Oxymorons make me cringe. Hyperboles and metaphors never bothered me, but every time my high school English teacher went over literary terms, “military intelligence” was her go-to oxymoron. It struck a nerve each time she repeated it. On the day she used the phrase for the third time, I squeezed my eyes shut and thought back to the shirt I slept in the night before. Hanging loosely on my small frame, the light blue shirt displayed the insignia created for my brother’s 2013 class of Naval Officer Candidate School.
My brother is my hero. At just 23 years old he had a college degree, a stable job, and a house of his own, yet he gave up what most would call the perfect life to join the military, achieving his lifelong dream of becoming a pilot and serving his country. To me, my brother was proof that a daring life of passion was a better option than a simple life of security. His successes encouraged me to take risks and never settle.
However, my English teacher stood two feet away from me, chuckling as she explained how those in the military were the opposite of intelligent; that was what made it an oxymoron. As I looked around the room and saw my peers soaking in every word, some even nodding in agreement, my stomach knotted and my conscience nagged at me. I needed to tell my teacher that the men and women serving our country deserved our respect, not our ridicule. Just as my hand left my lap and began stretching towards the ceiling, my teacher turned to the board and changed the subject to "The Great Gatsby." After a moment of hesitation, I let the words flutter silently away through my parted lips and my hand sank back to my lap.
My silence that day sent me into a tailspin. I rehearsed impassioned speeches in my head. I imagined striding up to my teacher with a framed photo of my brother in camouflage. I squirmed every time our class’s conversation even neared oxymorons. I had always considered myself confident, and even outspoken at times, but I had failed to speak up when it truly mattered. Sitting in that cluttered classroom, I put my fear of insulting my teacher and risking my English grade ahead of doing the right thing. I realized that readiness to defend others reveals a person’s true character, and at that moment, my character was flawed. If I wanted to be like my brother, I needed to voice what I believed was morally correct, despite my fear.
Looking back, I wish I had been courageous enough to stand up and speak out. I would tell my teacher that the intelligence of the military should be admired, not disrespected. I would describe the pride I feel from having a brother selfless enough to fight to protect our country and each individual who makes America unique. Hopefully I would have a fraction of the valor my brother displays every day.
Two weeks after my internal dilemma, I smoothed a new bumper sticker onto my car. It read “Proud Navy Sister.” When I pulled up to school, I made sure to park where everyone could see me. It was my turn to fight for what was right.
