Adopt a Veteran
Congratulations to our Scholarship Contest Winners!
The challenge was to find a military veteran you do not already know, get involved in that person's life, and write an essay about the experience.
The $5000 Scholarship winner was Onyeomachi Precious Iheanacho, for her essay "Mint Ice Cream and Memories." The second place winner is Courtney Brooke Tyler for her essay, "The Man with Many Pins." Courtney has won a $500 scholarship. There was—for the first time ever—a tie for third place. The two third place winners were Jay Turner and Kara Singleton.
Precious' winning essay is below. To all other entrants, thank you for your wonderful essays. Feel free to check out our current essay contest.
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Mint Ice Cream and Memories
I hate mint ice cream. But I found myself, in a quaint ice cream shop every Thursday afternoon, eating just that. Of course, I had no say in the matter. My quirky, elderly companion insisted that we spend every Thursday at a specific ice cream shop eating that specific flavor of ice cream, and he had completely brushed aside my objections, writing them off as "silly teenage, rapscallion jumble." Although I did not know what the word 'rapscallion' meant, I had an inkling that it was some type of seafood, and I had wondered if it was a common thing in the 60's to call someone a fish. We had known each other for about a month, but we each already had our opinions of the other: to me, he was a strange old man with an obnoxious yet endearing laugh; to him, I was a weird teenager that dwelled on every word he said and used odd words like "cool."
I had spent the better part of a month with that man, who I was introduced to at church, and we had done everything from going paintballing to the torture he called "jukeboxing" (the latter was only made possible because I spent two long nights on the internet trying to locate the nearest retro diner with a jukebox to take him to), which consisted of him sitting around for nearly three hours snapping his fingers and humming 50's hits. We had an agreement that every week we would take turns choosing activities to undertake. The idea was that we would each get some insight into the other's lifestyle, so over the course of the last month I had exposed him to wonders such as YouTube and iTunes, and he had introduced me to the jukebox, which I had previously only seen on movies like Footloose. However, if there is one thing I learned from my experience, it was to never again take a war veteran paintballing.
The rules of the game were simple: two teams start on opposite sides of the field and strive to shoot everyone on the opposite team with their paintball guns. The restrictions of the game were also simple: never shoot an opponent in the mask. Despite reiterating the rules to him, I knew the event would not end up well the moment I handed him his paintball gun and a mischievous grin spread across his face. Fifteen minutes after the start whistle blew, twenty members of the opposite team sat with fluorescent paint-covered masks, nursing their welts and wounds. Mr. John T. Shipley, Vietnam War veteran, emerged from the battlefield laughing maniacally and whooping, "John Shipley reporting for duty!" Ironically, after being dishonorably exited from the grounds for Mr. Shipley's savage behavior, we found ourselves innocently eating ice cream. I still have the bruise that I acquired that day by being one of those unlucky enough to be Mr. Shipley's opponent.
During our ice cream pow-wows, Mr. Shipley was completely comfortable sharing his military memories with me. He remembers the exact day he left for war and the exact day he returned. "I may be old, but I still got all my brains, Scamp," he would tell me. 'Scamp' was what he had christened me, and I could not decide which was worse: that fact that 'scamp' sounded like something you would call a dog, or that I was pretty sure he could never recall my real name. Mr. Shipley was seventeen when he left for the army- the same age I was. He remembered enlisting with his friends who were, according to him, "just some little boys looking for some big adventure."
Mr. Shipley enlisted straight out of high school, like many of his classmates. His reason was all too common: he came from a poor family with no means to pay for his collegiate education. With eleven children in his family, his single mother had no choice but to send him to live with some friends of hers, a white couple that offered to rear John under the condition that he would be a normal member of the family- doing his assigned chores and helping out around the house. As a young black man with no prospects he felt as though the army was a life-saver. "The army gave me a purpose," he told me.
Mr. Shipley humorously told me all about his time doing work surveying downed fighter planes, even though he initially knew close to nothing about planes. He compared it to "being stuck in Timbuktu with no map or meat to feed the warthogs." At this statement, he cackled and gave his signature whoop that I had grown so fond of. Despite the fact that he constantly assured me otherwise, I could not help but think that this man was slightly off his rocker.
He went on to tell me all about how secretive his job was, because the causes of the planes' malfunctions were of the utmost confidentiality, for fear that "them NVAs" (North Vietnamese Army) would gain the information for use against the American soldiers. After spending a few years in Ohio, Mr. Shipley was sent to France for training, and then in 1967, he was in Vietnam in the heat of the fighting.
He proudly told me about his part in the Tet Offensive. By the quizzical look on my face I assume he realized that I was uninformed on this event. As was the case whenever he mentioned a military term I did not know, he passionately denounced the public school system for its failure to cover information of the "utmost importance." Then he went off on a tangent and told me how he learned about war in kindergarten, which of course, was highly unlikely.
He explained that the Tet Offensive was a military campaign in Vietnam. The North Vietnamese rebels, the Vietcong, and their military forces launched surprise attacks on several provinces in South Vietnam. The campaign was ultimately labeled a failure. "Our boys could take 'em," he boasted, whooping haughtily.
Although Mr. Shipley is generally proud of his veteran status, he was sure to let me know that the war, from his perspective, was not all pride and glory. According to Shipley, being black in the military in the 60's was its own battle. Racial tensions were an ever-present yet unaddressed issue. Black soldiers were not given the same treatment as white soldiers, which was exactly the case in the shocking story Mr. Shipley told me about one of his experiences in the military. He and his fellow troops arrived in Newfoundland and were scheduled to stay the night before continuing to Europe. They were promised top of the line accommodations, but the airport officials were unaware that Shipley, a black man, was a part of the group. Consequently, he was not allowed to accompany his friends to their hotel, but was required to spend the night in the airport, in a roped off corner with nothing but an old cot and three guards around it.
I could see the pain in his eyes at that moment. It was unfathomable that a uniformed soldier, regardless of race, would be subjected to treatment worthy of a common criminal. He cited the incident as the "one memory he would never forget." He did, however, express relief in the state of the military today, stating that it is "better for the brothers in the army today, because it's hard to be openly racist and get away with it."
It was moments such as those that caused some of our meetings to reach a level above simply conversational banter, but one of mutual understanding and respect. Sometimes, our conversations would become so emotionally laden that by the time one of us worked up the nerve to say something, our cups of ice cream would be sitting in a pool of their own sweat. However, I could always count on Mr. Shipley to lighten the atmosphere with his quick mood swings and roaring whooping. The gloom caused by the story was quickly dissipated. "Now, people go out of their way to honor me! That's what Veterans Day is all about!" He guffawed.
Fortunately, thanks to a former good history teacher, I had an idea of what Veterans Day was all about. Originally known as Armistice Day to honor the end of World War I, the holiday did not actually become what we know as Veterans Day until President Dwight Eisenhower signed a bill to make it that way, in order to honor all veterans, not solely those from World War I.
Over the course of my time in Mr. Shipley's company, I had come to learn many things about him. I learned that the reason he persisted in us going out for mint ice cream- even though I was vocal about my opposition- was that before he and his friends left for the war, they all went to the very same parlor (which had been around since the 60's) he and I did to enjoy some mint ice cream. He told me about his wife who he met during a period of training in France, and who he was married to for thirty years before she was killed in a car accident with a drunk driver. I learned of his passion for children and how since retiring from the military he dedicated his time to mentoring underprivileged young men and boys on being successful in life.
It took a few weeks for me to realize that I was eating ice cream in the presence of a hero, and I considered it an honor that such a man was allowing me to enter his world and his memories. He had lived history- made history-and it was and is due to people like him that I can live feeling at least a bit better knowing that my rights have been fought for and are still being fought for everyday.
Mr. Shipley is perhaps the most inspirational person I have had the pleasure of knowing. He saw Saigon fall before his very eyes. He saw President Kennedy speak and say his famous words in German after the erection of the Berlin Wall: 'Ich bin ein Berliner.' He has seen Germany, Spain, Japan, England, France, Korea, and felt the sands of Africa under his feet. He saw the Munich Olympics and watched the tragedy that unfolded around it. He has seen war, and he has seen the beautiful purple-orange horizon of peace. He has seen loved ones die, both on the battlefield and in his personal life. He has seen lives taken simply because people just cannot get along.
I believe that Mr. Shipley and I formed a bond more meaningful than a teenager simply following an elderly person around. He let his walls down to me, and I learned how to be more receptive with mine. For a man who has every reason to hate the world, he is one of the most spirited people I know. He taught me that life is valuable and precious, yet ever so fragile. He taught me that although people have different skin tones, blood runs all the same color, and that people can share a bond deeper than something as superficial as skin, just as he and his comrades were brothers-in-arms despite their various backgrounds.
But perhaps the biggest lesson Mr. Shipley wanted to teach me was to not be complacent. He expressed that although Veterans Day exists, people- especially the younger generation- still forget the sacrifices made by those who came before. I definitely will not forget, and I will do my best to not let those around me forget either. Before meeting Mr. Shipley, I had acknowledged the sacrifices of our soldiers, but I never truly comprehended it. Veterans Day was just another school holiday, but now I see that it would be dishonorable to Mr. Shipley and all other veterans who gave the ultimate sacrifice to simply see it as "another holiday."
Mr. Shipley and I have every intention of hanging out and continuing our traditions of "jukeboxing" and Thursday afternoon ice cream, and although I despise mint flavor, I think I can bring myself to swallow my protests and my ice cream for just one day a week.
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