been difficult.

First, I was right. He remains a liar and a charlatan. He showed us that on Day 1 with that stupid fucking press conference in which poor-man’s Navy Reserve sailor Sean Spicer basically told us to ignore the evidence of our eyes and go with the lies he was pushing out from the podium. Then we were told about “alternative facts” by Lyin’ Kellyanne Conway, all while we started some ludicrous Muslim ban that did plenty to fuck over people who look different but obviously had no impact on terrorism given what we saw at the Capitol Jan. 6. All of this because Stephen “Hitler, But Without the Mustache or Anything Resembling a Spine” Miller came up with it at his last Klan rally.

I may be wrong, but it seemed like he started shaking a stick almost immediately at North Korea. It was a bold choice. In the early months of the Trump Kleptocracy, I had the privilege of flying to South Korea for a weeklong exercise. It was my first trip to the “Pen” and, as I left my family, I had a horrible feeling in my gut. I did not trust the president to not fuck up catastrophically; I’m certain my long-tour PTSD had me convinced I was going to be there for more than a week. You have to remember, the first time I went to Kuwait, it was only supposed to be for a month and then OIF kicked off and I came home nine months later as a war vet. There was going on in my head and heart. Thankfully, nothing happened. When I went back a year later, I was at Camp Humpreys the day the two Korean leaders had their big summit at the DMZ. I will admit it was a cool thing to see in real time. So I guess some credit to Trump? But still, fuck him for the dumb fucking feeling I had to have on a 12-hour flight in 2017.

The racism thing. Look, I’m the first one to say not all Trump supporters are racists, but let’s be honest, he did nothing to discourage a significantly large, racist, white nationalist following. When a presidential candidate doesn’t want to distance himself from David Duke, it should raise your antenna. I guess the good thing is everyone started saying the quiet part out loud, but I have to say to anyone who did, it’s not a good look. This past summer was like the peak of a feverish nightmare that’s been going on for decades and instead of trying to unify our country and build bridges, Orangeina poured fuel on the fire in a cynical ploy to get more in-person votes. But fuck Trump for “very fine people on both sides” bullshit. When one side is a bunch of racists and anti-Semites, they aren’t “fine people.” When one side thinks it’s appropriate for a cop to keep his knee on a man’s neck for eight minutes while he begs for his life, they’re not “fine people.” When anyone, especially the president of the United States of America, finds common cause with the Dumbfuck Army that invaded OUR Capitol Jan. 6, they are not “fine people.” He’s a monster more concerned with showcasing his now-stained name than the actual very fine people he was elected to serve before enough of us rallied to collectively vote him out.

Every bit of behavior he displayed after the election was completely and utterly deplorable. Every single expert predicted the results would play out the way they did. Early lead for Trump, then count the mail-in ballots, and the lead will fade and disappear. It’s what they told us would happen. Democrats were more likely to vote by mail. There’s a fucking pandemic and somehow simple public health measures became a political issue so the Trump Crime Family could, what, profit from sunshine and bleach?

Everything went the way it was predicted to and somehow that’s a steal because Agent Orange and Rudy “America’s Former Mayor, Only Now With Vladimir Putin’s Hand Up His Ass” Giuliani said so. There was no steal, there were votes. And our president who likes girls to pee on him couldn’t stand to lose. Which is weird because getting peed on seems like it would really feel like losing. Don’t ask how I know.

I’m all over the place here, but there’s a theme. It has not been a good four years, outside of my Thrift Savings Plan. I guess I want to pause and thank Trump for that. Sure, we always credit the president for the economy and the stock market, so he gets that credit. Why not? Maybe we should all think about whether the president is really responsible for that, and, if so, whether that’s what really matters.

Back to the pee tape. Because Russia. That stink has been on Putin’s Puppet since he was running for office. It became a bigger and bigger story throughout the Summer of 2016. Too many connections, too many coincidences. We may never know the whole truth, whether it was Trump or the dimwitted nutjobs he surrounded himself with (looking at you, LTG Flynn, Steve “Skimmed the Border Wall Funds” Bannon, and Paul “Camelhair Coat and Some Other Bullshit” Manafort) who were compromised, but some shit went down and the man fought tooth and nail to obstruct any real investigation. Something. Happened. And no sooner than he got away with it, he started talking to foreign leaders to get dirt on Biden’s son because elections. And Trump got impeached, for the first time.

Think about that: He’s the first president in our history in which that last sentence applies. Because after getting out from under the Mueller Report, after getting out from under his first impeachment, after totally fucking up the past year of leading this great country in the midst of a pandemic, a real racial reckoning, and a shitstorm of an election, he then continued to lie, dissemble, and mislead a large portion of the populace in a cynical ploy that culminated with the shit that went down Jan. 6. Why? Because he couldn’t imagine a world in which he lost. Because of his hubris he was impeached a second time. Unprecedented presidency, indeed.

Trump lacks imagination; we’ve always known this. He lacks humility; we’ve always known this. He lacks integrity; we’ve always known this. He lacks honor; we’ve always known this. And now he lacks the presidency. My patience paid off. Our patience and hard work paid off. There is a lot to do for this country. Now that the actual, literal worst president in the history of our Republic is hanging out at his stupid beach resort; he can rot there while the rest of us get to work.

In case I haven’t been clear: Don’t let the door hit you, Mr. Former President. His presidency is a legacy of atrocities that I could continue to denigrate – like walls, corruption with federal travel rules, climate change denial, social media abuse, outright bullying, the complete lack of process and expertise from many of your appointees, the outrageous way the whole Supreme Court thing played out, and more – but I’m out of energy. Thanks for nothing, Donald. You and your Crime Family are done, at least for now and hopefully for good.

My Sept. 11 Story

The Army’s Facebook page asked people who joined after Sept. 11, 2001, to share their stories today, and it struck me that while it’s a story I’ve shared with several people, I don’t think I’ve ever written it down. So when I got home tonight, late after a long day of preparing my boss’ Sept. 11 remarks and preparing strategic communications for the newly-energized hurricane season, I thought I’d try to share the story of how that day turned my life around and led to where I am today.

So, before I begin, it’s important to set the scene. My dalliances with the U.S. Army were many and varied before I finally signed a contract. My grandfathers were both veterans of World War II and Korea with Bronze Stars. My dad spent four years in the Pentagon and left as a Specialist 5 and a Bronze Star. I didn’t know it then, but I’ve got a lineage that goes all the way back to the Revolution. But here are the results of my initial shots with the Army:

1. Tried to get into West Point my senior year despite being a mediocre, yet really smart, student. Secured a senatorial nomination, fell short by an unspecified number of pull-ups.
2. Earned an ROTC scholarship for college. It didn’t pay for my freshman year. At the end of my freshman year, they closed the program at UTC. Instead of taking it elsewhere – WHICH I COULD HAVE DONE – I gave it up to stay at UTC because I was convinced I had a future in sportswriting.
3. Went to a recruiter my fourth year in college to look into being a pilot (flight warrant officer) after graduation. Never followed up during my fourth or fifth years.

So there’s all of that. Then I graduated on Aug. 13, 2001. I think most people who knew me thought it was a miracle. I know I took my sweet time. And taking that time had me graduating into what was kind of a crap economy. The jobs weren’t plentiful, and I, honestly, didn’t do the things you’re supposed to do in college to set yourself up for the future. So I kept on bartending and scouring the classified ads to find something that would get me out of the late-night grind and into a job that would pay enough to handle my student loans – taken because I’d given up a great scholarship – and put a roof over my head. That’s where I was on Sept. 9, 2001.

That was a Sunday. I don’t remember every detail, but I remember I was driving along I-24 in Chattanooga, Tennessee, from my apartment in Red Bank to my job at the Chattanooga Billiards Club. I was talking on the phone with my dad; there was no hands-free option, and we didn’t care back then.

He decided that was the day to broach the idea of me joining the Army again. He told me it was a good job. As a college graduate, they’d make me an E-4 – SPECIALIST! – and the pay would bump about $250 in 2002. He told me they’d pay off my $25,000 in student loans, which seemed insurmountable at the time. He told me they had journalist jobs. That’s what I’d been going to school for!

It seemed like a decent idea. Five years, experience, loans covered. Not bad. I told Dad that I’d go talk to a recruiter on Tuesday.

Sept. 9, 2001, was a Sunday. I told my dad I’d talk to a recruiter Tuesday. Now let’s fast forward about 48 hours.

At the time, I had a girlfriend. We were having issues. In fact, we were broken up. Later, we were together again. Eventually, we went our separate ways. But for some reason, we stayed together the night of Sept. 10. 

We woke up to her phone ringing. Off the hook. Several times. I remember being hung over. Finally, I told her to answer the phone. Then I remember her saying “BABY, TURN ON THE TV!”

So I did. We watched the North Tower smoking. My first thought was “What the fuck?” I remembered the original attempt at destroying the World Trade Center in 1993, but at the moment all I knew was a plane somehow crashed into the WTC. Then, within minutes (I think), we saw the second plane crash into the South Tower. Any doubts were instantly erased. We watched it. My mind raced. I knew what I’d told my dad. I was incredibly conflicted. 

At some point, because she knew, she asked me if I was still going to the recruiter that day. In the moment, I only had one answer:

“I kinda have to.”

Here were my thoughts in that moment: What kind of man would I be if I told my dad I would go today, and then failed to do it when this happens? Could I look myself in the mirror if I did that? Fuuuuuuuuuuck.

So she went to class, and I headed to my apartment. I listened to the radio. I remember how weird it was that there were no planes in the sky. I got home. I watched and/or heard about the plane at the Pentagon, and the plane that crashed in Shanksville. I watched – this I’m certain of – both towers crash to the ground as I got ready for the day. It was a day that went from “I told my dad I’d talk to a recruiter, but really, who cares if I get around to that?” to a day in which I only had one thing to do: Go to the recruiter.

So I finished getting myself ready and, doubting whether anyone would answer, I called the recruiter in Hixson:

Me: “Hi, I don’t want you all to think I’m crazy, but I was wondering if you’re open today and if I can talk to you about joining the Army? I was planning to come in today. Are you open?”

Them: “We’re open. Come on in.”

Now we go long story short. I went in. We talked. I decided to go after it. On Oct. 1, I signed my contract. On Nov. 7, I reported to Basic Training at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. I did it all: two tours in Iraq, garrison duty, joining in humanitarian assistance efforts after Hurricane Rita. I left active duty, and 10 years later I continue serving in the Army Reserve. As a civilian, I’ve become a trusted advisor on strategic issues that affect where our military is going in the future.

Sept. 11 changed my life. I’ve said that before. But remember, I called that recruiter because I didn’t want to let my dad down. It was absolutely the best decision I’ve ever made, but I wouldn’t call it the bravest. Everything I have in this world – my family, my career, my passions – came from that decision.

I’m not a hero, but I’m part of the post-Sept. 11 generation.  Now I’m a relatively senior leader of Soldiers. We should all share our stories.

Thoughts on the Coming School Year

As a parent, I instinctively want my daughter back in school, with her friends, laughing with and learning from some of the best teachers I’ve ever met. As a parent, I’m also apprehensive about what kind of Petri dish her school could be in this environment. Remember, I volunteer in school four or five days a year, and I know all too well (though not as well as a teacher) how hard it can be to get 20 7-year-olds to do anything all at once.

As the husband of a teacher, I also know how frustrating remote learning was in the spring when we all got tossed suddenly into this new world. I know how hard teachers and students worked to adapt to an entirely new paradigm that most workplaces have trouble getting right. They were building an airplane that was already at altitude, and mistakes were made at every level, from school systems, to principals, to teachers, to students, to parents. This is not a shot at anyone (particularly Melissa Boyer), but we all have to realize how hard this is for everyone involved.

This is all to say that as schools reopen this fall, in whatever form, with whatever new rules, and under whatever restrictions, we all need to remember none of this is easy for anyone. Educators around the country learned a whole lot last year, and we have to trust them to apply what they learned this year. Will mistakes still get made? OF COURSE THEY WILL. Distance learning for school kids won’t be perfected in six months; it will take longer than this virus lasts to get there, so hopefully it remains an imperfect thing we had to do one time.

But whether that holds true, remember: Patience. There are thousands of teachers, administrators, coaches and staff members who work hard every day – even in the summer when most of us assume they’re drinking in Cabo – to ensure our kids get everything they need. They can’t do it without our support, and we can’t do it without them.

An Open Letter to USAA

Dear USAA,

It’s not me, it’s you.

I know, you “know what it means to serve.” You tell us that all the time on your advertisements, on which I’m certain you spend a lot of money to ensure you’re corporate sponsors of the worst professional sports league on the planet. I bought in for a long time, especially given how your advertising capitalizes on how generations benefit from the service of their forefathers.

My mom, who earned her membership because her father fought in World War II and Korea, talked to me about USAA insurance pretty much as long as I knew how to turn a steering wheel. I mostly ignored her, because my stepmom and dad took care of my insurance when I was young. When I joined the Army, I did what all good junior enlisted Soldiers do and bought a new car ( don’t get excited; it was a 2002 Dodge Neon, soon to be dubbed “the Fratmobile”).  I called my current insurance – Allstate – for a quote. They wanted me to pay about $350 a month.

I was an E4. That was about a quarter of what I made after taxes. I panicked. Mom said, “Call USAA.”

You saved me. You got me down to about $100 a month. I survived and thrived over 17 years. I added my wife to my policy. For all of those 17 years, we got one ticket. I performed a really bad rolling stop and was properly ticketed by the police officer on enhanced patrol. What are you going to do? I paid it.

But that wasn’t the problem. Last fall, my wife got inadvertently winged by an ambulance. Not her fault – they had an unsecured equipment door that swung open as she got out of the way, and it put a nasty gash in the side of her brand-new van. We waited months for you to work it out so we could get the van fixed. Your best answer was, “get it fixed, pay the deductible, and we’ll figure it out.”

Those months got us to the holidays, and I had time to do some research. I ran a quote on GEICO, and they could save us a lot of money – hundreds of dollars every six months. But I still held on and gave you a chance. Then I had to practically yell at someone, “I WILL SWITCH TO GEICO IF YOU DON’T FIX OUR VAN!” in order for you to make the phone calls to get the ambulance’s insurance company to pay its share.

That was a pain in my butt, but I stayed on. A month later, I bought a new truck, and watched as our insurance went up again, to almost $1,200 every six months. I thought, “What the actual hell?” And I decided I’d see what’s out there after talking to a lot of GEICO members.

What was out there, according to the web estimate, was about $800 a year for the same policy; GEICO’s quote was $400 less every six months than the “We know what it means to serve” charlatans I’d been throwing money at for 17 years.

How could this be? I compared the two policies several times. I called you, and the best you could do was, “Well, you had that one ticket, and sometimes GEICO raises their rates after you start paying.”

Which, honestly, smelled like bullshit. So I hung up politely and called them. They underwrote the policy on the phone. The savings went down to $350 ever six months, which still comes out to about what I pay for water every year. We locked it in, and I’m done.

Which leaves me a little sad. Even though I didn’t activate my policy until after I’d enlisted, I’m one of those “legacy” types that all your ads brag about. I didn’t earn my membership invading Iraq in 2003; my grandfather earned it fighting in Europe and Korea long before my mother was born.

So shut up and stop with that crap. Because it’s fake, and it’s you spending money you don’t have to on advertising in a pathetic attempt to drive up revenue that you’re already stealing from your members. I was one of your biggest advocates. I told every Soldier I could how great you were, and now I intend to do the opposite.

Think about all that money you’re spending; then think about all the senior personnel (yeah, I’m one of those) who’ve had experiences similar to mine. Think about what they’re telling their Soldier, Sailors, Airmen, and Marines. Think about it. Now ask yourself, “what’s more important, and ad on Sunday, or the good word of mouth we get from people who have real influence.” Because I’ll tell you the truth – which feels sacrilegious to a guy who grew up thinking USAA was a weird bumper stick on Grandpa’s car – you get a lot more done not alienating your core audience.

I’m a 17-year member, and the fact that GEICO can save me more than twice what it advertises for no reason at all – on a family with one moving violation in two decades – makes me think I need a homeowners insurance quote as well.

And maybe a new bank.

P.S.: I don’t care who’s in charge; when you’re draping yourself in the flag while carrying the NFL’s water, just stop.

Track Your Money!!!

Some of my friends like to give me a hard time because I watch my bank accounts like a hawk, even going so far as to keep a personal balance sheet in an age where almost every transaction posts immediately. I’m glad I do, and here’s why:

Just 30 minutes ago, I was sitting on the deck, bored, and clicked into my USAA app. I immediately noticed that my checking account was significantly lower than I expected it to be. I looked, and there was a random charge from walmart.com for $140.99. I don’t go to walmart.com; Melissa Boyer doesn’t generally even go to WalMart the store. I asked her if maybe she’d gone to the website and bought something and forgotten to put it on the balance sheet; she said no. Uh-oh.

I called USAA right away. They told me someone had used my debit card from Arizona. I told them I haven’t set foot in Arizona since 2013. Within about 20 minutes, they cancelled the charge – telling me I’d get my money back within a few days – and had a new card on the way after I assured them there were no outstanding charges on the account. Fantastic customer service.

I say all this because sometime this week, I saw something making the Facebook rounds about how a veteran had her entire savings account drained before she noticed anything, because a thief got her information and USAA was honoring charges in the absence of a complaint, shifting money from savings to checking every time in line with the way her accounts were set up. We’re talking tens of thousands of dollars. Now a whole investigation is needed and she’s upset.

I’m not going to put anyone on the spot, but if you monitor your accounts, that kind of crap isn’t necessary. Someone likely stole my information somehow. I’m careful, so I’m not sure when it happened. But the moment I noticed something weird, I called my bank and they fixed it. We live in an era where most of us have apps on the phones in our pockets that make it ridiculously simple to check in and make sure our financial houses are in order.

Basically, if you’re more worried about your Candy Crush score than you are about paying attention to your money, you get what you deserve.

Murica! The Column

Two hundred thirty-nine years ago on July 4, our founding fathers signed and delivered a document declaring the 13 colonies to be free from British rule.

On that same day 227 years later, Army Spc. Jake Boyer, a young public affairs specialist, was on a convoy from Baghdad to Fallujah. It was kind of a bummer. I woke up that morning in one of the Green Zone’s occupied McMansions. I was photographing and writing about an engineer unit that was going to have a great party in the pool that came with the McMansion later that day. It’s weird to think about it now in light of everything that came after, but things were still pretty good in Iraq that summer. Going from Baghdad to Fallujah didn’t carry the nasty connotations that it did later; I just wasn’t sure if the engineers I was going to link up with in Fallujah had a pool.

When I arrived in Fallujah, I realized that I needn’t have worried. There wasn’t a pool, but there was plenty of party for those who weren’t on patrol. A firefighting unit had set up a kind of “tug of war” in which they were using conflicting fire hoses to push a cooler back and forth along a line it was attached to. The familiar smell of grilled hot dogs and hamburgers filled the air. Everyone in sight smiled and laughed, celebrating 227 years of the United States’ independence.

There are all kinds of things to ponder on Independence Day: the founding fathers who bravely put their names to paper and started an experiment we continue to tinker with today, the brave men and women who have fought and died for this country from that day forward, fireworks, apple pie, baseball; the list is endless. But I always think about that day in Fallujah and how important it is to celebrate this great country if you have the opportunity. If a bunch of Soldiers on a deployment to a hot, arid land for an indeterminate amount of time can let their buzz cuts down and enjoy the day, than so should the rest of us.

America is a lot of things to me. It’s those things I already mentioned. It’s the promise of a land where we’re all judged by our merits, not any number of easy discriminators. It’s holding on through a hot baseball game hoping something great happens in the ninth. It’s loading up the car and heading on a cross-country trek not having any idea of the beauty and wonder you’ll see along the way, especially the first time. It is all of those things and more, and it all started 239 years ago. It continues to be defended by brave men and women deployed all over the world, likely doing something to mark the day, whether they’re in Kabul, Camp Zama or Baghdad. Let’s make sure we all spare them a thought Saturday, and hope they at least have a pool.

Editor’s Note: This story was originally prepared for and also appeared on the Defense Logistics Agency’s website under the title “America! The Column.”

Same-sex marriage decision impacts more than those allowed to marry

I was a very young man when I first realized my mother was in love with the woman that she, my brother and I were spending a lot of time with. It was the late 80s, and I could still count my age on two hands. I have a distinct memory of hearing the word lesbian for the first time and assuming it was some kind of alien.

Those of us who were there – even if we were still in elementary school – likely remember that time period as not a very good one for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender people. Society was still wrapping its collective head around AIDS being more than a “gay disease.” Ellen DeGeneres was a standup comedian still more than a decade away from coming out on her nationally televised sitcom. I remember my immediate reaction to learning my mom’s secret and later talking to her about it being one of accepting love but public shame; I was terrified of what would happen if someone found out my mom loved women.

I spent years of my life keeping my mom’s secret as my secret, even flatly denying it when my dad pointed it out to me while I was in middle school. My dad, being my dad, was telling me a truth I still wasn’t ready to fully grasp, a truth I’d already discussed with my mom, and my natural reaction was “That’s not true.”

A couple years later, I lived at Mom’s house here in Northern Virginia. At the time, she was living with her girlfriend, and I got to be really OK with all that entailed, lucky enough to be in a loving household no matter which parent’s roof I lived under. But even at that, my fear that others would know remained. Kids in the neighborhood knew, and teenagers being teenagers, I suffered plenty of insults related to Mom’s sexual orientation. I still had that public shame, and I guarded the secret fiercely when I could.

After the Supreme Court decided June 26 that same-sex couples had the right to marry nationwide, I posted a message of support for my mom and all the LGBT people in my family and circle of friends. Several good friends of mine from the high school I attended when I lived with Dad told me they never knew my mom was a lesbian; it hammered home how much that shame kept me from sharing something important about my life even with people I was close to.

Even as an adult, a period during which I’ve befriended many amazing LGBT people all across that spectrum, I’ve swung like a pendulum on oversharing that information and keeping it close to the vest. When do I tell a girlfriend? Will she think it’s weird and go away? These are questions I asked myself even after I started dating my wife.

Why was I feeling that shame? If I was proud of my mother and loved her unconditionally – I was and I did – why did I care if my friends knew she was at a gay pride parade? Society itself, back then and even now, has looked down on LGBT people and treated them as different. I know the bullying that came from just being the child of a gay woman; I can’t imagine what it’s like for an LGBT person.

That’s why moments like the Supreme Court’s decision matter. As someone who has been closely attuned to the issues LGBT folks face throughout my life, I have been constantly amazed by the progress that has been made over the past three decades, from allowing gay men and women to serve openly in defense of our nation to the first states allowing same-sex marriage. But the decision written by five of the court’s justices floored me. I don’t know that I’ve ever been so happy to see justice come to this country I’ve loved all my life. I talked to Mom that day and tears came to my eyes.

No matter how an individual views LGBT people, our government is supposed to be open to all, and denying one group the right to have their love recognized by the state they live in flies in the face of principles enshrined in the Declaration of Independence. “Liberty and justice for all” is a phrase so important that it ends the pledge schoolchildren still recite throughout this country, and it means a little more now that families can be families in the eyes of the law.

Yes, this decision means a lot to the LGBT people it immediately affects, but there are ripples spreading ever outward. The acceptance that I have seen come in my lifetime inches ever forward. Kids growing up in same-sex households already don’t seem to deal with the shame I hated in myself. Pride isn’t just about parades or TV shows; it’s also about living life authentically, and a step like the one that’s been taken allows people to do just that.

Over the weekend, I thought a lot about my daughter. She’s growing up in a world that’s changed dramatically over the past 30 years. I grew up hearing about equality and the dreams of the great civil rights leaders, but at the same time my mom, my uncle, my cousins and millions of others still had a long way to go. But for my little girl, I think about how she gets to live in a world where she loves her grandma and is proud of her wherever she goes, not worrying about who knows or what she’ll have to put up with if they do. Thinking about how that will be so much different than my own experience fills my heart with joy.

A whole lot of people woke up in a better America.

Disgusted About Ray Rice? Skip the NFL

As a man – a father, husband, son, grandson, nephew, cousin and friend to many wonderful women – I’m quite frankly disgusted with how Roger Goodell and the NFL have handled the Ray Rice situation from the start. That disgust has only grown with the past two days’ news. If Goodell and his sycophants either saw or ignored that video, it’s time for them to go.

How do fans get that point across? Remember, they need us a lot more than we need them. I love football; it’s in my blood. I love it so much that I continue pulling for a team with an owner who has never shown anything more than contempt for his customers. But I don’t really NEED football, especially not the NFL. I’m not proposing a long-term boycott, though. I’m proposing one week. This week, stop going to adjust your fantasy teams. Keep the TV off – or on some other channel – when the hype kicks up over the weekend. IGNORE THE NFL. If you’re lucky enough to have tickets, skip the game. Show the owners and leadership of this league where all their money and power comes from: the fans.

All sorts of people were outraged and disgusted with the NFL yesterday. I wonder how many of you will harness that outrage and disgust into something productive. Something that, if it gets big enough, would truly get the NFL’s attention. Instead of giving them your eyeballs and your cash for just one weekend, give your time and effort to the women in your life, or volunteer to help women who need it.

It’s just one day. I challenge any of you who were yelling and yammering about this issue yesterday to just say no to the NFL this weekend. I know I am.

Where Babies Come From

So a guy meets a girl …

Hold on, I promise that I think I’m going somewhere other than where you think I’m going.

So a guy meets a girl, and they like each other. They hang out a lot. They make out a lot. Things progress. They go to fancy dinners and fall in love. They go to beaches or mountains or wherever it is they find their bliss and fall in love.

The love grows. Sometimes it gets tested. The girl wants a moped. The guy wants a motorcycle. Whatever. They work out differences and make each other shiny. Eventually, it comes time that they may as well spend their lives together because, hey, what’s forever? So the guy buys a shiny ring. Then they move in together. They get a dog after a while, because that’s what you do. Who doesn’t love puppies? They work so great in an apartment. Then they get married.

So now the guy loves the girl and the girl loves the guy and they’re together forever and they have a puppy who’s growing like a weed. Their lease runs out and they re-sign because they like their apartment, but all the sudden the rent goes up and that sucks. They get bored one day and start looking at real estate websites. Why keep throwing all that money down that hole? They’re together, and they’re happy and in love, and why not buy a house? The dog isn’t getting any smaller and walking him all the time is getting to be a pain in the ass. Yards are great for big dogs that you don’t want to have to walk all the time, right? RIGHT?!?!?!

So they buy a house. Everyone’s happy. The dog has places to run. There’s all kinds of money to spend because all the sudden there’s all kinds of rooms to fill up with furniture. The dog poops all over the yard, but who cares? Every bathroom break isn’t a walk down several flights of stairs! Huzzah!

But wait: There’s all kinds of rooms. There’s all kinds of yard. Someone has to clean those rooms, and yard work – no matter how much the guy is starting to agree with his father’s philosophy of keeping the sticks picked up – is getting repetitive. There are only so many times that weed pulling and picking up sticks leads to a profound sense of accomplishment. They’re still weeds and sticks. Windows don’t clean themselves, do they? And who wants to keep cleaning up all this dust? You know what we need? Little people to entice to do chores in return for – what was it called? – oh yeah, an allowance.

That’s where babies come from. 😉