Dad.

Submitted by: Nicki, RI

Lead Photo: Leon Holmes’ original draft card, provided by the author.

I don’t talk about my father that much in public, but with everything going on in the world, and with Father’s Day coming up…I am.

Leon W. Holmes was born Oct 5th, 1924 in Rayville, Louisiana. He would talk to me about that era, being black (or Negro as they said back then), and how he wanted to leave Louisiana. Probably not the way he wanted, he was drafted in 1943 into the US Army.

He was in a segregated unit in North Africa–combat engineers. I remember him telling me stories about the difference between white and black in the military. He went on to go to Europe, live in Germany (my first name is a reflection of that), was a top boxer in the Army in Germany, traveling all over Europe competing in boxing matches. He was fluent in German, having graduated from DLI (my military folks know what that is).

He eventually found his way into Airborne and spent a majority of his career there, including doing things like jumping in Korea (and learning Korean as well) and testing the modern square parachute (T-11) by being part of a group of soldiers that would jump out of hot air balloons to see if this new parachute “worked.” A lot of his career from Korea on was semi-hidden from me, but I know he eventually found himself on a team with the Military Assistance Advisory Group in the early 60s. There would be stories of bringing gold into Laos to sway the local population and eating their food even while they weren’t in country so that they could embed with the culture.

He always told me how lucky I was that I was entering a military free of segregation, that as a minority officer, I’ll be a role model for any person of color under me, and how he never really got to see that in his military career. That always stuck with me.

He retired in 1964 and worked for the government doing things I don’t know for another 12 years. Moving to Oakland, marrying my mom in 1975, having me in 1976.

He died in 1998, 2 months before I graduated from the Air Force Academy. In fact, I was on the road on spring break with a bunch of friends doing music shows when I got that call. I got to talk to him on the phone before he passed. He told me how proud he was of me, about to graduate, and not to worry about him. He didn’t even want me to leave to come see him, that he would be fine.

I remember getting back to the squadron from the funeral and found the support of my classmates, and remembering that I have to live a life that is worthy of him. He’s the one that taught me how to act around authority. He’s the one that stood on the corner of the neighborhood every day, where the three gangs that intersected that corner respected him. He’s the one that instead of me taking a scholarship to a mostly white prep high school made me go to one of the toughest inner city high schools in California, so that I could be around people like me and learn about who I am. I will forever be grateful to him for that.

Anytime things get tough, or I have to reinvent myself in a different area of life, I remind myself that I am my father’s son. I am my father’s legacy.