By Kenneth L. Hardin

Everyday should be Veteran’s Day. Those who honorably wore the uniform shouldn’t have to wait until the 11^th month of the year to be recognized for signing a blank check to defend the freedoms of this country. Too often, they find a receipt marked “insufficient funds” when they return home. There should be no such a thing as a homeless or hungry veteran.

Prior to joining the military, I never thought much about those brave brothers and sisters that took the oath of enlistment to “solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the president of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed.” My paternal grandparents lived in the shadow of the Salisbury VA Medical Center, and as children playing in the field behind their home, we were cautioned to always be on guard for the patients there. The now-ridiculous directive we received was that if you saw anyone walking from that facility wearing white socks and muttering to themselves, you were to run away as fast as you could. Sadly, my family back then, like so many still today, don’t understand how the mental, emotional and psychological impact of putting your life on the line every day at 18 years old, going into combat to take lives and experiencing horrors most people will never see, takes a heavy toll on you. I understand those who suffer from mental health challenges from their time in service as I struggle at times with my own version of PTSD. I don’t wear white socks, but I feel honored and blessed to receive my care at our VA hospital and have had nothing but exceptional care provided by genuinely caring medical and clinical staff.

I recall coming back to Salisbury for the first time after graduating from basic training and my Law Enforcement Tech School. My plane landed on a Sunday afternoon in Charlotte back on Sept. 16, 1984. I was greeted warmly by a cheering crowd comprised of my parents, aunts, grandparents and a few of my siblings. I recall the pride I felt getting off the plane and walking tall through the airport in uniform carrying my duffel bag slung perfectly across my shoulder. I don’t remember anyone thanking me for my service back then. The nation hadn’t watched any Budweiser commercials or had country music artists singing songs to elicit that level of pride yet, but I still reveled in the looks, head nods and smiles from passersby.

Being back in Salisbury and staying in the home I was raised in for the first time since December of the previous year felt strange and uncomfortable. I had two weeks of leave time before reporting to my first duty station in the Midwest. At home, I felt like a stranger, uneasy and more like a visitor. I tried to relax but I was so used to the strict routine of training, I found myself anxious and somewhat bored. The two friends who I grew up with like brothers and spent every day with since elementary school, Perk and Spoon, had joined the military and were gone. So, I felt even more isolated. I visited the old high school hangout spot, Pudgies Pizza, where I spent so many nights with friends, but even returning there wasn’t the same. I proudly wore my military work uniform around the house as I cut grass and did other chores. Unlike before I signed up, I made my bed every morning while I was home and ensured I left everything neat and tidy. Nothing seemed to fill the void and I contemplated ending my leave early to get started on the first part of my new journey in life. On the evening of Sept. 29, 1984, the day before I was scheduled to leave to report to Offutt Air Force Base in Nebraska, the phone rang. On the line was a girl I had chased for a date from my days at Knox through Salisbury High School. She was beautiful, athletic, but shy and was raised by a strict grandmother who kept a close eye on her. I remember how I used to walk her home after track practice but would have to stop a block from her house so that her grandmother wouldn’t see me. She said she heard I was in town and wanted to go out. For a brief moment, I considered going AWOL to finally realize this dream come true, but I told her I was leaving the next morning. I haven’t talked to her since that day.

The next day, Sept. 30, 1984, a whole new set of military memories began.

Kenneth L. (Kenny) Hardin is a member of the National Association of Black Journalists.