The Real Army of One: My Family’s Legacy and the Fight for Integrity

This Saturday, June 14, 2025, marks the 250th anniversary of the United States Army—a moment meant to honor tradition, duty, and sacrifice. For me, it’s more than symbolic. It’s personal.

I am the daughter of an Army Artillery Captain—a Puerto Rican Vietnam veteran who testified before the Armed Services Investigating Subcommittee of the House of Representatives about the My Lai Massacre—a war crime that shattered the illusion of righteous warfare. His name may not appear in public histories, but he stood for truth in a moment when silence was easier.

Unlike many, he chose not just to serve—but to speak.
Not to condemn—but to illuminate.
And most remarkably, after testifying, he re-enlisted as a Sergeant.

Because real warriors don’t walk away. They stay and fight for what’s right.

I’m also the sister of two West Point graduates, Class of 1985. I was raised in a military family—moved across continents, living on foreign soil most of my childhood—steeped in the values of discipline, service, and honor. I nearly followed in my father’s and brothers’ Army footsteps but pivoted and pursued a degree and career in finance instead. The values of discipline, service and honor are being tested today in ways many of us never could have imagined.

This week, President Trump—who turns 79 on the same day the Army turns 250—warned that protestors at the Army’s anniversary parade would face “very heavy force.” The White House later clarified that he didn’t mean peaceful protestors.

Still, the message was heard.

And it begs the question:
Is this $45 million parade truly about honoring the men and women who have served the U.S. Army for 250 years? Or is it about celebrating the man who wants to command its image?

I was born in 1964, the last year of the Baby Boomer generation—Trump was born in the first, 1946. My father belongs to the silent generation. And yet I, a registered Republican woman, stand opposed to the silence I see today.

Ever since I was a child, I was taught to speak truth.
My soul yearns for it.
My intuition alerts me when I’m staring down anything but it.

And still… many who swore an oath to protect the Constitution remain silent.

Following Orders Isn’t Always the Right Thing

In 1971, Lt. William Calley, the only soldier convicted in the My Lai Massacre, defended his actions by saying he was “just following orders.”

But my father knew better.

He was the artillery liaison officer for Task Force Barker during the March 16, 1968 operation at My Lai. In both a classified Department of the Army Review and a congressional hearing, he was questioned about the artillery fire that preceded the infantry massacre.

Under oath, he admitted:

“Some [rounds] did fall within the village… I would say about between 10 and 20 rounds.”

He was clear that he never received clearance to fire on the village itself—only in the surrounding area. But once the fire mission began, the rigid timeline made mid-course correction nearly impossible:

“Once the preparation was started, you just practically have to cancel the whole operation if you try to stop….”

When asked if he knew civilians had been killed, his response was unequivocal:

“No, sir. Never did hear that… not while I was there.”

And most chilling of all:

“To the best of my knowledge, I didn’t have any requirement [to report it]… I don’t know if it was considered an actual village or what.”

That last line speaks volumes—not about his conscience, but about the military culture that blurred lines and erased responsibility in the fog of war.

The Missing Pages, the Unspoken Truths

The congressional hearing transcript—where this testimony lives—is preserved in full.

But the Department of the Army Review?
The pages before and after his appearance are mysteriously missing.
Erased? Redacted? Forgotten?

You can’t miss the symbolism:
A man who told the truth—calmly, precisely, without theatrics—is the one whose testimony gets clipped from history.

But he spoke anyway.
Because real leadership doesn’t bend to politics or pressure.
It bends to conscience.

The Line Between Serving and Enabling

There’s a thin but critical line between serving and enabling.

True service uplifts, protects, and restores.
Enabling cloaks silence as loyalty and compliance as duty.
It’s the slow erosion of integrity in the name of protocol.

My father understood the difference. He followed orders—but never at the expense of his moral compass.
And when truth became inconvenient, he broke rank to speak it.

That’s the kind of courage we need now.

Because real leadership isn’t about staying in formation when the formation is marching off a cliff.
Sometimes the highest form of service is to say: “No more.”

We Are the Army of One

The Army’s old slogan—“An Army of One”—wasn’t just about individual strength. It was about moral agency. The idea that each soldier, each citizen, carries the responsibility to lead—not blindly follow.

You don’t have to wear a uniform to serve something higher.
And you don’t need rank to speak the truth.

My father spoke when it mattered.
Will we?

Leadership today means refusing to comply with cruelty.
It means seeing through propaganda.
It means choosing conscience over comfort—even when it costs you.

The Middle Way I walk today was forged by men like my father—who didn’t need to be perfect to be honorable.
Who showed that obedience to conscience is what separates integrity from complicity.

On this 250th anniversary of the U.S. Army, I don’t just honor his service.
I carry his fire forward.

Für alle und alles.
For everyone and everything. We refuse to stay silent..