We're in this together
Earlier this month, after what has felt like an eternity of tracking down records and trying to navigate the military bureaucracy, I recieved the news I've been waiting for: The United States government had officially approved my dad's headstone listing a high valor award he'd received. We did it, Daddy! We got it!
A pilot in the U.S. Air Force, my dad served as a Forward Air Controller (FAC) during the Vietnam War — a dangerous job that involved regularly getting shot at. For his aerial skill and courage during an operation that took place on the night of March 17, 1971, the United States bestowed upon him the highest award for aerial achievement in the armed forces, the Distinguished Flying Cross. It is awarded only to those who've distinguished themselves by single acts of heroism or extraordinary aerial achievement.
Of my dad (Captain Tilton), as well as the other FAC serving alongside him that night in 1971, USAF Lt. Colonel K. C. Culp wrote at the time, “The professional competence, aerial skill, and devotion to duty displayed by Captain McGarrity and Captain Tilton reflect great credit upon themselves and the United States Air Force.”
Just above the words that so epitomize my father, “I did it my way,” his headstone lists his award. “Distinguished Flying Cross.” It was a bittersweet moment as I gazed upon my dad's headstone.
It's a strange feeling to miss someone so intensely — to wish that you could pick up the phone and talk to him, and that you could run to him for a comforting embrace — while simultaneously being glad he isn't here to witness what's become of the country he served. Many of you are experiencing the same feelings in regards to your loved ones who've passed on. Missing them dearly but thankful they don't have see what's happening. Longing to talk with them in the midst of such trying times, but relieved they're shielded from enduring the new, dark reality in which we're living.
Shortly after my dad's headstone arrived, I received a certificate in the mail. It says, “The United States of America honors the memory of” my dad. “This certificate is awarded by a grateful nation in recognition of devoted and selfless consecration to the service of our country in the Armed Forces of the United States.” It's signed by President Trump.
I thought to myself, “America honors my dad's memory? HONORS???!!! A grateful nation????!!!!!! You've got to be kidding me!”
It's difficult to describe the peculiar, conflicted duality of emotions that arise when celebrating the arrival of my dad's headstone listing his high valor award for his service to our country occurring alonside wrenching in anguished horror as agents of the very same country now carry out extrajudicial killings, terrorize neighbors, spy on citizens, and place regular folks on the Terrorist Watchlist for exercising rights once secured by a Constitution that is now a mere relic of a Republic that some once referred to as the Land of the Free.
A dark, new reality is violently colliding against everything that once was, as millions of Americans — given license to indulge their worst selves — drool and cheer like gargoyles perched upon a Gothic cathedral.
And President-King who, along with the Grotesque Ol’ Party of authoritarian coconspirators and enablers, unleashed all this savagery claims the United States is “honoring” my dad's memory? What sort of cheap, hollow, counterfeit “honor” is this? You honor people with your actions, not some piece of paper.
And “a grateful” nation? No! My dad fought against authoritarianism. Millions of Americans have eagerly sold the country and its veterans for authoritarianism because, right now, that authoritarianism is punishing all the people they hate: women, feminists, LGBT people, immigrants and their children, Black and Brown people, Native American Indians, and everyone who isn't a reich-wing Christen.
Undeniably, the celebration of my father feels tainted. Cheapened. The satin-finished bronze of the Distinguished Flying Cross now tarnished, dimmed. His service and sacrifices in vain. And I know many of you are confronting this same desecration of your loved ones’ memory and sacrifices. We lament together as one.
I see you. We are in this together.
As much as you may feel alone and no matter how scary things become, remember that we are going to walk through the fire together as one. Being here alonside you and fighting the good fight is how I am choosing to truly honor my dad—and all your loved ones who dared to dream of freedom. We march together as one.