I’m sitting at the Commodore computer, likely chatting to people over AOL and my dad comes up the stairs and peers into the study from the hallway. He asks me if I’ve been thinking any more about the R.O.T.C. (Reserve Officer Training Corps) program. I’d mentioned it maybe a few days or weeks before after a former St. Thomas Aquinas High School student came to speak to our class about her experience in the Miami University Navy R.O.T.C. program.
My dad is a Navy Veteran and woke us up daily by yelling “Reveille, Reveille – All hands heave out.” I got used to his old Navy lingo include going to the head and eating geedunk. By the time I was born, my father had left the service so I’ve only ever seen him in uniform in an old nearly black and white photograph.
I turn my head away from the computer and look over at him. The year is 1996 and I’m a senior in high school. Things are getting real now.
I remember the pained expression I gave him.
“I really want to do it Dad, but I can’t possibly ever shoot someone. I can’t use a gun. I don’t even want to hold a gun.”
“Lesley, you’d be in the Navy, on a ship. It’s peacetime. You’ll probably never even see a gun.”
Fast forward 20 years later and I’m headed to the shooting range each week before I fly out to Afghanistan where I’ll be on the ground with a weapon by my side.
Never say never…
