A Veteran, A Woman, and A Pacifist Walk Into A Bar

Plot twist: they’re all me.

Female soldier in uniform, preparing to step out of her home, looking out of the front door. Image from Unsplash

An older gentleman slaps me on the back as he bellows a robust, “Happy Veteran’s Day! Thank you for your service!”

I feel a blush creep up my neck and cheeks as I nod and say thanks, but I’m shrinking down, down into my shirt, into my seat, into my conscience.

I’ve gone out less and less on Veteran’s Day, unless it’s to Colonial Williamsburg because my history-loving ass can’t pass up free admission to a historic site. Otherwise, I shy away from large gatherings and ceremonies.

Despite everything, my pride in having served and my reservations about my part in what our military was doing at the time, I don’t feel like a veteran-veteran.

I’ll pass on the free coffee, thanks.

What does a veteran look like?

Growing up in the 80’s, a veteran looked like one. Either a strong, buff younger man with a buzz cut and sharp creases on all his clothing, or an older gentleman, perhaps missing a limb or boasting an eye patch and perpetually donning a worn baseball cap adorned with the name or number of a platoon, a ship, a division, an aircraft.

Long-haired grizzled men sat on sidewalks and street corners, holding small cardboard…