LCPL Ronald Kibilko, USMC
I am the proud stepdaughter of LCPL Ronald Kibilko, USMC, Vietnam. Non military have assumed that I am military frequently enough that I forget how service and sacrifice (trauma) is passed down. I shadowed daddy and the VFW boys so much that I feel more comfortable around macho service members than so called polite society.
I also forget that people don’t have the same way of walking through the world. I listened to stories of torture and murder curled up with the boys from six years on. The other kids said that I was sick. The boys would just tip their beer at me and wink. They taught me confidence and encouraged my moxie. The moxie is how military members know that I’m not nor could I ever be military. I question every single order, always. They will gladly follow my orders and get dressed down with the cutest smiles though.
Yes, ma’am. I understand, ma’am. I will not disrespect the service of another who served honorably again, ma’am. Our apologies, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.
I tend to forget that others don’t have the same knowledge. I was in the Cincinnati projects with Baba, a man born in the unforgiving Sahara, a Cincinnati native and a family who had just moved up from the South. All of whom were melanated in the projects. Normal enough except for my ghostly pale face. I need hijab to fit in even slightly.
It was night and the men were moving furniture into an apartment. I was in the warm van watching. I heard the gunshots and looked in the direction. I didn’t see anyone running so I looked around to see if there was any activity. I’m not moving unless I have too. It was winter and the van was so warm. The only thing that I saw was the men throwing a mattress in the snow and scrambling for cover.
Now, I was irate that they threw the mattress in the snow because it was going to be a bitch to clean and or dry out. I just sat there cussing them out to no end while wondering what was taking them so long. I then saw Baba ducking and running between vehicles to get something out of the van. The other men were doing likewise with the truck. I found them to be acting foolishly and was about to cuss Baba out when he gave me a reality check.
He was genuinely concerned about me and everyone else. I was looking at him as calm as could be. When he noticed, he laughed and said that he’d be back soon. He didn’t even let me cuss him. We had a lovely argument about what constitutes danger on the way home. I apologized because I admit to my mistakes.
Not everyone can realize that shots fired a few blocks away are not an imminent threat. I need to realize that just because I am not afraid nor about to phone authorities, it is normal and sometimes necessary for others to be afraid. Daddy was terrified for me but he learned to just shake his head and laugh. He heard the stories well after the fact so that he had proof of life before hearing how I almost got killed.
If daddy were still alive, he’d be shaking his head. He’d ask how and then say never mind. He’d say that everything always happens to me. He never could wrap his head around it. I was sickly, an incredibly good person and highly intelligent. He was a violent, womanizing addict who carried massive trauma.
He would say that only the good die young all the time. I questioned him as a child if I was going to die young then. He would roll his eyes and curse before trying to explain that it’s just a saying. Then the intelligence kicked in and he had to argue with me about it. The poor man. He never could win and I absolutely loved him with all of my heart. He was beautifully broken and taught me reality when others refused for my own good. I was a daddy’s girl and he was my daddy. That’s all that mattered.
So fuck the glad handers, daddy. I’m your girl. The boys aren’t doing right. I can’t allow them to dishonor their service and sacrifice. I’m doing this for the boys. I’m doing it for the POW/MIA slaves. You are NOT forgotten. No matter who you are, you are not forgotten.
Nostrovia, daddy!
