Amy McGrath - Honor Bound : An American Story of Dreams and Service

T wenty-four years as a Marine officer and F/A-18 aviator taught me how powerful the idea of home can be. That lesson was etched on my heart during my first combat deployment. In the spring of 2002, my squadron was sent to Ganci Air Base, a gritty green-and-beige collection of tents in Kyrgyzstan, on what had once been a Soviet long-range-bomber base. Comfort isnt a consideration on bases built to support combat operations. Sleeping twelve to a tent in a busy air base where missions are flown twenty-four hours a day means hectic schedules and little alone time. The exception is an overnight shift as operations duty officer, or ODO.

Fighter attack jets have to be in the air around the clock to support ground operations at a moments notice. F/A-18s are incredibly complex and powerful machines, and so much can go wrong when one is in the air. Its essential that an aircrew memberan F/A-18 pilot or weapons systems officerbe listening at all times on the ground radios so that there is an expert to respond and assist any pilot experiencing a potentially catastrophic situation in flight. Its hard to keep your eyes open during the overnight shift. Sleep being a precious commodity in combat, ODO duty isnt popular. Regardless, I eagerly signed up for the first Sunday night in May. The shift corresponded to Saturday afternoon in America, where the Kentucky Derby would be in full swing. Im a proud Kentucky native, with a love for the Commonwealth that runs bone deep and mirrors my love for America. The ready room tent had one of the few televisions on base. As ODO, I would have that TV to myself, and I desperately wanted to watch the derby.

It was a way to connect to family and home, to what I knew to be true. My family would be throwing our traditional Kentucky Derby party. My dad would greet people at the door and have drinks in their hands before they could even finish saying hello. My parents modest living room would be packed with people creating a soundtrack of laughter. I could see my dad telling a joke or funny story as our neighbors waited for the punch line. I could smell the mint in the juleps. They would all watch the race on TV at the same time I did. It felt like a tangible link to that place, to my roots, and to all the people I cared about.

I turned on the thirty-inch Samsung, and the happiness flooded over me. It was a minor miracle that the American Forces Network was broadcasting the derby. The network isnt predictable in what it chooses to broadcast, so it was a bit of Marine luck to find the race on the schedule. The radios were quiet. The Kyrgyz mountains were still draped with snow down to the foothills, and the tent was chilly. It didnt matter. In Louisville, at Churchill Downs, the weather was sunny and warm. Decked-out women in flamboyant hats waited in the grandstands for the race to begin. Men in blue-striped seersucker or white linen suits stood behind them, looking like country gentlemen from a century ago. Everyone had a drink in hand, and it was obvious they were having tons of fun. I reveled in the spectacle.

Right before the race itself began, everyone stood to put their hand over their heart for the playing of the national anthem. If youre serving in uniform, The Star-Spangled Banner means something profound. It touches on why youre serving. The next song, though, struck an even deeper chord. Churchill Downs began playing My Old Kentucky Home. What seemed to be the entire well-dressed crowd, in the bleachers, throughout the paddock, and even in the box suites at Churchill Downs, began singing the words.

My whole life, from as far back as I could remember, my parents had always thrown a fantastic party for the Kentucky Derby. A native son, my father loved having people over and celebrating what he saw as a special and unique feature of the Commonwealth. The tradition meant a lot to him. Because of that, it meant a lot to all his kids. Dad loved his family, God, the church, teaching, America, and Kentucky (not necessarily in that order). I learned to love all those things as well.

Watching the wonderful, colorful, derby happening sixty-eight hundred miles away, I ached for Kentucky. All the people in my parents living room would be joyful and singing together, laughing when they forgot the words, and clapping at the end. Alone, bundled in my steel-toed boots, a flight suit, and my leather jacket, inside a cold canvas tent plunked down on a gravel plain next to a busy military airstrip, I got up out of my folding chair and stood while they played My Old Kentucky Home, just as I had been taught. I cried and thought, Wow, Im glad there are no other Marines in this tent. I wouldnt have wanted to try to explain my tears to a fellow Marine.

I cried because I love Kentucky as fiercely as I love America. Like America itself, Kentucky is more than a place. It is home. Im forever connected to the state and to the people who have always made it such a wonderful place for me to live.

I dried my tears and sat back down. I watched every minute of that derby, which was cold well water for a great thirst. I cant say I remember which horse won. I just knew it was the closest I would be to home for a long time.

When we say that were missing home, were not just missing a place we call Kentucky, or South Dakota, or Ohio, or Virginia, or even America. Those are all just lines on a map and soil on the ground. Our love of place isnt about a place at all. Its about people and the ideals those people share and hold dear. Its about what holds us together as one country. Home is, to me, my familys cathedral, attended by the faithful on any given Sunday. It is a Marine Corps unit and the camaraderie we all felt in being part of an elite group in the greatest military in the world. It is the modest, three-bedroom ranch house I grew up in, one of many on a pretty suburban street in Edgewood, Kentucky. It is my parents, who believed in being good citizens and that service and sacrifice were essential threads in the American fabric.