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4th of July on
a Mountain Top
by
Steve Loomis
LTC, EN, U.S. Army
(Retired)
National President
American Veterans
for Equal Rights |
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As I
enjoyed
a
long 4th
of July
weekend
with
family
and
friends,
several
of whom
are
veterans,
I
remembered
a 4th of
July
that has
an
important
meaning
to me.
Do
we
really
think
about
what
Independence
Day
means in
America?
It of
course
included
fireworks,
but so
much
more.
One
Independence
Day at
sunset,
I stood
on top a
mountain
in South
Vietnam
and
looked
at the
South
China
Sea in
the
distance.
Few of
us
thought
about
the
great
claim of
independence
that
founded
our
country.
Instead,
we were
thinking
about
the
picnics,
the fun
and
especially
the
fireworks
celebrations
we were
missing
back
home.
Our
battalion
commander
put out
the word
earlier
that
there
would be
no
“wasting”
of
ammunition
on a
fireworks
display
for the
4th
of
July.
Missing
out on
our one
chance
to share
a taste
of home,
we sat
glumly
on our
cache of
hand
flares,
machine
gun
tracers
and
mortar
illumination
rounds,
when our
sergeant
major
walked
up. “The
old man
has me
checking
to make
sure you
guys
don’t
shoot
off a
bunch of
rounds,”
he
said.
“Everything
okay,
LT?”
“It’d be a lot
better, sergeant
major, if we could
light up the sky a
little.”
Making matters
worse, we could see
other units shooting
off illumination
rounds from a couple
of distant mountain
tops. In a
particularly
impressive display,
a twin 40 millimeter
gun, a "duster",
trailed a spray of
tracers high across
the evening sky like
a water hose snaking
out of a kid’s hand.
“It probably would,”
the sergeant major
answered. “I’m
going to check on an
illumination mission
the mortar platoon
has to fire, then
I’m going to the old
man’s bunker.
Don’t do anything I
wouldn’t do,
Lieutenant.”
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Reflections on
Memorial Day
and Pride Month 2014
By Tony Smith |
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The time between
Memorial Day and 4th
of July holidays are
major book-ends for
what has become a
full month of June
many recognize as
LGBT Pride Month.
This year, those two
holidays for me
personally, and for
many other friends
and loved ones,
highlighted both how
far we’ve come in
this country for
LGBT civil rights,
the sacrifices made,
and the work yet to
be done.
It began on May
26, 2014 Memorial Day at Arlington Cemetery. For many years the
American Veterans for Equal Rights (AVER) has participated in the annual
Memorial Day events in Arlington Cemetery with placing a wreath at the
Tomb of the Unknowns alongside many other Veterans Service Organizations
(VSOs). During the days of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell (DADT) the name of
that sacred ground, Tomb of the Unknowns, took on another meaning for
me. I thought of the thousands of unknown LGBT service members across
those rolling verdant Virginia hills of Arlington Cemetery who gave the
ultimate sacrifice in service to country but were really unknown in life
because they couldn’t share their whole identity for fear of being
discharged. I thought of my friend Major Alan Rogers, USA, buried in
section 60 and his sacrifice on the battlefield in Iraq.
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Illegal
Immigrant
by
former
SFC
Denny Meyer |
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I was born in the USA; but my mother was an illegal
immigrant. She arrived by ship, in steerage, at Ellis Island
within sight of the Statue of Liberty; presenting herself to American
Immigration agents as WOP, without papers. She was fleeing the
Nazi genocide in the late 1930s, one of several hundred thousand
refugees from the Holocaust and horror of WWII in Europe. She was
interned on Ellis Island, in the crowded open bay barracks of the era,
for over a month while letters were written, her case was considered
amongst so many others; until finally a distant relative paid a bond; and she was set free to begin a new life in New
York City. She lived another sixty years here, first earning her
living cleaning other people's toilets; and decades later retiring as a
shopkeeper and real estate broker. We were never wealthy; but she
earned every single cent she had in America, and taught me to do the
same.
I look and speak like any other shlubby cranky old
veteran shuffling around the VA hospital here, unshaven, thick in the
waist, wobbling slowly on a cane, and being grumpy. I speak
Standard American with a touch of nasal Noo Yawk slang spicing it up a
bit. Having served as a sailor in the Navy and a Sergeant in the
Army, I can curse like any other dysfunctional old Vietnam Era vet.
But, English wasn't my first language.
Through the late 1940s, as an infant and toddler during
the dismal post war years, we were among hundreds of
thousands of Jewish-German refugee families who had
settled in Washington Heights, on New York City's Upper
West Side.
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