Courage, the Rock and the Megaphone

It’s game time, folks.

It’s time to choose sides.

I served as a Navy pilot—trained in discipline, duty, and risk. Later, I spent decades in classrooms teaching children to think critically, to speak truthfully, and to act courageously. I didn’t serve my country to sit quietly while our democracy frays at the seams.

I now choose the side that defends freedom, liberty, and compassion. I don’t care if you’re a Republican, a Democrat, or an Independent. If you share those same values, we’re on the same team.

Two months ago, during a time when silence felt safer than honesty, I found myself climbing onto a literal rock with a megaphone in my hand. Yes, the cost of speaking is real—but the cost of saying nothing is greater.

In my community, flags abound that wave not for the Constitution, but for a single man. Neighbors whisper concerns yet avoid protests—not from apathy, but fear.

Fear of retaliation. Fear of violence. Fear of being called “un-American” for defending America’s founding promise.

But what could be more un-American than allowing fear to silence truth? What could be more un-American than banning books from a military service academy because they do not align with your agenda?

Not long ago, the US Naval Academy—an institution that has shaped leaders for generations—was ordered to pull 381 books from its shelves. Works by Maya Angelou, Ibram X. Kendi, and Stacey Abrams. Books that stretch our understanding of race, power, gender, and justice

Books that make leaders. 

But here’s the thing: You cannot see the truth if you bury it.

Those books weren’t removed because they were false. They were removed because they were inconvenient.

That isn’t patriotism. It’s cowardice dressed in red, white, and blue.

So, I  stood on that rock, yellow megaphone in hand, aware that someone could lash out. I also knew that my silence could, in the eyes of some, make me complicit in a “woke” rebellion.

 I’ve been fired from schools for refusing to comply with policies that harmed children. I lost jobs, but I kept my integrity intact.

Courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s choosing your values over your comfort. There are some things that I cannot do.

If you feel that same tension—between safety and truth, comfort and conscience—then this is your moment, too.

Speak. Show up. Write. Protest. Vote. Teach.

Refuse to be silent.

Because democracy doesn’t collapse in one dramatic moment. It dies in whispers. In book bans. In our quiet compliance.

And it lives again when ordinary people do extraordinary things—like standing on a rock and refusing to shut up.

Democracy depends on ordinary voices refusing to be muzzled.

Where in your own life have you faced the choice between comfort and courage? I’d love to hear your story in the comments.

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