Freedom Marches On
From Fort Jackson to South Korea to the USA
Soldiers were dropping to the floor. Those damned drill sergeants wouldn’t stop yelling, “Drink, drink, drink—1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10—drink!” A cascade of BDUs, men and women trying not to puke, while a drill sergeant stabbed a finger at the flag and barked, “You don’t love your country, dammit!” I bit back a laugh because I wasn’t there for glory; rent was due, loans stacked, a little girl needed groceries. What died that day wasn’t just ego—it was the myth that freedom is a poster. That death of ego was what made me realize that freedom is a march that charges interest and keeps moving whether you’re ready or not.
Let’s drop all pretense. I chased this story until a 90% draft vanished. Maybe it was accident, maybe it was my subconscious yanking the plug on a Veterans Day hero costume. I’m a writer, which means I can manipulate feeling; I say that as a guardrail, not a performance. Boot camp taught me the body can’t fake truth; the craft kills the mask before the person, which is why I’m telling it now.
Editors note: All pictures were taken by me except the selfies which was still my camera. We didn’t call them selfies back then, ugh anyway, you know what I mean.
Bootcamp also taught me what the brochures couldn’t: extremely competent Black men and Black women serving beside white women and white men, carrying each other through the same mud, the same chow, the same 0400. Excellence passed hand to hand with no speechifying, only cadence and sweat. Freedom marches on.
Listen, I didn’t want to write this. You heard me say it before and I’ll say it again: I love writing, but I hate this part—revealing a piece of my experience I’d rather not. There is a peculiar catch-22 in this revelation of my military experience. Rule #1: you ain’t supposed to talk about it if you were in combat. Rule #2: you ain’t supposed to talk about it if you never fired a bullet in combat and you were a REMF (rear echelon mother fucker). I’m breaking Rule #2. I was the REMF. So why am I writing this? I’m writing it for me. I’m writing to exorcise my own demons. If I hit the delete button again by accident, I’m gon’ be alright. I needed to remember that the whole experience wasn’t just about paying the rent. It wasn’t just about money for college or a VA home loan or veterans’ preference for a cushy government job and a pension. Freedom marches on.
My first duty station after graduation, South Korea: a foreign land tasting the fruits of freedom while we were still arguing the recipe back home. Outside our personnel depot, a name carved into stone—KIRBY W. FORD, 31 MAR 1955—rank scratched beside it. I photographed it because I couldn’t yet put what I saw into words, only felt the insistence: I was here; remember me. Freedom marches on.
I came home and landed a pensioned job on veterans’ preference, bought a warm house with a VA loan—built in the years we were dying in Korea, around when that soldier pressed his name into rock. Then I learned my grandparents couldn’t have lived here when it was new, VA loan or not, because of their skin. Same benefit, different doorway; same flag, different wind. Freedom marches on.
I watched a Black family live in the White House built by enslaved hands, then watched triumph morph into backlash—grievance politics, redrawn voting lines, polling places disappearing like bad magic. I heard nightmare stories firsthand from people down south who had to fight for time off only to stand in line for hours. Freedom marches on.
My people fought with George Washington, bled in blue and gray, wore the Double-V in WWII and came home to Emmett Till. My mother and father met in the Army—yeah, my momma wore boots. I’ve proved my love for this country even when it doesn’t love me and mine back. Freedom marches on.
I’m not raising the flag today. The poles are set; I’ve even got the Flag of the U.S. Army to match. And I know you think I’m making a statement about the state of politics by not putting them out but I’m not putting it out because it’s cold as hell and these hands like warmth; I laugh and leave it folded. It was the same laugh accompanied by a sly smirk that I tried to hold back so bad when that drill sargeant was yelling at us to drink more water while pointing at the flag.
Instead, I practice a salute for my daughter who’ll pin on butter bars after graduation, then let my hand fall and sit in a heated room my kind couldn’t have bought not long ago. Freedom marches on.
If that pole at dusk with nothing on it but wind stayed with you, help me keep writing what we’d rather not and become a paid subscriber:
The country marches on, but I’m not sure that freedom is marching on with the country.
Happy Veterans Day to all the Veterans.