With the recent attacks on our home front, more than ever a uniform represents honor and unity. But to me, it reminds me of my father.

My dad was pulled out of rural Frankford, W.Va., to serve in Vietnam. His father had served in the Battle of the Bulge during World War II in a day when the American flag flew high.

When my dad was 18, he was in a foreign land fighting to stay alive - the same age I was at this university full of possibilities. That fact has always haunted me. I have no idea what he saw. I know many among his unit died in the war and his life came down to chance, but he rarely mentions these stories.

The closest I have come to knowing his losses is when I saw his friends’ names on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington. It was an eerie feeling knowing each name represented a young man or women with opportunities cut short and stories left untold.

Nearly 30 years after the war, my father was reacquainted with a former high school classmate and veteran of the Vietnam War. It was then he found out how precious his life is. There were two helicopters out of Vietnam, he boarded the first one and never looked back. The helicopter behind him never made it home. His friend told him he wondered for years if my father had made it out.

When I heard this from my mom a few years ago, I cried about my own fortune. It finally hit me what it meant for my father to serve his country and the sacrifice he made.

My earliest memory of my dad’s service is watching the soldiers in parades. He would later let me try on his uniform or show pictures of his comrades. I also remember watching film footage of the rice paddies in Vietnam.

Over the years, he’s shared stories about his comrades, the strict order of Army life and comical tales of service. He’s joked there was more Rolling Rock beer than water.

His stories have never turned to darker times. I didn’t understand the reality of war, nor will I ever. My first glimpse of the way soldiers were treated was watching “Born on the Fourth of July” with my father. He then told me about his own homecoming.

But in a time when the uniform means honor and star-spangled blitz, it’s sad to think of the thousands of soldiers like my father who were spit on when they landed in their homeland after their tour of duty. My father was longing to be home, but realized his world of innocence was lost in a blink of an eye.

I can still see the look of hurt in his eyes. But my father has never been bitter.

Instead, I have. I’m sad he hasn’t shared the experiences I have in college. He always tells me to cherish these days and how proud he is of me. But I’m the one who is proud. My father served his country, putting his life on the line. That’s something I know I could never do.

He raised us to be proud of our freedom in the United States. He’s worked hard to support a family and is sensitive to the plight of other veterans.

When I was younger, I didn’t know why he would stop to talk to another man in a veterans hat. I didn’t know what it meant to wear the hat or the bond he shares with other veterans until my own security and peace was attacked Sept. 11.

Today I want to thank my dad and the other men and women who have protected our peace and served unselfishly - we need to celebrate all those who have worn the uniform.

Kristina Hughes is the State News in-depth reporter. She can be reached at hughesk7@msu.edu.