He was 17 years old.
He had never been on an airplane — or even a long train ride — before. All he knew of the world beyond the horizon came from newspaper columns, radio bulletins, and the names on the visiting team’s baseball jerseys.
But despite all that, my grandfather felt compelled. Compelled to sacrifice the only existence he had ever known, in order to protect his country.
It was 1945. The world had been at war for 6 years. The United States was avenging the Japanese attacks on Pearl Harbor, all while rebuking the atrocities of fascism in Europe.
My grandfather was a boy when the conflict started. But as he neared adulthood, the casualties were still mounting and the outcome of the war was still uncertain. So, he thrust himself into the fray and volunteered for the United States Navy.
His service obligations would take him westward, to Illinois and California. And while a freak injury kept him from combat in the Pacific theater, my grandfather still had to adapt to a new reality.
In the service, my grandfather’s clothes consisted of his Naval uniform. His bed was a simple bunk. Rules of decorum were paramount — salute senior officers, follow orders, and defend the base at all times.
Later in life, my grandfather would speak fondly of those days. Life in the Navy wasn’t always as vibrant and free as civilian life. But he never doubted his decision to join its ranks.
In his mind, the sacrifice was justified.
My grandfather’s tale of sacrifice is hardly unique. Similar tales have been told throughout our nation’s history.
In the earliest days, farmers abandoned their fields to take up arms against the Redcoats — even as capture meant certain death. Decades later, as a Civil War enveloped the country, entire communities rushed to the battlefields and the carnage that awaited them there.
Even in modern times, scores of young Americans have voluntarily uprooted themselves — trading the familiar lifestyle of their hometown for a tour of duty in a faraway conflict. It’s a calling as sacred today as it was centuries ago.
As a nation, we give lip service to these sacrifices. We honor active duty service members with standing ovations at sports events, and with discounts on cars and homes. We have a holiday each November for our veterans, along with myriad parades in their honor.
But many of us don’t understand the totality of the sacrifices these brave men and women make.
How could we? We have no reference point for the experience.
Or at least we haven’t thus far.
As I write these words, a pandemic is afflicting the world.
The pandemic is not a war. At least not in a traditional sense.
The objective of this struggle is not to kill each other or claim territory. Instead, we are trying to repel a common enemy. A microscopic virus that has claimed more than a million lives worldwide in less than a year.
In different corners of the globe, the fight has taken different shapes. Some nations have imposed harsh lockdowns. Others have restricted activities that help spread the virus. And still others have abdicated responsibility entirely.
The United States has been hardest hit by the pandemic, with nearly 10 percent of global cases and one-fifth of all deaths. Early initiatives to fend off the threat have given way to partisanship, impatience and anger. And while we’ve bickered, the virus has continued spread devastation.
We are in crisis. And in the midst of the crisis, we find ourselves making profound sacrifices.
We have no choice in the matter. Even if we want to live our lives as normal — pretending the pandemic isn’t raging all around us — we cannot. The businesses we rely on look different, with reduced capacities and mask mandates in place. Many schools are closed, and many jobs are furloughed.
There are many drivers behind these shifts — health safety, economic reality, and buffers against litigation. Regardless of the reason, they’ve required us to change our ways.
This has not been easy to deal with. Many of us cherished the life we had before the virus ripped it from us. Even if we didn’t, the pandemic hasn’t exactly provided us a rosier alternative.
For we are social beings, stimulated by interaction and anchored in tradition. The virus has threatened these pillars of our existence, and pivoting away from them is difficult.
The longer this drags on, the more we come to understand the sacrifices of our military. We might not face the acute risks of combat. But we are now well-versed with the sensation of being far from home.
Thank you.
These are two simple words. But they can speak volumes.
Whenever I speak with a military member — whether active duty or veteran — I show my appreciation. I know that they are making profound sacrifices to protect our nation, and everything it stands for. And I am grateful for it.
I am not alone in this sentiment. But it hasn’t always been this way.
In the time between my grandfather’s Naval service and my own existence, many Americans turned on the military. Veterans of the Vietnam War found themselves spat upon and branded as baby killers upon their return home. And that sentiment was never fully extinguished.
I’ve never quite understood this vitriol. I’ve never quite reconciled the desire to demonize those who protect us.
Perhaps this is true because I grew up in the shadow of the Cold War. Or perhaps it’s the case because I vividly remember the 9/11 attacks. But either way, I could never imagine turning on those who serve. It’s a bridge too far.
So now, I wonder if this pandemic experience will change us for the better. I wonder if this prolonged period of sacrifice has opened our eyes to what others have for so long given up. And I wonder if we can look upon those choices with dignity, rather than disdain. With empathy rather than anger.
I certainly hope that is the case.
Those who sacrifice on our behalf deserve the formal recognition, the holidays, the pomp and circumstance. But most of all, they deserve our respect and gratitude. They deserve to be told that what they do matters.
So, let’s honor their sacrifices. Today and forever.