In Amy's Opinion

This is the page that I want to use to tell how I feel about things.
This is where you can really get to know who I am and what I'm about.


"It takes a lot of courage to grow up and become who you really are."
--E.E. Cummings










For the last week, I’ve been working out and watching what I eat harder than I think I ever have before in my entire life. I’m on a low-carb diet to accelerate fat loss without “not eating.” So…I end up eating 3 good sized meals a day, but I’m very, very limited as to what foods I can eat. I’ve been craving bread and butter like you wouldn’t believe. Two nights ago, I was having a “bad” night. That is to say that I was hungry. I had done so well, and I didn’t want to ruin my whole week of non-cheating. I had already eaten dinner, and I was “finished” for the day, but I was still hungry. All I could think about was how much I wanted to eat something. There was no way that I was going to allow myself to wreck four days of “perfect” dieting, so all I could do was sit on my bed and cry about it.

That feeling of helplessness is something that I have dealt with all my life. I have always had to be careful with what I eat, because I am – like everyone in my family – prone to becoming overweight. Every blood relative I’ve got has had to fight the battle of the love handles. We’re by no means a “fat” family, but we do push the envelope. Most of the women in my family are a size12 or 14, and there aren’t too many men in my family over the age of 20 that wear under a 40” belt. We’re German. That’s the only excuse I can come up with.

What I mean to say is that I’ve never once been able to eat pizza or pasta or ice cream without hearing that “Voice.” All of you out there who can relate to what I’m talking about have heard the Voice. It’s the voice of your mothers and the beauty magazines and those horrid little girls you went through 8th grade with. The Voice says a lot of different things, but it all boils down to this: “You should feel terrible for eating that.”

I touched on this briefly in my last entry and, for the past week, all I’ve been able to think about is the insanely unfair inequities of metabolic rate that exist within humanity. You see, genetically thin people have no concept of what it means to feel guilt about eating. When they’re hungry, they eat. When they want ice cream, they go to Dairy Queen and get it with fudge and nuts on top. When they’re at a restaurant that specializes in cream sauces, they order a big platter of the al fredo, and they don’t hold back when the waitress comes around with a basket of bread. They eat without thinking. They honestly don’t understand what kind of discipline it requires not to eat because they’ve never had to try. They enjoy their food without feeling bad about it later, and that is a Heaven that I will never know. It’s a Heaven that a lot of us will never know.

My dear, beautiful, and sweet husband saw me crying and asked me what was wrong. I told him that I was crying because I was hungry. He then asked me if there was anything he could do to help (God love him, he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me). You have to understand that John is what I call “metabolically gifted.” By that, I mean that John is one of those people who could eat a stick of butter with Velveeta on top and not gain an ounce. So…I looked up into my husband’s concerned eyes and replied, “No, Honey. I wish you could.” I explained to him what I was feeling, and he looked confused. And why wouldn’t he be? He’s one of the lucky few who have never felt a wave of dread or guilt at the thought of eating something. No one has ever looked at John with disapproval when he orders a cheeseburger or when he asks to see a dessert menu. He has never been called fat, and he has never felt fat. He has never felt terror at the thought of buying new clothes, and he has never had to sit on the bed crying because he feels guilty for feeling hungry.

John gave me a lot of hugs that night, and I eventually forgot my hunger pangs as I fell off to sleep. I don’t know how many nights like that one I’ll have to face in the next months as I work to change my body and my diet. I hope it’s not too many, but – chances are – I’ll be crying on that bed again at least a few times before this is all over.

I don’t really have a life-enhancing or “deep” point to make with this one. I felt compelled to write it because it’s what I’m feeling right now. It’s what I’m living through. I hope that if you’re the kind of person who doesn’t have to worry about any of this stuff, that you’ll take with you a deeper knowledge of how hard it really is to be overweight. It isn’t an issue as simple as, “stop eating.” It isn’t easy and it isn’t pleasant. I’ve lost 9 pounds, but I’ve got a whole lot more to go. Please keep your thoughts and good wishes with me. I have a lot of work ahead of me, and a lot of nights to get through without thinking about how much I’d love to eat something with mayonnaise on it.

Remember that no matter what cross you carry, everyone else has a cross just as heavy.

Semper fidelis et semper gratus,
Amy Lockyear
Creator – The US Military Wives Club
19 July, 1999 – 3:39pm CST




It seems to me that every time I start a journaling project, I eventually abandon it. Like a lot of other things in my life, it starts with a fiery passion and then fizzles out, as I put less and less into it. I was looking at my bookshelf full of half-filled blank books and diaries a few weeks ago, and it started me into a serious few days of self-reflection. Last night, I met a Marine named Gunnery Sergeant Smith (yes, really…Smith), and he threw me back into a deep recognition of some personal flaws that I’ve pushed back and ignored for a long, long time.

Since the time when Tom Cruise first graced a Navy uniform with his flashy white smile in Top Gun; long before algebra classes, training bras, or boys, I have wanted to defend my nation as a member of the Armed Forces. In fact, I almost took a commission with the U.S. Naval Academy in 1993. I wanted to wear that white uniform and what it represented. I wanted to salute the flag instead of holding my hand over my heart. I wanted to be a part of the force that protects America.

Wanting and doing, however, are two very different things. Passion and conviction are all well and good. They’re admirable qualities in a person – in fact they’re necessary things to possess if you want to accomplish anything that means something in this life. But all the gut feeling in the world does a person absolutely zero good unless action is introduced into the mix somewhere. That action part is where most people run into trouble.

I have always been, much to my disappointment, a girl and a woman and a person who is capable of great passion. I am full of opinions and desires. I am a thinker, a writer, a talker, and a preacher. Unfortunately, I have never been a doer. All my passion is for nothing, all my intelligence and strength and conviction are for nothing, because I never get from ‘want’ to ‘do.’ Why is that? You know, it’s really easy to look at a friend or a family member and psychoanalyze their butt right down to the ground. That’s where the phrase, “you know what your problem is?” comes from. It’s a lot harder to look into your own mind and figure out where the wires are crossed.

All my life, I have been smart. It’s a gift that I received from my God, and I have never appreciated it. I have an extraordinary mind. There are people in this world who would give almost anything to be able to process information and learn things as fast and completely as I can. They would take that gift and run with it. But I haven’t. My other gift in life is a resilient spirit. I’ve always had that “strong” personality that allows me to withstand physical and emotional pain better than the average bear. You can punch me a thousand times, and I’ll get right back up and continue telling you what your problem is. Instead of being grateful and using these gifts, I have done a terrible and wasteful thing: I’ve let fear take over my life and grind out every chance I’ve had to accomplish greatness.

I didn’t go to the Naval Academy because I was afraid. I’m not athletic because I’m afraid. I’m not a professional writer because I’m afraid. I’m afraid of failing; I’m afraid of rejection; and I’m afraid (here’s the clincher) of action. Fear is a powerful force. Fear can look like laziness or complacence or inaction. Fear causes self-doubt and low self-esteem. The thing is, fear can only do to me what I let it do. I’ve let fear keep me from what I want my whole life. I don’t want to do that anymore.

I want to be a Marine. I want it more than I have ever wanted anything in my life except my marriage with John. I want to be a Marine for a thousand reasons, but the most important reason is self-worth. I want to be a Marine and I will be a Marine. In the next 6 months or so, I’m going to have to explain and prove to a lot of people – myself included – that I have what it takes to wear that title. I have Honor and Commitment in spades. It’s that middle one that I need to work on…Courage. Courage is down there. I know it is. It’s somewhere deep down below my heart hiding. I have to call it out. I have to find it and use it and wear it like a sign.

Gunnery Sergeant Smith is the first person I have to show my courage to. He doesn’t really believe I have it. I met him last night, and I can tell that he expects me to give up on this. You see, folks, I’m 40 pounds (oh my God!) overweight. I don’t look that heavy, and I was shocked as hell when Gunny Smith put me on that scale. I had no clue it was that bad. But…it is. It takes a lot of courage for a woman to put down the fork and put on running shoes. In this day and age, being overweight is likened to being a criminal. Our society does not forgive fat. We forgive adultery and violence, but if a person gets too heavy…but that’s another topic, so I digress. The point is, I have a very short amount of time to take this weight off. Gunny Smith basically doesn’t even want to give me the time of day until I do. He’s a recruiter, and I’m sure he sees this kind of thing all the time. People like me who come in with a lot of passion, but no action. People who scream patriotic themes and lofty desires but aren’t really going to ever put out the effort it takes to join the few and the proud.

I could see the disdain and the lack of faith that I feel in my own heart reflected in Gunnery Sergeant Smith’s eyes last night.

I spent all night last night re-evaluating my decision to join the Marine Corps. It was my mind’s way of leaning against the wall instead of climbing over it. I realized that I was thinking and feeling again instead of doing. So…I went home and I ran. I ran and ran until I thought I was going to pass out. I was about to stop when it dawned on me that I wasn’t really going to pass out, I was just tired. So I kept running. I ran and ran until my legs began to buckle out from underneath me. When I finally stopped, I had accomplished something huge. For the first time in my life I said yes when the fear said no. I got up this morning and I did it again. I ran until my legs wouldn’t run anymore. I got into the shower this morning still gasping for air, but it felt really good. For the first day of my life, I am the ruler of my own destiny.

I go back to Gunny Smith’s office on Monday to weigh in. I’ll bet you a thousand dollars that he’ll be surprised that I actually showed up. But I’m going to conquer this week, and I’m going to conquer that scale in his office. After Monday, Gunny Smith will never have to question my courage again. Neither will I.

Semper fidelis et semper gratus,
Amy Lockyear
Creator – The US Military Wives Club
14 July, 1999 – 2:39pm CST




So far, this page has escaped my “wrath.” By that, I mean that I haven’t been angry when writing anything else that appears on this page. Today, I’m going to bust that wide open. I’ve been so livid about the topic of this entry for two days that I decided to allow myself to calm down before writing…that way, I would be able to communicate the thoughts I’m having without subjecting you, dear visitor, to my anger. So…let’s end the suspense…here it is:

I went to Target to buy laundry detergent on Wednesday night. Wednesday, as most of you know, was the night of the first NATO air strikes in Yugoslavia. I was standing in line and overheard a woman in front of me talking about the situation. She said, “I don’t see why everyone is so upset about the possibility of using ground troops…if we lose a few of those men, so be it.” I froze right there. I was standing in Target holding my laundry detergent in one hand and my purse in the other. I have no idea why I had such a strong reaction, but I started to shake all over, and I felt my face get red. I have never struck another individual in my life (at least not that I remember), but I really wanted to beat that woman over the head with my laundry detergent. I guess it was a combination of hormones, John’s long absence, and the tone of voice that this woman used when she was dismissing military casualties as a non-issue. Her tone was what really got me…”those men.” She had been talking about our fighting men and women as though they were something subhuman – as though their lives didn’t matter.

I’m learning that a lot of civilians feel this way about our servicemen and servicewomen. They figure that because these people are in the military that it is their job to die in combat. To me, that sentiment is no different than saying that because a person is a police officer, that it is his/her job to get shot by a drug dealer. Naturally, no one would ever say or believe that a cop’s job is to get shot, but a lot of people don’t see a problem with believing that a serviceperson’s job is to die. Sure, a lot of servicepeople have died in combat. Does that mean we should be ok with it or that we should send them into hostile situations lightly? Should we just not care if our servicemen and servicewomen die simply because they have a hazardous job – just sum it up in a neat little package like, “They knew what they were getting into?”

I don’t think so.

When our infantrymen are sent into battle, they face the possibility of death. We all know that. But the very idea that some people out here in this country feel that there’s nothing bad or stirring or even upsetting about having to send out ground troops…well, I don’t know how to swallow that.



Take a good look at this picture. What do you see? When I look at this photograph, I see a couple of guys who got together one afternoon with some buddies and took a picture. These guys probably have wives or girlfriends. They might be fathers or brothers or uncles. Some of them might like football. Some of them may like to read comic books. A couple of them probably don’t like broccoli and one or two of them probably has a weakness for Twinkies or Snickers bars. Some of these guys probably worry about losing their hair or have a complex about their ears sticking out or their teeth not being straight. They are not machines. They are people. They are people just like you and just like me and…just like the man that the woman at Target goes home to (I looked, she had on a wedding band).

What that woman did when she said “those men,” was to strip servicepeople of their humanity. She reduced them to numbers on a death count chart, and denied them the basic human empathy that we should all have for one another. She probably claims to be a humanitarian – that would explain her passionate view that we need to help the ethnic Albanians living in Serbia – but she fails to extend that humanitarian passion to the men and women that she wants to send to Serbia to fight for humanity.

That’s wrong. There’s nothing right about it, and I will never understand that point of view. My personal views on the situation in Kosovo have nothing to do with what I’m saying here. No matter which side of the coin I happen to sit on politically, I believe that if even one of our pilots is shot down or if even one of our infantrymen is deployed and subsequently killed in combat…that it would be a tragedy. It would be a sad situation deserving of mourning and human feeling. I would weep for that serviceman or servicewoman and his/her family just as much as I would weep for any other person’s death.

I guess my point is this: I don’t understand how anyone could feel differently about that. I can’t comprehend the callous view that military death is less horrible than civilian death. Death is death and loss is loss – no matter what your “job” is.

In regard to “those men,” I say this; “I love you all. I’m so glad that you’re brave enough to face the things you face. I value your lives, and I will pray vigilantly for your safety as you fight in the face of death to protect mine. May God bless and watch over you all.”

Semper fidelis et semper gratus,
Amy Lockyear
creator – The U.S. Military Wives Club
26 March 1999, 2:12am MST




I was going through the other entries that I’ve posted on this page, and I got to thinking again. You know, I’ve done an awful lot of talking about friendships, family, and home here. I’ve come to know that these three things are the most important items in life…no matter who you are. The people in our lives and the places that make us feel at home are at the core of who we are. Our relationships and our homes tell the whole world like a big, flashing sign, what we’re about and what makes us tick.

Those of you who have been to this page and read my other entries know that I’m leaving my home next week. You also know that I’m just torn to pieces about having to go. But you know what? I was on the phone with my friend, Ed, on Saturday night, and while I was talking to him, something washed over me. I had one of those all-over body shivers. We were discussing a topic that wasn’t all that pleasant – in fact, it was something that really made me nervous at the time. So, I know that this feeling that I had come over me wasn’t just a residual from being happy. I was anything but at that moment. That feeling was the realization that I DO have a new home to go to – that even though I’m leaving my home, I really DO belong where I’m going. My new home is The United States Marine Corps, and it is every bit as much “home” to me as Denver, Colorado has been.

The Marine Corps is a family. It is a home for all Marines and it is a home for the relatives of Marines. The Marine Corps has large, strong, and warm arms. It needs its family members and it wants them to be good at what they do so that they can protect its mother, America. The Marine Corps has no particular address, and it can go anywhere to protect its family. I am now a part of that awesome and powerful group. The Marine Corps will be my home, my father, my love, and my life for the rest of my days. It will provide for me, it will love me, and it will protect me. Like all families, we will have arguments and days of anger, but that never seems to stop other families. It surely won’t stop the Marine Corps.

My friend Ed is a Marine. He doesn’t know me from Adam – at least he didn’t until a few short weeks ago. This man has taken me in and opened his heart, his family, and his home to me. He has crusaded for my personal causes, and he has taken a genuine, heart-felt interest in the complete stranger that I am to him. This man is my friend and he is my “family” in every sense of the word save bloodlines. Why did he do all of this for me? I have spent hours wondering why…and while I was on the phone with him Saturday night, it hit me. I am a part of his home. I am a part of his family. I am a part of his life. I am all of these things because my husband is going to be a Marine.

I can’t express in words how much I love Ed and his family. He has become a father, a brother, and an icon of what men should be to me. He is brave and honest. He is tactless, but never rude. He loves immediately and unconditionally. He adores his wife more than anyone on the face of this earth, and he is his son’s advocate and fierce protector. He is kind, generous, and open; and he is – above all things – loyal. I am so proud that I am becoming one of those lucky people that know Master Gunnery Sergeant Ed Humphrey as more than just another E-9 in cammies. The man behind the rank is the best person I’ve ever met, and I’m proud to say that I know him. I’m proud to say that I know his wife. I’m proud to say that he is my friend. I’m proud to say that he is my family.

(And, y’all…this man makes the best piece of steak you ever ate in your whole life!)

Ed was sent into my life when I needed someone to care and when I needed someone to help. He will always own a special piece of my heart. I will never forget him as long as I live. He taught me what home was and he taught me what family means. For that I will never be able to repay him. I hope that someday I can say that I’ve done half as much for someone as Master Guns Humphrey has done for me.

God bless The United States Marine Corps. It is my home, now, for better or for worse. I’m glad to be a part of it, and I hope that I can do it justice. With people like Ed around, I think I can give it a fighting chance. Always be faithful to your friends. Always be grateful for your friends. There are everyday angels walking among us. You have to stop and listen to find them, but they’re there. I found mine in Ed. Yours is just waiting around fate’s corner for you. Make sure you take the time to stop and say, “hello” when you meet him.

Semper fidelis et semper gratus,
Amy Lockyear
creator – The US Military Wives Club
March 21, 1999, 6:21pm MST




Like always, I’ve been thinking…when I start thinking on something, I usually keep thinking about it until I can formulate an opinion or stance on whatever the topic happens to be. My little wheels get to turning in my head when something touches me or grabs my attention and then I can’t stop processing it until I decide how I feel about it. And…once I’m done thinking, I usually write my thoughts down somewhere. Lately, that somewhere has been here. So…here is yet another nugget from my overworked thought center:

I have had several people come to this site and tell me that they were “shocked” or that their “jaw dropped” when they saw how much personal information I have included on this site about myself. They have sent me letters “begging” me to be more careful and to remove my personal information. While I appreciate the advice and will continue to pay close attention to what information I post here, I have to say something in regard to my beliefs about openness and the fine line between being open and being reckless with your own personal safety. The issue of limiting what you share about yourself for fear of being stalked or misused in some way is a valid issue…but to what lengths should we take that?

There are a lot of bad, frightening, and horrible things that happen to people. I had a close childhood friend who committed suicide in 1992. A few months later, another friend from grade school ran a flashing red light and was killed by an innocent driver who couldn’t stop in time. I had a close acquaintance who was raped and killed in 1994 – she was a beautiful woman and a kind person. People get burglarized, mugged, hit by drunk drivers, fired, cheated on, lied to, and betrayed. People die, people get hurt, and people get abused. These things happen every, single day in every part of the world. Does that mean that we should all live in constant fear that one of these things will happen to us?

I’m not an idiot. I realize – believe me – that anyone who wants to badly enough could take some of the information on this site and track me down. However, that would be true even if I had provided NO personal information. I know a few hacker-types that work in computers, and with a simple IP address or an email name, they can learn more about you than you even want to think about. It doesn’t matter if I don’t tell how old I am, or if I don’t tell you my real name, or if I don’t post a photo, or if I don’t say where I come from. It truly doesn’t. If someone wants to use my website as a way to track me down and hurt me…there is no amount of information that I could include or exclude that will stop them. Period. We all know that.

The same is true for my home. I lock my door every night, but if someone wants to steal my stuff badly enough, a locked door won’t stop them. I check my backseat before I get into my car, I don’t park next to vans, and I don’t walk down unlit streets alone at night. Is that really going to keep me from being hurt or killed? No one can answer that. No matter how “locked down” our lives are, someone who wants to hurt us will find a way. Fearing that and worrying about that does only one thing…it takes away our freedom and a piece of our happiness.

I refuse to live in fear. I take the standard precautions and I leave the rest up to my God. I won’t be forced to close myself off to the world in general out of fear for that one bad person out there who may have evil intentions. I could get hit by a drunk or killed by an intruder in my home or even drop dead of some strange and sudden brain malfunction at any time. I don’t wake up afraid of those things…they’re out there and I know that. Obsessing over it won’t help my chances of avoiding them. I think that this idea applies to my website as well. I am sharing my ideas and myself with other people here. Yes…it is a real possibility that some malicious pervert or psychopath could abuse my presence here. I just don’t see any value in worrying about it.

So…please know that I will never post a map with directions to my front door on this website. If I ever in the future get an American Express Platinum card, I won’t post the account number here for all to view. I won’t post inflammatory or hateful statements that will make me a target of any “groups,” and I won’t give out my mother’s maiden name or the pin number for my ATM card. Even though I’ll never give out any of that information …someone motivated enough could find it all in less than 24 hours. They wouldn’t need my age and last name to find it, either.

Don’t live in fear. Life is too short.

Semper fidelis et semper gratus,
Amy Lockyear
creator – The US Military Wives Club
15 March 1999, 3:52pm MST




I had the privilege of speaking today, via Internet chat, to a young woman in France about my age. As a side-note/funny to her, I asked if all French people hated Americans or if that was just a stereotype. Her reply amazed me. She said, “sometimes…it depends on what your president does.” That reply was not at all what I expected her to say. I don’t know really what I was waiting to hear, but that particular response gave me a great deal of pause, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it all day.

**I’m about to go into a really stormy sea right here, so those of you who dislike political debate should probably read no further…**

William Jefferson Clinton. He was a guy that served as the disgrace of Arkansas. No big deal. Just a governor from a small, poorly-funded state that was more useful as the butt of the then-fledgling comic, Jeff Foxworthy’s punchlines than as a participant in our republic, anyway. William was just another Democrat from the South with a few mistresses in his public record. Nothing special. No one east of the Mississippi River even knew his name. Somewhere in the late 80’s, after Reagan’s administration came to a close, the Democratic party started looking really hard for someone to “get in there.” They had a hard time, and they lost to George Bush, but they kept looking. Somehow, William’s name came up – probably in a golf game or at a cigar-smoking festival in someone’s living room. Shortly after that, somewhere in Little Rock, Arkansas, phones started ringing.

I don’t know how it happened and I don’t know why, but somehow this man, this Bill Clinton, convinced the party that he was their guy. This man who had already been followed by scandal many times in his political career; this man who had a wife who was already too involved in his career for the media’s comfort; this man was somehow labeled the new golden child of the Democratic party. This man was chosen as the savior who could oust the Republicans and put the big D’s back into the power seat.

I was only 16 years old when Bill Clinton gave that controversial first interview on MTV in 1991. I watched it live as a matter of fact. I was sitting in my living room in Saint Louis, MO eating an apple when, for the first time in history, a man vying for the Presidency had the gall to answer the question, “So…ummm…boxers or briefs?” on international television. As we all know, it only got worse from there. Bill realized that he had tapped into a group that doesn’t usually vote: MY group – the “young people of America.” Bill did more campaigning on MTV, it seemed to me back then, than he did on CNN. He talked about smoking pot and about underwear preference and about rock and roll music. For the first time in our lives, there was a man without gray hair asking us to vote him in. Asking us to “Rock the Vote.” I mean, this guy knew the lyrics to Madonna songs. So…it ended up being a “blind leading the stupid” kind of thing. Every kid I knew who turned 18 before that November ran out and voted for Clinton. If you had asked them why they voted for him, they would’ve said what they were programmed to say, “Hey, man, he’s cool.”

I never thought that Bill Clinton was “cool.” You see, I grew up in Arkansas, and I knew that he was a liar, a thief, and an immoral sex fiend. I knew that he would embarrass America the same way he had been embarrassing Arkansas for 8 terms as governor. I couldn’t picture him sitting across the table from men like Boris Yeltzin or the Pope. He didn’t deserve to talk to those men or represent us to those men. I turned 18 the month after the election in 1992. I didn’t get a chance to vote. Not that it would’ve mattered, anyway. The Fleetwood Mac campaign accomplished what America seemed to be wanting – a younger, fresher President. I, being young and overly-passionate about such things, was devastated and shocked when I heard that Bill Clinton was to be our President. I was angry with George Bush, and I was angry that all my passion and all my work as a “Young Republican” hadn’t meant squat.

But…with time, I forgot about it and went about my daily business of growing up. I went to school, I got married, I turned 21, and could finally buy beer. About that time, we had another election campaign. I have to be honest…I didn’t care. Everyone was in love with Bill Clinton, and I knew that Dole didn’t have a prayer. I also thought that my vote didn’t mean anything to anyone but me. So…I didn’t vote. I would’ve killed to vote in 1992, but I didn’t even want to in 1996. I am officially a part of the “apathetic masses.” I wish that I could say I’m sorry for that, but I’m not. I mean, I looked at the situation. Bill Clinton was tied up in scandal after scandal during his first 4 years, and he still had over 50% approval rating. He didn’t know squat about handling foreign policy and the only thing he’d done in domestic policy that I could see was to drop the deficit (and the only way he did that was by weakening our military forces with drastic DOD budget cuts and base closings). His health care plan failed, his crime plan failed. So why did everyone love him so much? I couldn’t figure it out, and I was too tired to care much.

Scandal continued to follow our President. Whitewater, Lewinsky, whispered charges of murder and conspiracy. Did the public care? Apparently not. The man’s approval rating is through the roof in this country. America seems to love Bill Clinton. Fine. Good for them.

Now…to my point:

A young, 25 year-old woman from France made me remember my passion for all things political today. I will be forever grateful to her, but I’ll never know her name. She told me that French people hate America because of what our President does. Hmmm. Wow, that little statement meant a lot to me. This is what it meant:

America…I can’t tell you how much I love that word. I don’t love it just because I grew up being told to love it. I’m old enough now that I love that word for my own reasons. America. I live here. I work here. I was born here. America. This one’s even better: The United States of America. I love to say that. I love to write it down. I love being on the Internet and telling people that I’m from The United States of America. You know, being able to say that used to get responses like, “Wow. I’ve always wanted to go there,” or “Neat. America is a great country.” Funny thing, no one responds that way anymore. America – U.S.A. That used to really mean something. Not anymore. America is a joke everywhere but here. The world doesn’t revere America. They are laughing at America. They are spitting at America. They are burning American flags, and our President – who is to blame for that – doesn’t seem to give a good God damn. I don’t ever want to see another President of the United States of America bring my country down. I don’t ever want to have to admit that America is poorly-led or poorly represented world-wide. I don’t ever again want to hesitate from shame when I have to say, “I’m an American.”

So…Vive la France, girl. Whoever you are. You can rest assured that I WILL vote in 2000. I hope that I’m not the only one, too. I remembered my fire, and I reclaimed my patriotism today. We all need to do that. We all need to see that what’s going on here isn’t about people thousands of miles away. It’s about us. It’s about Americans. Our country, our home…it’s slipping through our fingers. We don’t have a whole lot in recent memory to be proud of anymore. I want that to change. We all should. Get out there and clean up your little corners of America, people. Let’s turn it around. Because I want to get back on the Internet, someday, and have someone say, “You’re an American? Cool.”

Semper fidelis et semper gratus,
Amy Lockyear
Creator – The US Military Wives Club
March 8, 1999
6:25pm MST




I am finally having to face the fact that I am going to have to leave my beloved home here in Denver, CO. This place has been home for a long time, now, and it is the happiest home that I have ever known. John and I just “fit” here. We both fell in love with Denver and this state from the first day that we arrived. We like the people and the culture. We like the way the air smells and the way the weather works. We love the mountains, of course, but it’s more than that. We came out here and figured out that we really could make it all on our own. In fact, before the financial strain of USMC Recruit Training, we were doing better than ever before in the money department. It was here that we realized what being a “grown-up” was about and it was here that we found that “groove” in our marriage that works for us. So…our heartstrings – especially mine – are singing pretty loudly. I knew it was coming – the move – but I guess the reality of it is setting in, now.

I think it’s funny, sometimes, how attached we humans get to material things. Things we can touch and things we can smell and things we can see. I mean, I really used to believe that home is where you hang your hat, and that it was where you put out your knick-knacks and furniture. You know…the place where all your stuff – your things – were. I don’t believe that anymore. Home is a special place. It is a place you run into, sometimes by mistake, and you instantly know that you belong there. You can make a happy house anywhere if you have the right attitude and outlook on things…but home is harder to come up with. The word “home” connotes roots and love and attachment. “Home” drums up thoughts of contentment, safety, and stability. For some, “home” also means a close proximity to family. For me, the most important thing that defines “home” is a feeling of belonging. It’s a place where you belong and fit. I love my family, but I have never belonged in the places that my family lives. I have never fit there, and I always felt restless – like there was a better place for me than the regions that I grew up in. I grew up in Arkansas and then in Saint Louis, Missouri. Both places are nice. They are both aesthetically pleasing regions and I never by any stretch of the imagination would say that “I’m too good” to live there. It’s a different point altogether. I just didn’t belong there.

We didn’t move a lot when I was young, but we did move several times. In each new place, I was always obsessed with making what I called “my environment.” My mother will tell you that I did this, and I would vow each time not to come out of my room until it was perfect. I would rearrange the furniture, alphabetize my books, hang my pictures in all different places, pile my stuffed animals in a painstakingly “perfect” way, etc. I was almost obsessive-compulsive about it. I mean, I would sometimes do this for 10 hours or more – just isolating in my room until my mother determined that I was being silly and broke me away from it. I was trying to make my place in our house where I felt that I belonged. The place where I felt “at home.” It never worked. Not even once.

When John and I got our first apartment after getting married, I did the same thing. It drove John nuts. At this time in my life, it was really becoming a need in my gut. I mean, I was acting like a crazy lady. I would cry and blubber over something like, “I can’t find the right place for the towels.” I was focusing on the material things. After all, your stuff was what made your home, right? If I could just get the freaking towels in the perfect place, it would be home, right? We were around family, we had all our stuff, we had eachother, we had decent jobs, and we were in a city that we both knew like the back of our hands…so what was wrong with me? Well, I wasn’t home. I wasn’t in that special place. We made our house, and we were happy there. We had our daily lives and our love for eachother and the care and support of our families. I wasn’t miserable by any stretch, but there was always something wanting.

In early 1997, we came here to my paradise on earth – Denver, Colorado. When we moved into this apartment, I didn’t “make an environment.” We just put the stuff wherever there was room for it and played with the particulars later. I never panicked that the house didn’t look right. I didn’t cry or feel nervous about it. I was immediately at ease. We went to Wal-Mart the first week we were here to replace some things we had thrown out in the move – cleaners, sponges, hand towels – that type of stuff. Unbeknownst to me, the tag was sticking up out of the back of my shirt, and a woman came up behind me and tucked it under, smiled at me, and said some greeting or other. I knew then that I was at home. Home is a magical place to find…it really is. When you find it, or if you already have, then you’ll know exactly what I mean.

So…I’m a little torn up about leaving, but I know that my mountains will always be here, and I know that I can come back to them someday when we’re finished contributing to the economy later on in life. I love this country, so I’m proud that my family will be doing its part to protect her and honor her. Our new duty as a Marine Corps family is the only thing that I can think of that would actually get me to move away from this heavenly place.

I look at it like we’re leaving so that my husband can make sure that it is always here for us. For all of us. So, wherever your home is, please know that my husband and many men and women like him are voluntarily leaving their homes to protect yours. Honor them, pray for them, and cherish them. These brave few cherish our home here in America. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t swear an oath, don a uniform, and offer up their lives for you. Never forget them…they won’t ever forget you.

God Bless,
Amy Lockyear
Creator - The Military Wives Club
06 March 1999, 1:39pm MST