Family Matters

            “Matt, I want you to make sure that you take care of your mother. She’s getting older and is a bit feeble,” directed Aunt Mary, a slight wisp of a woman, herself in her 80’s. My Aunt Mary was always a vigorous active woman who traveled to Eastern Europe and Haiti on mission trips each summer, right up until she laid down and went to sleep one night, waking up in eternity. She gave me these instructions on her last visit shortly after my mother had broken her hip. She and a friend drove from Memphis, Tennessee to Lubbock, Texas. Aunt Mary was a steady, integral part of my life. As long as I could remember, we’d enjoyed visiting Uncle Tommy, Charles, Dale, and her during our annual summer treks to Memphis. They lived in a nice two-story home; Uncle Tommy had built on some property just outside Memphis. Aunt Mary was always patient with us, even when we came in muddy and smelling of creek water from an afternoon session of swinging over the creek on Muscadine vines. She’d simply hose us off in the backyard, tossing us a few old towels to dry off. Those pleasant, hot, humid summers complete with fried chicken suppers remain bright, vivid signposts in my mind. Aunt Mary was kind and trustworthy; when she spoke I paid attention. So when my bright-eyed Aunt Mary, by then the matriarch of the family gave me instruction, there was only one choice, compliance.

            So, as my parents walk the path of their twilight years, my brother and I work to take care of them in a way that she and the rest of the family might recognize and approve. My great grandmother, Grama-Harkey, lost her husband during the Great Depression. My grandmother, her three sisters, one husband, and assorted children lived together, moving through a series of farms scattered across the American Deep South. During these times of economic deprivation, they pitched in together and made sure that everyone had clothes to wear, food to eat, and a roof over their heads. I cannot imagine the workload my Uncle Waffie bore in order to make all of this happen. Despite the privations of the time, my family was happy and got along well together. I do not ever remember a cross word. Oh, they kidded each other, but laughter and joy mark my memories of growing up amongst my relatives. Without ostentation or showy displays, they took care of each other. After her husband’s death, Grama Harkey lived with her daughters, rotating through the four households. And, they never seemed to resent her presence. In fact, the closest they ever came to true argument was over who got Grama Harkey next. They all wanted her. Though she died when I was young, I still remember her calm abiding presence at family functions…she could cook a mean fried chicken. But the example of how her daughters loved her, taking care of her for all those years has also remained, an example of how to love.

            As a culture, we do not love our families well. Frequently when family members struggle with life problems we shunt them aside, especially the elders. In our self-centeredness, we consider any disruption of our plans anathema, justifying isolation, and abandonment. In our mad rush to satiate desires, we deprive ourselves of the rich experience springing out of close association with those we owe our existence to. My family profited from the presence of the patriarchs and matriarchs. Their accumulated wisdom passed down through casual conversation around the table, kitchen, garage, or back porch enriched our lives, building a reservoir of experiential knowledge and a sense of grounding and continuity. I happened to be around when my Grandmother decided that she did not want to use her cast-iron cookware any more. She gave all but a very small frying pan to me. I was able to spread them out between my brother and my children, everyone getting a piece and I still had some left over. Now, whenever I cook cornbread, my grandmother, aunts, and great-grandmother look on, making sure I get it just right. Without delving into metaphysical nonsense, I would not know many things without these familial ties.

            I would not know simple things such as, how to make cornbread with that delicious golden crust, how to tie a fishing hook on monofilament line, or how to complete simple car maintenance. I would also be ignorant to the deeper more complex issues of life, loving and staying true to my spouse for decades, putting in a good days work even when feeling poorly, holding fast to your faith despite the chaos of modern life, and facing dwindling physical prowess with calm grace. Those strong family ties, forged over time through continual presence, have and continue to teach me many things. Even after loved ones have passed on, lessons still immerge from conversations long past. Their voices and examples speak loudly across the gulf of time. In Hebrews 12, the writer speaks of a great cloud of witnesses surrounding us as an encouragement to perseverance. So, when we keep those familial bonds strong we add to this great cloud, building a great reservoir as it were of endurance for those inevitable times of trouble and testing. Our performance during those periodic difficult times speaks volumes about our character and faith.

            We proclaim our faith in how we care for our families. Of course, there are times when declining health saddles loved ones with care requirements that overwhelm our abilities, necessitating full-time professional care. My own grandmother spent a short time in a care facility before succumbing to the remorseless passage of time. Those decisions are convoluted and painful for all involved and necessitate grace. And, it takes great sensitivity to sense when assistance is needed and tease out a path that most honors individual independence. But all too frequently, we relegate family members to a dreary life in some sort of facility more out of convenience than necessity. In I Timothy 5:7-8, Paul reminds us of the importance of caring for family. As we pour out our lives for our loved ones, we loudly proclaim the worth of the individual and the sanctity and dignity of human life. Maintaining familial ties serves as an integral part of our gospel witness. After all, we are not designed to live alone.

            As we consider familial relations, we should remember that we need each other, even when it is inconvenient. Our society may encourage us to make decisions based primarily on what we perceive as our personal good; however, we stand to lose much, individually and as a community, by shuffling loved ones off to care facilities needlessly. We function best as a community. We thrive in a place where the individual is honored, accepted, and valued. When we marginalize the aged, simply because they are aged and perhaps inconvenient, we introduce a corrosive element into our society. Instead, we should cherish the richness and strength they bring into our community, honoring their work and worth as part of our family.

To Wear Or Not To Wear

            In the recent furor over masking and social distancing, I’ve noticed a common thread among those dissenting voices, “We have the right to refuse, or say no.” Apparently, some frame this issue in the context of personal liberty or rights. While this may be a personal rights issue, one thing we must keep in mind is that the Constitution does not afford us the right to disobey lawful directives from appropriate authorities. We can say no. We do have protected speech, but we do not have protections for doing no. The Constitution affords us the privilege to seek redress, to demonstrate, and to speak; but, the expectation is that at the end of the day we would comply with duly appointed or elected officials. Complying with authority is a key component of the social contract. Of course, we do not comply blindly; but, we must carefully think through non-compliance and weigh the possible consequences.

            When serving in the Army, I was often asked to do a variety of uncomfortable things, including wearing various types of protective gear. Even though it was often uncomfortable and confining we endured. We also endured knowing that this equipment was not 100% effective. But, being a soldier entailed both acceptance of risk and willingness to comply with orders we did not agree with. Even now, retired and off active-duty, I recognize the utility of a willingness to comply with guidance from an appropriate leadership. This compliance is part of the glue that holds a society together. Living as part of a society includes a certain curtailment of personal liberties. We willingly give up a bit of our personal freedom to enjoy the blessings of community. Sometimes these sacrifices cause pain as they constrict my behaviors; however, the benefits accrued outweigh the disadvantages. And in doing those hard things, I help build a better society.

            As a teacher, I regularly ask my students to do hard things. In fact, it is kind of a mantra where I teach. We believe that the pathway to personal success is paved with a series of hard tasks completed. Now, when my society asks me to do this hard thing, wearing a mask is not fun, how can I in good conscience refuse. Wearing a mask is uncomfortable, especially after a garlic-laden lunch, but not impossible. When considering my response to wearing a mask and other COVID related social distancing measures, how can I refuse simply because I find it difficult or uncomfortable? As a teacher, I’m always on display. I never know when I will run into one of my students or their family members. It was the same as an officer, you never really take off the uniform and as a teacher, you never stop teaching. It is a matter of responsibility.

            So when I consider masking, or any of the other annoying measures designed to combat the current pandemic, being a responsible citizen takes precedence over my personal comfort, pocket-book, or political belief. As this pandemic unfolds, those in leadership deserve my best compliance as they struggle with tough decisions, often in the face of incomplete facts. My students also deserve a teacher that is willing to set the example by doing hard things.

           

And There I Was #8 - Surprise, Surprise, Surprise…

           I grew up in Abilene, Texas where things get hot. I served at Fort Hood, where things get hot. I trained at the National Training Center (NTC) where things get really hot. Then in 2003, I deployed to Baghdad, Iraq, where things get stooopid hot. Heat does strange things. I found out that you can sweat through a Kevlar vest. I was sitting down for eating lunch when day when a bat fell out of the sky and expired on the ammo can some friends and I were using as a table. There was a tiny thud and he lay there, panted a few times, and then died. We slept out in the open, hoping for a small stirring of the air to cool our dry-roasted bodies and then woke up shivering in the early morning cool. Out of the blue, it rained for a few moments one night and we lay there, luxuriating in the brief shower. But, for most of the time, we drank as much water as we could and endured the seemingly endless days of one hundred and twenty plus degree weather. No matter the heat, we had a mission and so we pressed on.

            One scorching day we had a mission that required us to meet with a Neighborhood Advisory Council. These meetings were always interesting and normally started with snacks of some sort, frequently stuffed dates, a personal favorite. Sometimes things got quite heated and various accusations flew. I was always glad that we went in armed. That afternoon Major Bobby Franklin, the First Armored Division (1AD) Public Affairs Officer (PAO) and I set out in a small convoy of HMMWVs. We arrived at a nondescript dun building to the west of Sadr City. After setting up security, we went inside with our interpreters for a rather long meeting. Nothing of note came from the meeting. After greetings over hot tea and various sweets, including stuffed dates, we got down to business. We handed out a few copies of the most recent edition of “Baghdad Now,” listened to a lengthy litany of grievances, most of which were legitimate, promised to carry the complaints forward, and discussed detailed plans for reopening schools, a subject of intense interest on all sides. Eventually, our business finished, we loitered over small talk and made our exit.

            We gathered up the small security detail and climbed into the Clamshell HMMWVs, stuffing ourselves in among the ammo cans, boxes of MREs, and other sundries necessary for deployed life. This being 2003, we did not enjoy the benefits of up-armored HMMWVs. The few in the division were allocated to MP units. So off we rattled in our mobile ovens, jouncing along Baghdad’s potholed secondary roads, eager to reach the larger, smoother roads. As we trundled past a recently bombed large building a metallic pop rang out in the suffocating heat of cabin.

            Feeling a hot spray against the side of my neck and face I turned and saw my friend covered in red! Alarmed, I immediately started checking him out for a wound, while yanking out one the bandages in his first aid kit for use. Oddly, he was doing the same to me. We fumbled there for a few moments and then realized that the NCO and driver in the front seat were laughing uproariously. “Sirs,” he choked out between guffaws, “You’re both okay. That was just a can of Big Red!”

            Eventually amid the laughter, the full story came out. The Specialist (SPC), a young man from South Texas, had received a case of Big Red in a care package from home. He’d tossed it into the back of the HMMWV, intending to take it to his hooch after we finished our mission. The excessive heat of the day coupled with the jolting road had caused the can to burst, spraying us with the sticky red liquid, which we mistook for blood. We heard about that one for the rest of our deployment. I still don’t drink Big Red.

Fire Guard? What's Fireguard?

And There I Was #7 Fireguard, What’s Fireguard?

            I stood at the top of the stairs with my mouth agape while a flashlight rolled down the stairs with a hollow thump marking each step. This day had not gone as I imagined, though to tell you the truth I don’t know what I expected. All can truthfully say is, “This wasn’t it.”

            Early that February morning in 1981, I’d said goodbye to my parents in Abilene, Texas, and boarded an American Airlines flight to Dallas Fort Worth (DFW), with the ultimate destination of Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. Saying goodbye to my mother was as one would expect, however, saying goodbye to my father was quite interesting, but that’s an entirely different story altogether. The flights to DFW and on to Kansas City and the small commuter flight to Fort Leonard Wood had been uneventful. Late in the afternoon, I stood with a small group of trainees on the tarmac of a small airport listening to the quiet ping of the turboprop cooling down. A disgruntled NCO looked us over in disgust and drawled, “Boys, and I call you boys ‘cause you aint men yet, welcome to Fort Lots-in-the-Woods, in the state of misery. Little Korea we call it. You in deep kimchee now!” I had no idea what he was talking about, and the crazy hadn’t started yet.

            First, they took us to a huge warehouse with an enormous mountain of field-jackets, pile caps, and gloves, all marked with a red dot. While the NCO in charge of us watched and smoked, we pawed through the pile looking for a jacket, cap, and set of gloves that fit and were in some fashion serviceable. I found out later that these were all deemed unserviceable, thus the red dot, and used to keep trainees warm while they waited for a company to form and uniform issue day. When the Army decides something is indeed unserviceable, it’s unserviceable. Finding an appropriate set took each of us a while. Being one of the first ones finished I was allowed to stand outside in the cold gray evening and smoke. As other trainees finished the little smoking group grew. We clustered there on the loading dock looking suspiciously like a group of convicts in our red-dotted attire. Eventually, the disgruntled NCO came out with the last trainee and flicked his cigarette off the loading dock and growled, “Get in the #$%*’ing truck. We all flicked our cigarettes down as he did and shuffled toward the truck.

            “What in the @#$% do you think you’re doing,” he screamed? “Form a line and police up all those butts!” With much shouting and a very generous application of profanity, we all endured our first police-call, learning about the odd capriciousness of the Army. Once he was satisfied we all climbed into the back of the truck and headed off into the gloom, eventually stopping at a white clapboard building surrounded by pine-trees. We shuffled up to the door and entered our first DFAC, where a bored-looking soldier in stained cook-whites asked a weird question, “RA, USAR, or Nasty-Guard?”

            I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. But, wanting to eat and knowing that he was the gatekeeper, I mumbled, “RA,” and shuffled inside, grabbed a tray, and got my chow. Being a graduate of a large public high school, I knew how to work my way down a cafeteria line. We wolfed down our chow and then headed out into the dark, shivering in the back of the truck. Eventually, we stopped at a small cluster of WW II “temporary” barracks.

            We trooped inside and were told to occupy the second floor. There ensued an age-old Army tradition of hip-pocket training. The NCO rattled off instructions for fireguard. I remember being fuzzy on most of what he said, as I had not learned the Army habit of replacing key words with profanity. Eventually, I learned that trick…perhaps too well. What I understood was, one of the other trainees would wake me up. I was to wander around the barracks with a silly cone-toped flashlight for thirty minutes and then wake my replacement. The NCO emphasized knowing who your replacement was and where he would be sleeping. He told us that lights out would be at 2130…whatever that meant. We loitered around the steps of the barracks smoking and joking until the NCO stepped out on the small porch and told us in no uncertain terms to get in our racks. We put our cigarette butts in the ubiquitous red butt-can and slouched off to sleep.

            Sometime in the cold February night someone shook me awake and said, “Dude, it’s your turn for fireguard,” and handed me my scepter…the flashlight. I had no idea of what to do. There was no fire for me to guard. So, I wandered around the ancient billets reading the cold-war vehicle and aircraft identification posters. Odd, how that would be more important to me when SQT tests rolled around. Sometime in the middle of my watch as I was standing there reading the same poster for the umpteenth time, one of the other trainees stirred, tossing in his sleep.

            Suddenly, he sat up wild-eyed, but not seeing the same thing I was seeing. He let out three ear-splitting screams and then lay back down and started snoring again. Startled, I had dropped my flashlight, which rolled down the stairs, its loud thumps echoing off the ancient wooden walls. Several of the other trainees in bunks near the now snoring oddball set up wondering what was going on. In a few minutes quiet and darkness once again secured the AO. I retrieved my flashlight and wondered what in the world had I gotten myself into. First day in the Army.

Cultural Icons

“I, Matthew E. Robinson, do 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; that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice, so help me God.

 

            The first time I said these words; I intoned them with little thought, simply repeating them after a bored-looking officer uttered the various phrases. Over the course of my military career, as my experience, responsibility, and scope of influence grew; the weight of these words took on new meaning. Eventually, I took the following oath as an officer, repeating them as promotions occasionally came my way.

 

“I Matthew E. Robinson, do 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; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.”

 

            I also administered this oath to numerous soldiers as they reenlisted. The first few times I administered the oath, I read the words from a piece of paper provided by the reenlistment NCO. Then one day, a full Colonel looked on as I conducted the reenlistment. He watched me read the words and pulled me aside later and privately admonished me to memorize those words in order to look the soldier in the eye. “They deserve that level of respect for the words and their commitment,” he stipulated. He was correct and I can still recite the oath of enlistment. Oaths matter, even today in our rather feckless society. This is why I must respectfully disagree with those who rank R.E. Lee and other confederate officers as heroes worthy of emulation.

            The oath of enlistment is not a new part of the American military experience. The Continental Congress developed the first oath in 1775. Later, after the adoption of the Constitution, the military adopted an oath much the same as our current oath in the late seventeen hundreds. It has remained, relatively unchanged during the ensuing two centuries, serving as a reminder to all uniformed service-members that we serve a high calling, one to live out the ideals framed in our foundational documents. It is a mark of devotion to duty to remain true to those words, even at great personal cost.

            As our polarized nation stumbled toward war, a desperate President Lincoln turned to Lee, one of the brightest military minds of his day, offering him command of the Army. And Lee failed the test. He discarded his oath, walking away from his duty, depositing a stain upon his reputation that no fuller on earth can remove. He, and all the other officers that joined him, do not deserve accolades. We should not erect monuments to them, name no schools after them, or lift them up as men to emulate. In fact, we ought to remove those monuments that remain standing. These are men who devoted their professional abilities to support a cause, an economic system, a way of life that rested on the backs of enslaved men, women, and children. Theirs was not a noble or just cause. They, like Benedict Arnold, betrayed their nation and bear the same stigma. Their moral failure outweighs their martial abilities and the passage of time does not somehow expunge their turpitude.

            We must not succumb to the “noble-lost-cause” myth of the early twentieth century as part of an ongoing campaign to shroud the confederacy in a cloak of respectability. Whether or not they personally owned slaves does not matter. They chose to support and ignoble cause and share in its shame. It is not rewriting history to insist on a true evaluation of individual and group decisions and the behaviors that flowed from them. To honor men who failed to live up to their sworn duty not only wounds all men and women of color in our nation but also is a slap in the face to all service members who sacrificed, some to the full measure, in order to honor their oath. To continue to elevate these men to icon status is to disregard their moral failure.

            Our cultural icons reveal much about us and what we value. Yes, Lee and his generals were great tacticians, but their martial prowess does not outweigh their dishonorable choice. They did not place great value on their word and their honor. They took an oath to support and defend the Constitution and did not live up to it. When we elevate such men to hero status, we demean ourselves and clearly proclaim that we do not consider keeping our word important. Perhaps, now almost one hundred and sixty years later, we so often struggle with prevaricators in the public arena. We casually elevated such men as Lee, Hood, Brag, and others like them to hero status, and in doing that we diminished integrity as a required trait for honorable men. It is high time for us to remove the names of such traitors from the public spaces they now occupy.

           

 

 

 

Eating Meat?

            I enjoy grilling a steak. In fact, I enjoy grilling in general. During Spring, Summer, and Fall the aroma of searing meat frequently fills my backyard. So when I read the apostle Paul’s lengthy admonition in I Corinthians 8, I always pause and ruminate. How does God, through Paul, expect me to incorporate these words into my daily walk as a Christian? Growing up in West Texas whenever preachers reached for this text, they quickly pointed out that Paul was speaking about something deeper, something richer, something more than a prohibition on eating meat. No preacher wished to trample on the hallowed ground of Texas BBQ. We normally applied this passage to interpersonal relations within the context of body-life. How do I get along with my brothers and sisters? This is an appropriate use of the passage; however, might we apply this passage to our Christian witness in the public square?

            During recent weeks, our nation has increasingly examined the state of race relations, scrutinizing certain cultural icons. Proponents of Black Lives Matter, and other like organizations have renewed calls to remove statues of confederate soldiers and leaders, as well as some brand logos. Daily, my Facebook feed fills up with comments decrying these “attacks” on their cultural heritage. At some point in their post, they normally ask, “Where will this stop?” I wonder. I wonder if this is an appropriate time to apply I Corinthians 8 to my actions in the public square? Could God, again through Paul, be encouraging me to respond differently to these times?

            My first-century brothers and sisters faced a rather difficult issue, can I eat the meat offered in the local market? As I understand, the ancient Greco-Roman practice was to offer a sacrifice at the local temple. Then the temple authorities would sell the meat to a vendor in the local market, who would then sell it on to their customers. Consequently, one never really knew the source of the meat, rancher, or temple priest? Some early Christians, coming out of a pagan background, struggled with the possibility of eating meat offered to idols. In I Corinthians 8:4-8, Paul clearly shows that the idols have no real existence and consequently no effect, spiritual or otherwise, on the meat. Evidently, Paul felt no compunction about sitting down to a good meal, complete with some sort of meat. But under the unction of the Holy Spirit, Paul goes on to lay a significant challenge before us. In verses nine through thirteen, he tells us to consider our weaker brothers and sisters more important than eating meat. We have the right to eat meat, but love compels us to take a different course. Paul gladly gives up his rights in order to secure the fellowship of believers. Normally, we have applied this passage to a variety of interior body issues; one cup or multiple cups, weekly or monthly communion, and a variety of other disputes. But, what if we look outside our walls into the greater community and applied this passage to how we relate to others in and out of the faith community as we reexamine race relations.

            How might I be gracious when dealing with someone raising an issue that I never considered offensive? There are things that never give me pause, products emblazoned with seemingly benign, icons I consider non-threatening, which may daily wound my fellow citizens and believers. I might feel the urge to argue that I have every right to hold on to them. In fact, our Bill of Rights might very well provide me a basis for such an argument; but, what about a Pauline approach, one which surrenders rights for a higher calling. Instead of insisting on my rights, what if I laid them aside for a more unified society? In our society, we regularly clamor for our rights. We emblazon our vehicles with bumper stickers that read, “Come and Take It,” emphasizing our willingness to fight for our rights. Paul calls us to a more pacific approach, one that considers others as more important than our personal rights. We might find ourselves listening, empathizing, and considering more frequently. We might also find ourselves defending, moralizing, and ranting less frequently. For those of us who claim Christ as our model and master, we must think carefully about defending our rights. After all, New Testament authors frequently refer to themselves as slaves. This willingness to consider others first might be the salve our nation needs as it seeks to heal the open wounds of racism and prejudice.

            When engaging in the on-going conversation concerning monuments and other social icons, we ought to consider what our fellow citizens see and feel. Do they incur moral and spiritual injury through my rights? I may have a “right,” but does my exercising that “right” elide injury to the corporate body? As we sort through these contentious issues, we must tenderly seek a path that leads to unity and healing. As men and women of color, my fellow citizens and often my brothers and sisters in Christ, navigate our society they must confront images and icons that remind them not only of the darker portions of our past but also, of the daily slights and injuries inflicted upon them in support of my rights. Our intransigence in dealing with these wounds reopens them daily and greatly increases the rifts that so sorely vex our society. All citizens deserve the right to transact the daily activities of life with their spirits intact and uninjured. In the first century, Paul encouraged kindness in interpersonal relations.

            What could be more kind than setting aside my freedoms in order to ease the passage of others through our society? Two hundred and forty-four years ago we embarked upon a grand experiment, one, which theorized that a disparate group of people might come together, and form a working country. During the ensuing two centuries, we’ve often struggled with our corporate identity. What does it mean to be an American? What does right look like in our culture? Now we must expand our vision to include more of our citizenry, understanding that past actions, standards of behavior, no longer serve the corporate good. Insisting on my rights, especially when those rights demean my fellow citizens, serves no useful purpose and does not reflect well upon the Lord. Instead, let us embrace a kinder approach that puts other’s needs ahead of my own. Perhaps it is time lay aside meat for a more just nation.  

De Oppresso Liber

            “De Oppresso Liber,” the U.S. Army Special Forces Latin motto means to free the oppressed, noble words for a noble organization. Born in the midst of the Cold War, the Army Special Forces’ original mission focused on training indigenous forces in conflict with communist forces around the world. Their motto, much like the U.S. Air Force Air Rescue Service motto “That Others Might Live,” pointed toward a principled use of military might. Though I never served in the Special Forces, as a soldier, later an NCO, and eventually an officer, I took and administered oaths which included these words,”…to protect and defend the Constitution of the United States against enemies foreign and domestic and bear true faith and allegiance to the same…” As a military professional, I promised to defend the honorable ideals laid out in our foundational documents, and when called to do so as a leader undertook the honorable task to the best of my ability. Now is one of those times.

            Several of our installations carry the name of confederate soldiers; Fort Hood, Fort Bragg, Fort A.P. Hill, Fort Gordon, and Fort Jackson, to name a few. All of these are located in states that were part of the confederacy. As part of our continuing national effort to address issues of racial discrimination, some have called upon the Army to rename these installations. Others, citing long tradition, resist such efforts. I understand tradition. Tradition helps the Army, and other military branches, maintain their moral underpinnings in an often murky and chaotic world. Sometimes traditions help bind soldiers to a storied past. But in this case, we need to jettison these traditions as contrary to our foundational documents and oaths.

            No matter how we try and frame it, the installations listed above are named after men who broke faith with the Army and the nation in support of a way of life founded upon the oppression and enslavement of black people. To rename these posts requires intellectual honesty and bravery. Intellectual honesty to recognize the incongruity of honoring men who dedicated their professional skills and energies to dismembering the very union we take an oath to protect. Through their decisions to support the confederacy, they chose to trample upon the ideals they swore to protect. Such a bracing, yet honest view of our history requires intellectual bravery. As soldiers, we often must face our fears, whether in an arduous training environment or when we kit up, donning our full-battle-rattle, going outside the wire to face an enemy eager to do us bodily harm. As soldiers, we must muster both physical courage and moral courage. Now, we must face our past and show the moral courage necessary to set aside those traditions, which run counter to our fundamental beliefs.

            As an officer, I often faced soldiers to administer the oath of enlistment, which reads in part, “…that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic.” How ironic that I frequently administered that oath to men and women of color on an installation named after a man who took the same oath and then discarded it. He and others post namesakes would have kept these same soldiers in the chains of slavery. If I expect my soldiers to live up to that oath, then so must I. I must be willing to participate in the ongoing campaign to build a nation, which truly lives up to its ideals, those ideals laid out in our founding documents. We cannot continue to insult our brothers in arms of color by insisting that they serve on installations named after men who sought to keep their ancestors in bondage. It is time to lay aside that portion of our tradition and build a better one.

            Discarding long-held traditions is a wrenching, painful, experience. Traditions help give our lives stability and meaning; however, when our traditions separate us from each other, they cease to serve a useful purpose and should be abandoned. It is long past time to truly integrate our service history by renaming those posts bearing the names of those who actively sought to tear apart our nation, defending a way of life based on keeping men and women of color in thrall. Years before the nation embarked upon the path of desegregation, the Army, under the leadership of President Truman desegregated. It was a difficult process then, but it had to be done. In a like manner, we must move forward into new territory. It will be painful, but it must be done to support and defend the constitution, and all of our citizens in or out of uniform.