Introduction
Sixteen, the shadow of the fallen towers on the screen. Just months later, another kind of collapse – my father, his heart giving out. Some people break. I joined up, expecting war. To fight in faraway countries against a dangerous enemy. What I got was something different. Challenges no training could prepare me for.
This is more than just my story. It's a guide for any US service member and those who love them to piece together who they are in and outside of uniform.
Why I'm Writing This
I want to talk a little bit about why I decided to do this military memory book for my own career.
There are three reasons.
Update the Image of Military Service
I want to shift the spotlight toward the unsung service of everyday veterans.
Movies and books always show us World War II beaches or Vietnam jungles. It's this classic image of combat: men storming beaches, hacking through thick jungle, fighting in the dirt. Yes, war looked like that for a long time, but for me and many others, it didn't.
Don't get me wrong, combat veterans are out there (I know many). But there's also a huge group of us whose service was different. It didn't look like the movies. By telling my story, I hope those veterans feel their experiences matter too. Their service is valid and their voices deserve to be heard.
The Courage to Share My Personal Story
I'm writing this to gain the courage to tell my own story. Because for the longest time, I was ashamed of my service. I felt like it was less valuable because I'm not a combat veteran. I served during the height of the war, yet I never went to Iraq. I never went to Afghanistan. My service was relatively safe. I never had to do any extreme actions. I never had contact with the enemy. I never had any close calls. I never had to discharge my weapon on duty…and the closest I came to killing was in training, never in the line of duty. I left the military healthy in mind and body. I'm very fortunate in that way. If you know military culture, that puts me in a different class of veterans.
For many years after I got out, I knew people who didn't have such an experience. They had a hard time and to this day struggle with different things. Mobility and mental health issues will haunt them for the rest of their lives. Visible and invisible reminders of their sacrifice.
I felt because my service wasn't characterized by these extremes, I didn't have any right to talk about it. I wouldn't talk about it with civilians because, how could they understand? They wouldn't. I wouldn't talk about it with other veterans either, because there was part of me that was embarrassed to even bring it up. I didn't have any visible problems. I wasn't wounded. I didn't have PTSD. I was alive and healthy. Who was I to complain?
Maybe it sounds silly to you who's reading this, but it bothered me significantly in the past. Less so now, but I don't think I'll ever get over it. I'm a hundred percent confident there are other veterans who feel this exact same way. That's why I'm sharing my story, to encourage others to do the same.
Educate Civilians on the True Nature of Military Service
The final reason I decided to write this military memory book is to inform non-veterans out there about the real highs and lows of military service. Overall, my experience in the military was mostly positive. I met people, I went places. I got to do amazing work with elite professionals. I met my wife, fell in love. I'm incredibly grateful for the experience. This broad view of service isn't a perspective of a military career civilians hear very often.
However, it wasn't all positive. I had my struggles, plenty of them. There were grueling work schedules. Separation from loved ones, frequent moves, and physically demanding training. Then of course, there was tragedy. Few can serve during wartime without having the cold pass of death brush by them or someone they knew. I felt it several times. Every time was a stark reminder of what I had signed up to do, and why it was important.
With this book, my aim is to share these two sides – not with equal weight, but with the relevance they had to my personal experience. It was neither all war nor rainbows. Some wounds were self-inflicted. Others were from "enemies" that had little to do with Al-Qaeda and everything to do with who I was and who I wanted to be. You'll put a face to a person in uniform who was no hero, but still served with heart and humility.
Ultimately, it is my hope that you who are reading this book walk away with a fresh perspective of what life was like for a military veteran during the Iraq-Afghanistan War era.
The media often idolizes service members – especially during times of war. Heavy body armor, eyes shaded with sunglasses, wind-burned face, lugging a hefty weapon, this is the image of a veteran. We might appear superhuman, but at the end of the day, we're still people. We work with big budgets, sometimes carry firearms, sometimes carry pens. We might fly billion-dollar aircraft or simply drive down the road. It's a demanding duty with many privileges, a lot of responsibilities, and often great risk. My goal is for this book to reveal that we are more than just the uniforms we wear. We're human beings with incredible stories to share. This is mine.
Chapter 1 - The Quiet Force
Beginnings
I'm originally from San Antonio, Texas, born and raised down there. My childhood was mostly peaceful. I grew up on the city's southeast side in a community called Lakeside. (Not sure why – the "lake" was barely a puddle.) Back then, it felt like the edge of the world, just outside Loop 410. Fields of golden grass, buzzing with crickets, stretched along the roads I took to school. My brother and I called them "snake fields."
At home, things were always fun. Mom worked at Fort Sam Houston, doing administrative support. Dad was a local radio DJ. My older brother Ajani was a child genius. My younger brother Kevin was my best friend. Life was good. We had Super Nintendo, Sega, and everything we needed. Sure, bad things happened – I still remember playing in front of the fireplace where Uncle Hank's black box of ashes sat. But mostly, I was in my own world, with my brothers or on my own.
We made up our own TV station, broadcasting "shows" and "games" with our toys. There was "Don't Pop the Rocks", where we'd pile pillows on our parents' waterbed, daring each other to leap the growing mound. We'd hurl paper planes at the ceiling fan "boss", watching them either soar victorious or get shredded by the blades. And then there was "Floorball", a destructive treat only allowed when the parents were out...and one that usually ended with something getting broken or someone getting mad.
"Strike Force," "Daniel in the Dens," "Legotown," "Man In Video Game," "The Game With 2000 Levels"... the games never stopped. In hindsight, they were my first lessons in strategy, teamwork, and storytelling. They connected me to my brothers. I realize now how creative I was, even without knowing it. I was just playing, and that colored my entire childhood.
From Quiet to Charisma
For years, I was the brother who blended in. Never causing trouble, never seeking the spotlight. Being the middle kid felt like being invisible sometimes. My brothers, with their struggles and triumphs, took center stage. I didn't mind. I drifted through my own quiet world, a spirit of independence taking root.
Then came middle school. Heritage, a brand-new building that stood in what felt like the center of a giant field. Teal and burgundy? Hurricanes? Strange choices for school colors and a mascot, even for a long-limbed 12-year-old. Seventh grade blurred by – good grades and growing friendships, nothing out of the ordinary.
But towards the end of the year... something shifted. That class photo – rows of us squinting into the sun. When I got the print, I did a double-take. That kid... there was a spark in his eyes. A hint of mischief. Had I always looked like that?
It was like a switch flipped. Eighth grade hit. Suddenly, I was the "Weatherman" on the school news. Interviewing classmates for the paper. That's when I started caring about my words, finding a voice I didn't know I had. Today, I stand on that foundation. Childhood's simplicity was gone, replaced by something bolder, something entirely my own.
Young Worldbuilder
I had a carefree childhood. Riding bikes, playing outside, building Lego worlds with my brothers – those were the best days. We had what we called "characters" – bags and boxes full of action figures. (One of my early favorites was "Snake Eyes" from G.I. Joe.) Some were from Happy Meals, others were proper toys. But oh, the adventures we sent them on! Looking back, that's where I became a storyteller. We created these elaborate missions, whole lives for those little figures. Inspired by our favorite games and shows, of course, like any kid. But the joy... that was all ours.
We had this sprawling Lego town that was lovingly crafted. My brother Ajani, a Lego master, would build towering cathedrals with no instructions. A true prodigy! The buildings were mostly his, even though my younger brother and I would chip in. I wasn't about the bricks; I was all about the people. Where they went, who they were, whether the city was under attack or enjoying a peaceful day... those were my stories. Making up scenarios and playing them out was infinite fun, until the day reality forced my eyes open and made me drop my toys for good.
The Day Everything Changed
Everything changed when I was 16. My dad passed away, suddenly and unexpectedly. It shattered my world. Being a junior in high school... that's a fragile age. You need your parents. All of a sudden, one of mine wasn't there. Doors that were open suddenly slammed shut. The biggest one? My hopes for college. Ajani had gone off to college in California. Mom was shouldering many of the expenses, leaving little if anything left for me. My future became uncertain in a single morning.
This is the day that changed everything. Here's how I wrote it down, three years later:
“Today is third anniversary of my father’s death, and it is no surprise to me that the scenario keeps replaying in my head over and over again…I’ve been thinking about that morning all day and I think that I’m ready to retell my observations of what happened that day… Thursday, January 17, 2002 It was a typical school day morning as Keith lay gently on his futon with the mattress of his childhood bed on it. The [bed] was only comfortable if he could find the right way to position his body so that spring protruding from the mattress did not scratch him while he slept. Keith awoke to the sound of his dad’s hand sliding along the wall of the hallway, which had occurred every morning for as long as he could remember. His mom was probably already up fixing a quick breakfast before she had to hurry off to work. Keith laid in bed for a little while longer that morning because he really wasn’t ready for the long day ahead at East Central High School. He was a 16-year-old junior in high school but he felt like a freshman in college with teachers like Mrs. Dekunder and Dr. Lawley. School was a job. His thought of dreading school was replaced by the shock of an odd sound that he had never in his life heard before. It sounded like a groan and a sigh put together but he couldn’t discern what it was. Then a thought had struck him that maybe something was wrong. He could have acted like he was still asleep and laid there, but something told him to go into the living room. He got up and shuffled into the living room. What he saw when he entered was not what he had imagined [sic] his dad was lying on the floor with a glazed look on his face that terrified Keith to the point of almost running back to his bed and hiding under the sheets, [sic] but seeing the look of concern on his mom’s face compelled him to stay. “He just collapsed a minute ago...Larry!....Larry!” Mom shouted at Dad’s face. “...Larry!...I think it’s his heart...Larry!” Dad didn’t answer, he just kept the empty look that he had on his face. Keith’s Mom was a strong and headstrong woman. Keith could never remember seeing her cry for anything and this time was no exception. The look of confusion on her face terrified him even more and when she said “I don’t know what to do…” Keith was even more concerned. Keith was a JROTC cadet at school and he had taken a rudimentary first aid course 3 times now. Even though his training was aimed at mending field wounds, he was willing to offer anything to help put his mom at ease. “We should elevate his legs,” Keith said with conviction. He knew that if his dad had just had a stroke elevating his legs would be ineffective. But his mom did it anyway and she gave him a reassuring smile. The paramedics arrived ten minutes later and they began to try and revive him. While the paramedics did their best to save Keith’s dad, Mom asked, “Should I get Kevin up?” “No!” Keith responded almost immediately. Keith’s brother was only 14-years-old and Keith didn’t want him to have to see what was happening. When the paramedics began to load Keith’s dad onto the stretcher (which took up the entire living room floor) Keith knew that this was the last time that he would see his father. Keith looked at his mom, but she did not shed a tear.
That was three years ago. Dad, I know you’re watching me and I will continue to make you proud.” -January 17, 2005 “Entry #5”
That was the beginning of a chapter I never saw coming... A story arc none of us would have chosen. When I look back, my childhood feels unremarkable, mostly happy memories. That makes the loss hit even harder.
For My Father
I carried the guilt from my father's death with me for years. It was leaden and heavy. I couldn't put it down. Wasn't there anything I could have done? No – the answer would always come. It had been hopeless when it happened. Years later, I started journaling to contain the tainted thoughts that threatened to fly out of me at unpredictable moments.
Dad’s passing confused me. It was hard to accept that his presence, always there, was suddenly gone. I don't recall feeling overwhelming sadness at first, which might seem strange. Maybe a part of me sensed, somehow, that he wasn't going to be around forever. It's hard to remember what his voice sounded like.
I didn't really have a very close relationship with my dad. Not that he wasn't there. He was. But as an individual, I can't recall moments when it was just me and him.
During my early years my brothers and I established ourselves as a unit. This wasn't by choice, but that's how it was.
Various aunts, uncles and cousins referred to us by our group names, rarely as individuals. “The three boys," “My three sons," “Keith and Kevin," “Kevin and Keith," these are all names we were called by outside the house.
What made things more confusing was that my younger brother and I looked similar when we were kids. Many mistook us for twins. Even though I'm two years older, we share the same birthday (March 12) adding to the confusion. For years relatives couldn't tell us apart, further contributing to my lack of identity in their eyes.
Being the middle child also impacted my relationship with my dad. He spent more time with my brothers because of their various needs and issues. Since I was a generally well-adjusted and well-behaved, quiet boy, I often faded to the background while my brothers took center stage. There was less to worry about with me from a parent's perspective. “Squeaky wheels get the grease,” was the mantra my dad probably lived by when raising us.
Let me be clear, this wasn't some form of neglect.
It was just how things worked. I deeply love and respect my father. I know many of the things I do today are because he allowed, financed, and encouraged us to explore our interests with zero pressure.
I have no idea what his dreams for me were. But I can't help but think hearing about my military career and voice on various podcasts would make him very happy and immensely proud. I hold on to that always.
There's a picture of him watching us play Nintendo. I've got the controller in hand (I think I was playing Megaman 3) while my brothers flank me on the couch watching. Over my shoulder is Dad, shirtless and smiling as he looked on. “Video boyz,” was one of the names he called us. This picture was the Video boyz gathered and in their natural element. It was a rare glimpse into, what was, a regular occurrence in my youth—us having fun while playing games.
Even though I didn't receive a lot of individual attention when I was young, I don't remember feeling left out. Honestly, I don't feel like that now.
But I do remember how I felt after Dad’s funeral.
They had it at Earnest T. Dixon Church, just outside of Lakeside. I remember wearing my green Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps (JROTC) cadet Class "A" uniform. People said some things and read some passages from the Bible, standard funeral affairs.
There was one part that wasn't routine.
Since Dad had been a radio DJ, there were several recordings of his voice (a rare thing for most people back then). They (or Mom probably) decided to play one of his “air checks”. From what I remember, this was a sampling of his performance as a radio DJ. A demo reel for DJs.
When they hit play, my dad's voice came over the speakers sharp and clear. Seconds later his voice became fragmented and broken as the CD started to skip.
I can't stand skipping CDs. Ajani had taught me how to fix them, but there was nothing I could do during the ceremony. It continued skipping for another minute or so until they cut it. That was the end of the funeral for me.
Those weeks after... they were a blur of silence. The emptiness where he used to be, the suddenness of it all. One day there, the next gone forever. That skipping CD...it was like a cruel reminder. Life wasn't some recording you could fix. It played once, then faded away. "Here today, gone tomorrow," was how I saw it.
That's when I knew I couldn't waste a second of my own time. That mentality would drive everything, even my decision to join the military.
END PREVIEW
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