Brought To You In Part, By The Yellow-Magnet Society

It's that special time again.

It only comes once a year. Everywhere you go today, people stop to offer goodwill to their fellows. People remember a time, a shared experience. Decorations come out, holiday banners line the street.

You know what day I'm talking about, of course. It's Veterans' Day.

All day today, I've seen the signs: "Thank you for your service," "God Bless Our Veterans." On the news, hair-sprayed anchors devote hours of airtime to specials on military history. They exhort us to remember the sacrifice of those who served, and on the crisp November air, comes the scent of renewed patriotism, the aroma heady, warm, like late-season apple pie. It's a glorious time, a time when we remember our national roots, and celebrate those who answered the nation's call.

You'll forgive me for not sharing in the holiday spirit.

Don't get me wrong. I understand the sentiment, and I appreciate it. And I am glad to pass it on. Whether you served on the front lines in WWII, or just served as a radio operator beneath the burning sun of Iraq, this day is YOUR day, and above all else let me say this to my fellow Initiates: Thank you. Thank us. Let us remember what we have fought for, and what we have earned.

And as for those of you who never served, well, fear not. Many of you have borne us in your hearts, all this time, have worried and prayed for us. Some of you, like the gentleman I spoke to the other day, continue to do so, working as he did in physical therapy, providing care to those of us who came back wounded, broken. To to those of you who have remembered us in the hard times, allow me to say this: this is your day, too. You have my sincere and unending gratitude.

Let us reflect.

In case you didn't notice, that was my dose of cheer. I hope you enjoyed it. Now, as I take another swig of my Killian's, allow me to turn my baleful gaze upon the rest of you. You know who you are, America--The Yellow Magnet Society. You, with your cheap gas-station trinkets, parked strategically next to your McCain-Palin bumper stickers, the ensemble carefully offset by your 50-cent Chinese-made window flag. You, who speak of Victory as a condition for ending an endless war. You, who think the survivors of a lesser war to be lesser men for having, as you so often put it, returning home broken, defeated.

To you I say: what right do you have to thank me? To thank any of us?

I get it: it must be very hard seeing all those reports on the news. Another suicide bombing in Ramadi, another story on proud veterans, now homeless and crippled by mental illness. This last few years has been just as hard for you. I mean, every day, having to go outside the Wire. It's all good when you're nestled behind the razor-wire optimism of Fox News, but man, when you're neck-deep in the shit--that Communist News Network?--man. Some of us, I guess, can never even know.

So here's what I want to know: why the FUCK should your thanks, on this one day out of the year, mean shit to us? What the FUCK do you think your appreciation's gonna do for my buddy Oz, kicked out of the Army three months ago because of his drinking problem? How the FUCK do you think your gratitude's gonna get that old crazy dude in the Vietnam-era Army field jacket to a bed tonight? You think your words are going to keep him warm? You think your platitudes are going give back to Oz the job in which he took so much pride?

I sure hope not.

"Well, what do you want from us?" you ask me. "We're trying, doesn't that mean anything?" And in response, I say: "Yes." It does. It means everything to me. It helps me stave off the guilt I battle every morning, leaving battle-buddies behind behind by not re-enlisting. It gives me hope that maybe this feeling, this nagging voice that says if I'd just done one more mission, that that voice is just trying to psych me out.

When I get down on myself, thinking of how I should have covered better for my friends, how I should have gotten to Brooks before the unit humiliated him by confiscating his mags, making him sit in the day room on Suicide Watch, your appreciation, your thanks, the looks of awe you give me when I tell you about my time in the desert, that helps me remember. It reminds me that, no matter what,it all really happened, and that nobody, no matter how much they disagree with me, can take that away, ever.

When I think to myself late at night, maybe I should go back in, those voices, those words are there to give me solace. You did enough, they tell me. Don't worry about all of that. You did your part. All of the lies, all of the bullshit, they don't mean anything now. Think about what you have here at home. Think of your wife. And that should be enough, I think. And for some part of me, it is.

But then that other part of me kicks in, the one that remembers how tomorrow the injustice, the neglect we all face when we come home, or lose parts of ourselves, will be forgotten. And then it's just back to business-as-usual. Another disabled man or woman denied treatment; another soldier kicked out for not being able to face the day without drugs or booze; another stupid kid straight out of high-school, lied into things he cannot even begin to understand. And after tomorrow, it's gonna be back to waiting for next year. Veteran's Day goes away, and with it so do millions of veterans.

You want to honor veterans? Call your Congressman and lobby for reforms of our VA system. Be there for the returning GWOT vet, and provide a listening ear when he gets down on life. Go downtown and deliver a fucking sandwich to the old coot in the ratty fatigue blouse, sitting on the park bench mumbling to himself. Fuck, give him a lift to the shelter. And don't just do that today; do it this weekend, do it in six months. Find the time. Something. Anything.

Me? I'm gonna sit here and take another swig of my beer. This is my day. I earned it.