January 17, 1991

War. It is remarkable, in a way, that our preoccupation with ongoing conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan the past 10 years remains uneasy. Perhaps it just goes to show that try as we might, we cannot compartmentalize everything. All of us are only a few degrees of separation - if that - from a very personal connection to the wars we fight. We go on living life, as we should, but the shadow that at times seems utterly detached from our personal reality continues to hover nearby. I am glad for it, because it is important to remember, to retain the intermingled awareness of guilt and gratitude for those who keep watch on the battlements, in the skies, and across enemy lines.

The new academic quarter had started at Auburn, and after a week or so, I was just settling into a new schedule and routine. For months, the troops had been deploying to Saudi Arabia, preparing to force Saddam Hussein out of Kuwait. B-52 bomber squadrons were also sent abroad, some to operate out of the island territory of Diego Garcia. Everyone within my safe little bubble knew that war was coming, yet still we were caught off guard on that cool January evening when the air campaign began. Classes done for the day, I had run by Hardees to grab a quick bite to eat on my way to the student center to play a little basketball. I flipped on the radio, expecting music, but instead heard the voice of Peter Jennings providing coverage of the aerial assault. I drove while transfixed, even in shock, until I reached the parking lot. I sat there for a while, before turning it off and heading inside. Everywhere I turned, you could see students spreading the news: "It's started." We played our game of hoops, but our hearts weren't in it. Our thoughts were far away. My thoughts were with my dad, serving at Diego Garcia as a mission planner and B-52 navigator.

Being at college, I felt a million miles away from my family, and frequent phone calls and letters from abroad, while treasured, did little to bridge that gap that I felt so acutely every day during that conflict. I still had to go to class, I still had to go through the routines, engaging in relationships with friends. CNN was one of those "friends," at least for a time. Each community had its own unique way of expressing solidarity with those deployed in the fight, but of course the most common of these was the yellow ribbon. In those days, we didn't have the nice, stylish magnetic ribbons that people stick on their cars and trucks today - and indeed, has been copycatted so many times for so many "causes" that the sentiment loses something in the repetition. After the war started, I went down to K-Mart and bought myself some good, old-fashioned yellow ribbon, cut a 12-inch piece and tied it to the antenna of my Ford Fairmont. There it flew for months, until the war was over and the majority of our service men and women had come home, including my father. Severely weather-worn, it crossed my mind only briefly to discard it - a thought I am sure was dismissed in less than a second. Instead, I affixed the ribbon to a small American flag I'd picked up somewhere, and put it in a stand on my desk. Twenty years later, that same flag and that same tattered yellow ribbon sits on my desk at my office. I have been asked only twice in twenty years about my humble display. It serves me well, reminding me not only of the sacrifices of yesterday's wars, but those of today. It reminds me of the agonizing hours and days I spent weighing the call to military service (both before college and again following the start of the Gulf War). It reminds me of the gratitude I have toward those that did answer that call. It reminds me of my indebtedness to those who willingly stand in the gap to ensure our freedom.

Twenty years. A lifetime that seems like only yesterday.