What Did We Do to Our Own?

The President's Own

It started with a video on my phone. A grainy clip from California. Riot gear. Zip ties. Screaming. People getting dragged by their hoodies. One protest turned into two, then four, then ten. My inbox filled with clips. Some real, some probably fake. I don’t even know who to trust anymore. I don’t watch the news. Not like I used to. Everything comes filtered through a screen. My phone, my laptop. Half the time I feel like I don’t know shit.

But I’m watching. I’m trying to learn. And I trust the people on the ground.

I saw the ICE raids. The protests. The riot gear. The screaming on both sides. I saw the National Guard had already been mobilized. But then I saw the headline: Marines Deployed.

That hit me different. Not riot cops. Not weekend warrior reservists. The Marines. Active Fucking Duty.

These are 19- and 20-year-old infantrymen from 29 Palms. These guys are programmed to take orders and stomp dicks into the dirt and concrete. I know because I’ve lived with them. Trained with them. I was one of them. And now they scare the hell out of me.

Instant obedience. That’s what we’re built for. They don’t think twice. That’s the discipline. That’s the brotherhood. And honestly, part of me still misses it. The quiet before the chaos. The weight of my rifle. The sweat pooling under my Kevlar. The flak on my chest. And the sense of purpose.

But I also remember how much I didn’t know. How fast fear turned to violence. How easy it was to be told who the enemy was.

Protesters. Professors. College kids. High school kids. Immigrants. Migrants. "Entitled brats."

You repeat the word enough times, and the boots forget they’re stepping on someone’s daughter. Someone’s son.

And yeah, those kids? They’re naive. Loud. Hopeful. Annoying even. But they’re not the enemy. That’s what eats at me. I’m all for stomping dicks and bad guys. Let’s get the rapists, predators, the traffickers, the real threats the fuck out of here.

But these kids with backpacks and poster boards? These so-called idiots with slogans and chants? They’re just trying to be heard. And there’s no "right" way to protest. That’s the point. We went to war over tea. What’s more American than that?

You can’t hand someone the right to speak, and then punish them when they use it.

I hope the Marines haven’t forgotten what they swore to protect. Please, go after the real threats. Not the young people. Not the Americans. They’re the future. They don’t know what they’re doing. Not really. They believe in something. Even if they won’t believe it tomorrow.

And now, with ICE rounding people up, criminal and citizen alike, I’m watching brown bodies treated like enemy combatants. Like cattle. No difference between immigrant, migrant, or felon. Just a face that looks like mine. A name that sounds like mine.

And I wonder: what’s to stop them from grabbing me? Because I speak Spanish? Because I don’t "look" American enough? Because I have a past?

I’m not even scared for me. I think I could handle it,physically, and intellectually. But what about my wife? My kids? What if I’m not there when they come?

That’s the fear that lives in my chest.

I’ve been on every side of this line. Marine. Cop. Protester. Inmate.

I’ve stood silent while a baton got too close to a kid’s face. And yeah, I’ve waved that baton myself. That’s something I have to live with. That’s something I have to answer for.

And I keep asking: Who are we protecting? Who are we serving? Are we doing more harm than good?

Now I’m asking it again: Who’s going to protect these kids from the crayon-eaters we trained to kill?

Because Marines aren’t riot police. They’re not trained to de-escalate. They’re trained to eliminate. When you send a dick stomper, a warfighter into a crowd and blur the line between protester and threat, you get blood.

You get regret. You get headlines that say things like "chaos" and "tragedy" instead of "leadership."

And I know how this goes. When command loses control, scared, angry young men with no rules of engagement and no clear enemy do what they were trained to do. They bring the smoke. They spill blood. That’s how the grass grows, right?

I don’t want anyone to get hurt. Not the students. Not the Marines. But I’m scared no one is going to pull them back. No one in command is going to have the balls to say:
This is not what we were built for.

We swore to protect the people and the Constitution. And protesting, peaceful or not, is one of the most American things you can do.

Obedience is not the same as service. Silence is not the same as patriotism.

Yes, Marines follow orders. But we’re also taught to lead. To question. To think. To protect. I hope they haven’t forgotten their oath.

Marines are held to a higher standard. We’re supposed to be the guardians of the nation. Not the fists of a fragile state.

And lately, I can’t tell if we’re watching life imitate art, or if we’ve stepped into a movie. I keep thinking about that line from Michael Bay’s The Rock, when Commander Anderson stands up to General Hummel:

“We swore an oath to defend this country against all enemies—foreign, sir, and domestic.”

That was fiction. This is not. This is real life.

And when the tear gas settles, and the headlines fade, and the hashtags go silent, the question won’t be about the protests.

The question will be: What did we do to our own?

I’m not asking this as a writer. I’m asking this as a father. As a citizen. As a Marine. Because if we stay silent, if we look away, if we let fear keep writing policy, then we’ve already lost. Not just the battle, but the country.

We need real leadership. Leadership that doesn’t hide behind armor and drones. Leadership that remembers the oath. Leadership that can walk into a crowd of civilians and see human beings, not hostiles.

We’re better than this. We have to be.

Because if we’re not, then the next video won’t just be grainy. It’ll be permanent. It’ll be a memory this country never outlives.

And someone else will be asking: What did we do to our own?