I used to be a Republican. I voted for George W. Bush—twice—a voting record I can only regret. I watched in disbelief as the twin towers went cascading down in a rush of debris into the streets of lower Manhattan, unable to pry my eyes from the horror. My choice of President got on TV and assured me that the sons of bitches responsible were going to pay, and pay dearly. In that moment, I couldn't have asked for a more suitable form of justice. It felt good, or at least healthy, to let my anger rage out of control. I wanted to march down to my local recruiter and join the upcoming fight, and get back my own little piece of the twin towers, a location I had never been to, and buildings in which I knew not a single victim. And I know I wasn't alone,

One person who shared my anger, and rightfully so, was Pat Tillman. Tillman was a famous NFL football player, looking into the face of a multi-million dollar contract to play football for the Arizona Cardinals. Pat became what we all wanted to be—a person who didn't just talk shit about getting in there and mixing it up in the Middle East; he backed it up. When he said he was going to take his chances, we all believed chances would most certainly be taken.

Tillman had the look of both a hard-nosed football player from another era and a steel worker from the 1800's, hard, cut features, and a disposition that welcomed you to see what kind of change you would receive if you decided to swim upstream against his will. He hit hard, looked tough, and kept his voice quiet. When he signed up for the Army, he etched his name among our favorite heroes, and physically joined his own legend that most of us had believed for years: this is a man who means what he says and accepts no compromises; an American through and through, and one that I revere to this day.

Rather than join the Marines, I went to work for the Arizona State Senate, pushing pencils in the name of freedom. Meanwhile, our conflict in Afghanistan escalated, and we appeared to be kicking ass over there. Then, in March of 2003, we invaded Iraq. I have to admit, I was still so pissed over 9/11 that any act of aggression against the Middle East was a-ok with me, and I saw the invasion initially as a step in the right direction. I mean, they had to have helped the terrorists, right? They were most certainly harboring weapons of mass destruction, weren't they? I watched “Shock and Awe” from the comfort of my living room, but even in my anger I got the sense that something was amiss as I witnessed Baghdad smoldering in HD.

It was a year later that my war-mongering world was shaken to its core. My hero, Arizona Cardinal, Arizona State Sun Devil, Army Ranger, and the face of the American military effort in Afghanistan, had been killed in combat. The initial reports were that he was shot during a hostile situation with terrorists, but the world would later find out that Tillman's death was the result of “friendly fire;” an American hero was dead.

I heard the news that morning in my car as I drove to the State Capitol. I couldn't do anything but cry. I was so pissed and angry, but for the first time I wasn't mad at Muslims, or terrorists. I was mad at war. I was mad at the United States. I was so angry that Pat Tillman was in Afghanistan in the first place. I began to question my allegiance to the conflict I had so staunchly supported.

It was a strange thing for me that it took the death of a man whom I respected to open my eyes to the horror of the Afghan and Iraq conflicts, and to guide me to my current position: we have to get out of the Middle East. We have to stop fighting fire with fire. Violence never has, and as far as I know, will never be the answer to violence. Our continued presence in Afghanistan and Iraq is nothing more than an embarrassed child, scrambling to cover his tracks after breaking a window. Only, this child is being commanded by powerful men with multiple agendas and around a trillion dollars invested. What do we have to show for ourselves? What do the Afghan people have to show? Arguments can be made that a better government is a future reality in both places, but I bet if you asked every citizen of both countries if they would have liked to see the world try to come to the same ends through peaceful means, the poll would near 100% in favor of peace. And a world that changes peacefully doesn't have to bring its heroes home from overseas shrouded in the flag.

Tillman will now be forever remembered in his Army uniform, his face chiseled with anger, distorted with the determination to destroy his foe. Pat Tillman should have been remembered as using that hardened glare on the gridiron, striking fear into the hearts of his opponents on Sundays. Instead, the last thing Pat Tillman ever did was get shot and die in an arid desert, 7000 miles from the football field where his glory was established. He was a native son, a true American, and he died too soon for no good reason.

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