“A memorial to the six thousand Iowa State College men and women who offered their lives during the World War in the cause of human liberty and free government.” — Gold Star Hall, Memorial Union

Imagine a taller, grumpier, redder, infinitely more dashing Mike Holmgren. Now, make that guy a mailman, and imagine me pissing him off for the better part of three decades: That’s my dad.

The Vietnam War was in full swing in 1968, and Pops decided to enlist. When I’ve asked him what made him go and do a thing like that, I’ve gotten everything from, “Well, I thought for sure I was gonna get drafted,” to, “Hell if I know.”

(He actually missed being deployed three times, spending most of that time in lovely El Paso, Texas. Ironically, Dad never would have been drafted, anyway, but he did get a swanky government job out of the deal, right Dad? Yeah … moving along.)

I’ve always thought his time in the service was directly responsible for some of his more endearing character traits — obeying traffic laws … speaking in a volume that varies between dull roar and full-on roar … cleanliness standards that put most hospitals to shame … stuff you’d expect from a former military man.

One of the many, many things we agree to disagree on is my default hairstyle: hat.

I started buzzing my hair a long time ago. I can go four months between bottles of shampoo, don’t blow my beer money on froofy-smelling Elmer’s Glue and don’t spend any more time in front of the mirror worrying about looking like a bigger tool than I already do. To be fair, it has its downsides: I burn my fat head if I don’t keep it covered in the summer, and it gets a bit chilly in the winter. Solution? Hat.

Dad, on the other hand, has a set of criteria governing head attire that makes most Islamic countries seem downright pragmatic. It’s not just location or events; he even considers the time of day and the weather. I’ve been yelled at for bending the bills of my hats, wearing them in cars and even for wearing them at night. Apparently, since the sun isn’t out, I’m not supposed to do that?

Now, I’ll be the first to admit there are certain places where a baseball cap is hardly appropriate attire. Of the places on campus you absolutely, positively do not wear a hat, Gold Star Hall is at the tippy top of the list.

Why? Respect.

Maybe it’s the 25 years of brainwashing, or the signs at both ends of the hall that ask you to remove your hat, but it really, really pisses me off when people think said request doesn’t apply to them.

I don’t care what your stance is on the wars we’ve fought. If you’ve got a few hang-ups with the last two or three, I’m right there with you, but that’s irrelevant. Asking you to take your hat off isn’t some political or religious gesture: It’s a request for gratitude and respect.

Gold Star Hall was part of the original Memorial Union, designed to commemorate ISU students and alumni that lost their lives in WWI. In 1959, they added the names of those lost in WWII to bronze doors that used to divide Gold Star Hall and the Zodiac Foyer. Those doors were removed in 1984 — go check out Cy’s Lounge in the Alumni Center — and the names on those doors, plus the names of those that died in Vietnam, were chiseled into the walls.

They’ve also added to that list five times since 2003, honoring those who may have been overlooked, along with those that lost their lives in Desert Storm and Desert Storm II: The Empire Strikes Back.

Point being, it’s a war memorial, and that makes it hallowed ground. That means I can remove my hat for the 10 seconds it takes to walk through there, and so can everyone else.

To be honest, I’d planned on writing this diatribe at some point in time, but I was saving it for later. Why the bump to leadoff hitter? Let me tell you a story:

After lunch last Monday I was heading back to the Daily for an afternoon of wonderful meetings. As I came up the stairs, I noticed a portly, middle-aged man in thigh-high khaki shorts, sandals with socks, and a tucked-in, short-sleeved, button-down dress shirt reading the sign at the entrance of the hall. Completing this lady-killing ensemble was a taxi hat so epically scenester I was genuinely surprised he wasn’t carrying an iPad.

It doesn’t bother me when the head covering is on account of religious sensibilities or chemotherapy treatment, but if it’s simply a sad mid-life crises attempt to reinvent oneself as a fashionista, that I can’t abide.

“Sir,” I call out, “mind removing your hat?”

No response. I try again.

“Sir, could you please take your hat off?”

He turns around. He looks equal parts constipated and appalled.

“Why?” he asked.

I play along. “… Why what?”

“Why is it any of your business?”

“You’re in a war memorial. I saw you read the sign.”

“So?” now he’s indignant. 

“So it’s the decent thing to do.”

His reply?

“Go f— yourself.”

Now, if we lived in a less litigious day and age, that would have been my cue to help him remove his hat and shove it straight up his ass. At the very least, I could’ve socked him in the nose for being a douche about it. It’s not like he wouldn’t have it coming.

Alas, that’s not the world we live in, and as I watched him waddle toward Gerdin, all I could do was secretly hope he’d catch fire before he got there.

I get that some people might think certain traditions are outdated, but I’m inclined to think we’ve all but lost any sense of respect and citizenship in our society.

I’m no Boy Scout, but I’m the guy that holds doors open, catches flak for addressing people as “sir” and “ma’am,” feels like a jerk when my girlfriend tries to pay for anything, and flat-out refuses to let my crazy neighbor lady pay me in anything but rhubarb pie for getting the branches out of her yard.

Chivalry might be dying, but it ain’t dead. Same goes for courtesy, same goes for respect. Rest assured, I’ll be pissing and moaning about this sort of thing all year. Someone needs to.

If you see me on campus, you’ll see me wearing a hat.

However, you see me walking through Gold Star Hall, my hat will be in my hand.

If you’re the type that’s above that sort of gesture, or just honestly forgot, I’ll go out of my way to remind you. That might seem brash, but if you’re inclined to oppose, I’m inclined to think you’re a jackass.

Maybe it’s because Dad raised me the right way, or maybe because I know about 20 guys who just left their families, again, to go get shot at, again.

Next time you walk through Gold Star Hall, stop and look around.

If you can’t be bothered with that, at least remember to take your damn hat off. It’s the right thing to do.