Last Sunday was Father's Day, and my family does not take holidays lightly. We—my four siblings and I—made breakfast for my Dad, who stayed in bed for hours, lounging like a king. As soon as the dishes were done, we suited up to face the Georgia heat and drove 45 minutes to a local flea market (my dad's favorite).
It was quite an experience. From dollar jewelry and nineties movies to handmade goods and rows of expired toiletry items, we found everything you could think of. After nearly two hours, we made our way down the final aisle. Just when I thought I was free, my sister—already toting bags of more Georgia paraphernalia than I knew existed—popped into a final booth: Ok Ja's Trash & Treasures.
The first item to catch my eye was a pair of tan combat boots. As I continued to peruse, I came across a rack of assorted military uniforms: Army and Navy Combat Uniforms, an old Army Service Uniform, a flight suit, coveralls, and more. My first reaction was surprise. Where had all these uniforms come from? The names had been removed, and threads remained where rank insignia had once been sewn. But they had belonged to someone at some point, and now they were on display like any other clothing item, available to the public. To anyone who happened to want them.
After pondering the source of the uniforms, I began to question the legality of selling them in a venue such as a flea market.
"Isn't this illegal?" I asked my mom; she wasn't sure.
The words had barely left my mouth when Ok Ja herself came around the corner. A short, older woman, she wore a graphic tee and a pair of ACU pants.
I turned to Google and, after scanning a few articles, learned that it is indeed legal for a civilian to sell military uniforms. I'd seen camouflage prints and military-esque items on surplus websites, but I didn't think they were actual uniforms. These, however, were very real.
These, the very uniforms that my father wore for over twenty years. The uniform in which he vowed to defend his country, and in which he retired from doing so. They are the uniforms that he took to Bosnia. To Kuwait, Honduras, and twice to Iraq. They are the uniform he wore with explosions around him and gunfire in the distance. As he watched his fellow soldiers die. When he removed shrapnel from their wounds.
Military uniforms are the uniforms I watched him wear as he walked away from me. Me, a five-year-old, new to a foreign country, unsure of when I would see him next. Me, a 14-year-old, unsure if I would see him again at all. Military uniforms are the blurred image on a computer screen and a broken conversation as we talked over one another, separated by 7,000 miles.
Military uniforms are a kiss goodbye. To a wife, to five children. To a home, to a life. They are a sacrifice.
The Fam, circa 2006
Military uniforms are not costumes. They are not for Halloween, or dress-up, or a class play. They are not the pants you pull on for a quick run to the grocery store or the gas station. They are a privilege, to be worn only by those who have earned them. Not as a fashion accessory. Not as a game. To use them as such is to fail to recognize lives lost, families torn apart.
It is a slap in the face for those who made the decision to forgo both control and freedom, so that others may have them. It belittles the standards to which soldiers are held. It mocks the countless regulations by which they must abide, from the angle of a beret fold to theThe order and placement of ribbons.
It is disrespectful.
Military uniforms are the first two decades of my life, and the moves and deployments and tears that accompanied them. They are also the profound respect I hold for our men and women in the Armed Forces. They have no business being offered to the general public, and certainly not at a flea market.
