“The nation that makes a great distinction between its scholars and its warriors will have its thinking done by cowards and its fighting done by fools.”
—A Spartan King, quoted by Thucydides
My eldest daughter once wrote a graduate paper titled “From Protester to Soldier: An Oral History.” She chose me as her subject. What better source than family? I vaguely remember the interview. It was several years ago—four hours of taped conversation. She later told me it took her eight hours to transcribe, and even then she only used about a third. She probably could’ve used even less. But the family lore stories were too good to cut. I understand. Some truths hide in the tangents.
I don’t recall if she ever gave me the final paper. If she did, I’ve long since misplaced it—no surprise. She was eight months pregnant at the time. Life was full. The other day we talked about it again. She said she’d try to find the file and forward it. She did. I read it this morning. And I was stunned.
Seeing Myself in Analysis
Of course I thought it was brilliant—she’s brilliant. All five of my children are.
But this was different. This was me, examined through her lens. Quoted, cited, analyzed. Not just remembered—but interpreted. She mapped out something I hadn’t quite named: the moral shift in my thinking. How did I go from active protester to professional soldier? And were either of those labels accurate? At the time, maybe. But truth has more layers than titles.
The Two-Armband Life
Before uniforms, soldiers would sometimes wear colored armbands into battle. Red for one side, blue for the other. And if the tide turned, you could always reach into your pocket and change sides. Everyone went to war with two armbands. It’s a fitting metaphor. Was I deeply pacifist? Yes. Or so it seemed. I laid on railroad tracks to stop troop trains. I was tear-gassed. Clubbed. Thrown through a plate glass window. But I have no scars—not even emotional ones. I knew people were dying. I watched it on television. I protested. But did I feel it? Only in part.
The Berserker Within
Somewhere under the high road I’d chosen, I’d buried the berserker inside me.
We all do this, I think. We all want to be better versions of ourselves. But that requires seeing the parts that shouldn’t see daylight. The army wanted that part of me. They had a way of finding it. I remember bayonet training. The stabbing. The screaming. A human-shaped dummy. No negotiation. No surrender. It’s a vivid memory. Uncivilized. And intentionally so. I scored expert, adding another label to my chest. Someone eventually removed that from the training process. Future medals will not have Bayonet, nut mine does.
The Real Shift
So what changed me? Not ideology. I didn’t fight for a flag. I didn’t fear the “Red Menace.” I fought for my friend next to me. I stayed because they had to stay. I had a free pass to leave. I didn’t use it. That’s the truth my daughter’s paper draws out—quietly, beneath the family stories. And forty-five years later, I still find it astonishing.
Final Thought
Her work didn’t just revisit my story. It gave it shape. And reminded me that we’re rarely just one thing. Protester. Soldier. Pacifist. Berserker. Friend. Sometimes the best we can do is be honest about the armband we’re wearing today— and the one we still carry in our pocket.
A Work Progressing 