I knew in my heart from early in my childhood that I’d serve in the military one day. My dad would tell me stories of his dad’s time serving in Gen. Patton's 3rd Army in World War II. He also ran a barbershop in a small town in Western Kentucky, where veterans from World War II to Vietnam and beyond would come in. I would listen to them talk for hours on end. I idolized those men and women, and as I grew older I gained an immense amount of respect for them and their duty to our country.

Through those veterans I gained an appreciation for history, although I wouldn’t call myself anything more than a very amateur level “historian.” I would read books and articles, and listen to stories to try and get as much of a perspective of their experience as I could, and in my teenage years I knew I had to join . For my idolization of those men, my respect for their service, and the patriotism that my father and mother instilled in me from a very young age, I knew I had to do my best to do something like that for my country, in any capacity I could.

The Marines stood above the rest. Their professionalism, culture and swagger was eye candy to me and all other young men with a natural competitive spirit. The prospect of being the best of the best, the few and proud, was a goal to achieve and a title to earn rather than a branch to join. Above all else, what put me on the yellow footprints of Parris Island was a religious dedication to the honoring of the Marine Corps’ history. The legends of the Corps were saints, the anniversaries were days of observance, and every battle and lesson learned was a parable to be drilled into every recruit who steps foot on the island or in San Diego.