Over the past weeks, a cadre of young men has spent their days marching across the quad, demanding an end to a justifiable, nay honorable, Israeli war on amoral terrorists. An overlapping segment has donned their rainbow buttons and profile-art propaganda to honor the sexual proclivities of their fellow man. They scream borrowed sentiments in all caps, tapped self-righteously into the iPhones their parents have surely furnished. They take over streets and public spaces, inconveniencing the world around them. Their posters, wearing whatever slogan trends on social media, may as well say, “Look at me, world… but let me put the right filter on first.”
These are the men of their generation. These are the next generation of American fathers. And, while the sentiment of their generation is to cancel the past, it’s high time they look closely at history for a lesson in what it means to be men.
In June 1968, my father was the same age as these men are today. They beg for sensory breaks and safe spaces, failing to appreciate that the safety of their world hinged on the men of his generation. Fifty-six years ago, he was making his way toward Khe Sanh, relieving the besieged Marines. His unit would march as many as fifteen clicks a day, humping it through the dense foliage of the unforgiving Vietnamese jungle.
After a long day, men like my father would take comfort in the strangest things: a cigarette from their C-rations, a meal consisting largely of potted meat, crackers and bland sauce. They’d use the last of a shipment of Tabasco my father received after writing to the company while overseas. They’d rip the leeches off their skin — an inescapable reality found in Vietnamese rivers — and hunker down.
By night, they’d sleep outdoors on the soggy jungle floor, trading off night-watch shifts in the oppressive heat. Sleep was found in uneasy bursts, punctuated by gunfire, distant thuds of artillery and the intermittent crack of mortar fire.
In the days that followed, they moved on Khe Sanh, pushing out the remaining Marxists. It was one of a handful of offensives my father has shared with me. One of thousands his generation would endure — for country, for family. They fought a war of political nuance but did it brazenly. It was a proxy — a concept that still eludes the masses — that provided a theater to pit the ills of communism against the virtues of human freedom and stem the tide of collectivism in Southeast Asia and beyond.
What defines these men as fathers wasn’t their time in the service per se, but rather that they would stand in service. That, when called upon, they would rise. That, central to their being, was a call to purposes greater than their own: God, family and country.
As a father, my dad expected much from us. Still does. I can still remember the early-Saturday-morning wake-up call to get outside and clean the river rock that lined the borders of our gray Indiana home. The colored rock had dulled after a few spring rains had turned the dusty air into a taupe translucent muddy coating. I would have to call my friends and tell them I wouldn’t make it to the park. To today’s young people, it may well be defined as psychological torture. But it was a chore built in pride. Not the fleeting, nonsensical pride in your sexual proclivities, but rather pride in accomplishment; in keeping your place (and yourself) orderly.
I remember the quiet expectations put on us: to maintain our grades, to treat our friends and relationships with respect, to collect the tools that would one day allow us to build our own families. It only recently dawned on me what makes this sort of dad special. He hadn’t focused on raising us to be the best version of ourselves… he raised us to put the most important things in life above ourselves. And I’m still learning.
Today’s young men have been hoodwinked into a life of hedonism. They believe that happiness is king. They seek a mate who can satisfy their every whim, ticking off a checklist of superficial boxes. They pursue careers that align with their fleeting passions, thumbing their noses at honest hard work. They demand the better generations settle their debts, raise their wages and absolve them of responsibility, all while admonishing the very principles that built the world they inherit.
But they don’t get it. The cushy life they’re manifesting won’t bring them any closer to happiness. For advice on a life well-lived, they need only look back a generation, if they can lift their blinders.
Happiness isn’t found in self-service; it’s found in self-sacrifice. Pride isn’t found in the shouting of identity, but in the quiet dignity of duty. Freedom isn’t found in the abdication of responsibility; it’s found in the taking of it. These are the virtues that my father, and his generation, inherently understood. These are the virtues needed for fatherhood.
On this Father’s Day, I ask that we simply remember something: there are things greater than ourselves to which we owe reverence. A merciful God. A nation that, while flawed, affords us the freedoms to repair it. Our families, and our fathers. May this coming generation emerge from the fog of youthful ignorance, reflect on the men before them and set their sights high enough that one day history may group them, too, among the honor-bound American dads.
And to my father, who selflessly served his country, his family and his God — Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
