I want to thank Josh and Ms. Shanks for inviting me to speak at today’s event. As I am a black woman and historian, I hope you will permit me to tell you a story about how I came to this place where I am today—a place where I oppose not only the war in Iraq, but that in Afghanistan. 

Last Veteran’s Day, I had the pleasure of meeting Retired Brigadier General Julia J. Cleckley. She was the first black women to attain that rank in the National Guard. While I was honored to meet her as she represented everything that was progressive about the armed forces in terms of race and gender, I could not help feeling uneasy about celebrating her achievements as our nation waged war in Iraq. I spoke to one of my parents that evening and discussed my ambivalence about the meeting—only to be reminded that our family has not had a typically celebratory relationship with the U.S. military.

I remember meeting my grandfather’s brother, when I was young. He was the eldest of my great grandmother’s children and had served in WWI. Unlike his other brothers who were preachers and deacons, Uncle ------ had no use for church. I remember seeing him on his porch and asking whether or not he was coming to church and he said no. My grandpa later explained that he has lost his faith (“fell from the Lord”). I had no clue what he meant until I got older. You see, Uncle ------- did what so many black men did in the Great War—he “closed ranks” and went to fight a foreign war, under a foreign flag, in a foreign land—on the promise that if he returned he would be afforded all the rights due him as a citizen of the United States. We all know the story, he never got those rights and he lost his faith.

I remember my grandfather (Daddy’s Dad) who died a broken, faithless man. A man who served during WWII and who also expected to come back to an America that would embrace him. He did not. Instead he turned to alcohol and died a broken man.

Last, there is my mother’s baby brother Uncle -------, who went to Vietnam like so many black men from the ghettoes of Brooklyn. While there he saw and partook in things his mind couldn’t handle. I remember sitting downstairs on the couch with my mother and two sisters, when Uncle -------, who had been staying with us came home. It was raining and thundering. He grabbed me and told me we had to go because “they” were coming. All I can remember was screaming and yelling—my sisters and I begging my mother to make him let me go—all the while, my mother calmly informed him that no one was coming. That was one of the most traumatic experiences in my life. All I could think was that he was CRAZY. Today, he is in a mental institution in New York and I will never really know him.

So, what do I celebrate? I honor those black men like my great uncle, grandfather, and uncle who served their country even when drafted. But I do not honor the U.S. policies that sent black men to fight foreign wars in foreign lands (WWI and WWII), and treated them like dogs when they returned. I do not honor foreign policies that fostered the quagmire of Vietnam and sent men like my uncle home broken and crazy. I do not honor policies than now send American men and women to Iraq and Afghanistan, telling these brave soldiers that the Muslims hate them—when in reality they hate American foreign policy.

In closing, I have only one thing to say: Bring the troops home!

Thank You!

Coalition for Peace
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