By Kenneth L. Hardin

Looking back on my time in basic military training, I recognize the valuable life lessons I learned and still use 40 years later. Although they came with a heavy mental and emotional price, I appreciate them helping shape my character and avoid the trappings of life so many young men of color fall victim to repeatedly. As I often play cognitive pickleball with the thoughts inside the confines of my cerebrum, I allow those thoughts to stay just inside the fair ball lines of my frontal lobe so as to always maintain a sense of integrity. Loyalty, discipline, brotherhood/sisterhood, attention to detail, not quitting and never leaving a brother or sister behind aren’t just words I casually throw around and find absent of meaning like so many people do who’ve never worn the uniform.

I talk a lot. No, I mean I talk to people a lot by request. I’m asked to come and speak to groups often and I always take pride in sharing my military journey. Last week, I was standing in front of a room filled with Vietnam War-era veterans in Statesville, many of whom served before I was born. I saw myself in their faces as they sat quiet and solemn waiting for me to bring something added to their lives than the memories of death and destruction they’d witnessed more than any person should. I knew I wouldn’t gain their trust or interest by trying to convince them of my time in service because I was called to serve in combat, but never had to go. So, I told them of my journey from being an undisciplined boy to developing into a man through my time in service.

I started the oratorical journey off by sharing that after high school, I received acceptance letters from UNC-Chapel Hill and Catawba College. My father made the decision that I would be staying in Salisbury, living at home and attending classes right across town. His stern words were, “You’re not going all the way down there to party and throw my money away.” Catawba was a great institution and I have fond memories of my short time there, but the entire time I served in the military across this country, I wore Tar Heel gear every day. As I shared with the room of veterans, I was ready to go to college, I just wasn’t ready to go to class. I signed up for mostly early morning freshman classes, but I was ill prepared and lacked the discipline to actually follow through. The primary reason was I took an internship at the school’s then radio station, WNDN, where I was on the air until 3 a.m. most mornings. I was in my element and loved everything about being in the studio. As a bonus, my communications studies adviser also secured me a weekend job at WSAT from 4 p.m.-midnight. As I sat in both studios spinning records and having the freedom to put my 18-year-old voice out on the airwaves, I felt like I was living the dream, until the grades came out and my GPA was a 1.9. I thought back on that foreshadowing statement my father made at the outset of my college career and laughed to myself, “Well, I didn’t have to go far to party and throw all of his money away.”

My next move was to work a few back-breaking demeaning jobs before I went over to knock on this country’s most famous relative’s door, Uncle Sam. I didn’t do it because I had this overwhelming sense of patriotism. I did it because I wasn’t happy with the direction of my life and this was an alternative presented to me by my older brother. I was naïve and ignorant of the military when I walked through the main door of the recruiting offices. I wasn’t tough or disciplined enough to be a Marine, so that was out. My brother, who had served in the Army, told me to choose another branch. I never thought about the Air Force and felt the Navy’s uniforms were the coolest. So, I made the decision to join them based on that logic from an 18-year-old immature brain. I went to the door, nervously reached down, and turned the handle and it was locked. The Navy was at lunch. I looked around and all the lights in other office were off except the one that read, “United States Air Force Recruiting.” I stepped through the door that Tuesday afternoon back in March of 1984 and my journey to a new life began that would result in so many wonderful military memories to later share.

Forty years later, it paid off as last weekend, I received my fourth recognition honor for my community service efforts as a veteran. I feel like a real man now.

Kenneth L. (Kenny) Hardin is a member of the National Association of Black Journalists.