Discounted Dignity
Every November 11th, a ritual plays out that’s supposed to honor veterans but somehow manages to cheapen what service actually means. The coupons. The free pancakes. The smiling servers in flag shirts.
Even the VA has joined the chorus, promoting where veterans can “celebrate” with a free meal—as though the department responsible for our care has confused earned benefits with corporate giveaways.
It’s hard to describe the queasy feeling this provokes in me. It’s not gratitude; it’s voyeurism. It’s the sight of a nation watching itself be grateful, reassuring itself that everything is fine between civilians and veterans. You can almost hear the unspoken exchange: Here’s a burger, thank you for your service, now please don’t make us think too hard about what that service cost you—or us.
This spectacle of generosity works because it’s easy. It requires no policy reform, no empathy, no listening—just a "special" menu and a press release. But for many of us who served, it feels like we’re being invited to perform need, to appear thankful for the scraps of symbolic appreciation that substitute for actual concern.
The Free Meal That Said Too Much
A few years back, I decided to play along. We were living in California, and there was a restaurant I actually liked. They had a limited “veterans menu,” so I called in an order—why not, I thought, if it’s free? Twenty minutes later I’m in their upscale strip-mall foyer waiting to pick it up.
As I’m standing there, a man walks in who clearly lives outside. His pants are half down, he smells of the street, and the staff want him gone. They promise him food if he’ll sit quietly and not bother anyone. He gets a plate of hot food before I even get my takeout.
I shared a few “WTF” glances with another veteran waiting beside me, both of us unsure what we’d just witnessed. It wasn’t about who deserved the food—it was that the whole thing felt staged, like everyone was acting out their role in a civic morality play. Charity for him, gratitude for me, and comfort for everyone watching.
That’s what these rituals do: they turn real people into props for a national story about goodness. We’re not invited to be citizens; we’re cast as characters in someone else’s redemption arc.
Beyond Coupons for Citizenship
If citizenship is shared responsibility, then Veterans Day has become a coupon-cutting exercise in national self-absolution—a day to reassert belonging through branding rather than through solidarity.
We don’t need discounted meals; we need a moral economy that understands service as stewardship, not spectacle. We need a VA that leads the public in listening to veterans instead of selling our pain as seasonal marketing content.
I don’t want a free meal. I want a culture that refuses to confuse charity with justice, or service with servitude.
Veterans don’t need discounts.
We need dignity.