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We’re at a moment when those who’ve served—whether in the military, as teachers, or in their communities—are needed more than ever to remind us what it means to stand together, even when we’re divided.
After my last post, where I had a run-in with that “alternate-reality interrupting cow,” a protester who’s also a veteran, I’ve been reflecting on our shared experiences. While his gotcha questions were wrapped in bad faith, I know he and I ultimately both care about this country. And that matters. We don’t always get it right, but it’s our duty to try. So, despite our disagreements, I want to honor his service, too. In that spirit, I’m reposting a speech I gave on Memorial Day last year. It’s a more solemn reflection than my usual fare, but if you’ve been with me long enough, you know I’m not just about the jokes. This speech is about the human spirit, sacrifice, and what it means to be an American.
Take a moment, sit with it. And maybe—just maybe—it’ll remind us why the work we’re doing right now is so important.
Just past noon on the 13th of January, 2018, I was running errands in Minot, North Dakota, when I received a phone call that burned the details of that bright, cold Saturday afternoon into my memory forever. The call was from my youngest child, my fifteen-year-old daughter, who was living in Navy housing on Ford Island in the middle of Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. She was sobbing on the phone. She kept saying that she missed me and she loved me. She said that I meant so much to her and that she appreciated everything I had done for her. She said she was calling to say goodbye.
Moments earlier, she had been startled awake by the harsh tone of a civil defense warning on her phone and a message: “Ballistic Missile threat inbound to Hawaii. Seek immediate shelter. This is not a drill.” An alert message on her television said that a missile may impact land or sea within minutes and that those who were indoors should remain there and stay well away from windows.
“It can’t be true,” I told her. “It can’t be true.” Those words were as much a prayer as they were fatherly reassurance because geopolitical saber-rattling at the time made it seem at least somewhat plausible that the paranoid and power-hungry dictator in North Korea had indeed just launched a nuclear missile at Hawaii, and the possibility of a false warning was practically incomprehensible.
Still, I insisted that it couldn’t be true. This was not the natural order of things. My teenage daughter could not be in harm’s way because so many of us had gone there for her. It couldn’t be true because so many had served and sacrificed everything in the hope that their’s might be the last generation of Americans to know the devastation of war. I explained to my daughter that it couldn’t be true because the whole world knew the consequences of such an attack upon the United States. Those we honor here today have shown them.
There is no doubt that had that missile alert not been a false alarm—if even a failed nuclear missile had been launched at Hawaii—it would have marked the end of that paranoid dictator’s regime. Americans like those who have gone before us, Americans like those with whom many of us have served, and Americans like my own son and son-in-law then serving on warships in the Pacific - would have responded, and that missile launch would now be considered History’s most ill-conceived surprise attack on the Hawaiian Islands.
Sometimes—and I feel this is especially true for those of us who have served—the things that were most miserable as we experienced them seem the funniest in retrospect and funnier still in every retelling.
But that is not true for those incidents where life is lost, and I have never been able to laugh about that phone call from my daughter. There is something terribly unfunny about your child experiencing real fear for their life. I have, however, come to see that call as a gift. It showed me that my daughter’s first instinct, when she thought she had only minutes to live, was to call her father.
This kind of last communication with a loved one is exceedingly rare for those lost in service to our country.
If we could give that gift to our fallen service members—if they could reach out to us today— we can only imagine what they would say. But it’s a good exercise. It’s almost impossible to imagine those we so revere using their last moments to say anything vain, divisive, or mean-spirited.
Based on that call from my daughter, I like to think they would tell us that their final thoughts were of some other human being who was important in their life.
As a veteran, I like to think they would tell us how all of our petty individual differences go away when we run, or ride, or sail together into battle.
As a teacher, I’d like to think they would tell all the kids to put away their cell phones and pay attention. Maybe they would tell us ALL to stop pecking at our phones and start paying attention to each other.
Maybe they would tell us to stop shouting past one another and start having real conversations. Or maybe they would ask us to remember that we never know which conversation with a loved one will be our last.
Unfortunately, the veterans we have lost cannot call us, so we gather here today to make that call to them. That call to say: “We miss you. We love you. You mean so much, and we appreciate all that you have done for us.”
God bless you all,
God bless all who serve this great nation,
And God bless America.
The protester I encountered recently, while responsible for his own actions, is a product of a much larger problem. His behavior wasn’t honorable, but the root causes of his anger aren’t entirely his fault either. Our mediums for communication—led by bad-faith actors like Trump and Musk (and, let’s be honest, Russia)—have weaponized outrage and disinformation, preying on those who feel isolated and left behind. They profit from division, pushing conspiracies that twist the truth and exploit real grievances.
However, the deeper issue goes beyond those platforms. It’s a broader failure of leadership and community. We’ve let people like that protester fall through the cracks. We don’t treat our veterans well when they come home. We haven’t provided the support or connection that people like him need to thrive. It’s a failure of all of us—our leaders, institutions, and society.
If we’re going to fix this, we need to do more than fight disinformation. We need to rebuild trust, take care of our own, and ensure that no one is left so lonely that they turn to anger and lies. That’s the real call we face today. And it’s going to take all of us.
If this message resonates with you, I ask for your support. Every contribution helps us rebuild trust and create a future where no one is left behind. Thank you for sticking with me through this post and for standing with us in this fight.
With the U.S. House seat open, the race for North Dakota’s sole congressional district has never been more competitive.
Trygve Hammer is a Navy and Marine Corps veteran, a former public school teacher, and a freight rail conductor. He was appointed to the Naval Academy from the fleet and served as a Marine helicopter pilot, forward air controller, and infantry officer. 
From bunking down in oilfield camps to engaging uninterested teenagers in the classroom, Trygve’s career has been a tour of duty in the trenches of American life. Trygve’s commitment to public service is unwavering. He lives by the ethos “Officers Eat Last” and is ready to serve as North Dakota’s next Congressman, putting the people's needs first.
Watch Trygve’s campaign launch video here [ [link removed] ].

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