Dwain Northey (Gen X)

There is something almost beautifully absurd about the way our federal government has decided to define “service.”

Before diving in, it’s worth acknowledging an important reality that often gets lost in these comparisons: military service members and members of Congress operate in fundamentally different roles. One involves the possibility of physical danger, strict discipline, relocation, and legally binding orders that can place a person in harm’s way. The other involves legislative responsibility, policymaking, and governance in a civilian political system. Their responsibilities, risks, and compensation structures are not meant to be identical—and in many ways, they cannot be.

But here is where the comparison starts to bother me.

Take the typical young person who enlists in the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, or Space Force. They are often 18, 19, or 20 years old when they sign on the dotted line. Maybe they spend six years doing something absolutely essential but decidedly unglamorous—working behind a desk, processing paperwork, maintaining records, handling logistics, or doing any of the thousand administrative jobs required to keep the military functioning.

They may never fire a shot. They may never see combat. They may never come particularly close to a battlefield.

But they still signed a contract with the United States government.

They surrendered six years of their youth, accepted military discipline, gave up considerable personal freedom, and remained subject to being sent wherever the government decided they were needed.

They serve their six years.

Then what?

If they leave without a service-connected disability, congratulations! Here is your GI Bill. Maybe some education benefits. Maybe some other veterans’ benefits depending on the circumstances.

Thank you for your service.

Now let’s turn the telescope around.

Run for Congress.

Get elected to the House of Representatives.

Except there’s one little wrinkle in our comparison: the person running for Congress generally isn’t 18 years old.

They have to be at least 25 to serve in the House, and most members are considerably older than that when they first arrive. They have already had decades of life experience, education, careers, professional networks, and time to establish themselves.

So let’s make the comparison as fair as possible.

Imagine that young 18-year-old enlistee stays in the military for 20 years.

At 18, they put on a uniform.

At 20, they’re learning the job.

At 25, they’re a seasoned service member.

At 30, they’re an experienced noncommissioned officer.

At 35, they’re still serving.

And at 38?

They finally reach the point where they can say:

“I have given twenty years of my life to the United States military, and now I have earned my retirement.”

Twenty years.

Two decades.

Half the average American’s working lifetime.

Now take the other person.

Let’s say they don’t even get elected to Congress until they’re 32.

They serve six years.

At 38, they’re finished.

The military veteran has spent 20 years serving the government.

The politician has spent six.

Both are 38.

And yet their post-government trajectories can look remarkably different.

The military veteran walks away with a military retirement calculated from an enlisted pay scale.

The former member of Congress walks away with a congressional résumé that can open doors the enlisted veteran couldn’t even get through the lobby of.

That’s the part that makes me scratch my head.

The argument will inevitably be, “But Congress is a difficult job.”

Absolutely.

So is being a military member.

Congressional service carries enormous responsibility. Members deal with legislation, constituents, national policy, political pressure, public scrutiny, and the possibility of being voted out of office.

But here’s the absurdity:

The military doesn’t require you to be in danger for your service to count.

That administrative specialist sitting behind a desk is still subject to military law. They can be transferred. They can be deployed. They can be ordered into situations they didn’t choose. They don’t get to simply say, “You know what? I’m not really feeling Afghanistan this year.”

Their civilian counterparts can quit.

The enlisted member can’t just hand in a two-week notice.

And after six years, that 24-year-old veteran is suddenly expected to translate “military personnel specialist” into something a civilian corporation understands.

Meanwhile, the 38-year-old former congressman puts six years in Congress on the résumé and suddenly becomes an “experienced government affairs consultant.”

Funny how that works.

And let’s make the comparison even more uncomfortable.

The service member who joins at 18 and serves until 38 has given the government twenty years during the most formative decades of their adult life.

The person who gets elected at 32 and leaves at 38 has given the government six years.

Yet the six-year politician can potentially walk away with federal retirement benefits, continued access to federal healthcare programs, a substantial political network, and a résumé that can be worth a fortune in the private sector.

The military veteran has earned a pension through two decades of service.

The politician has acquired something arguably even more valuable:

connections.

The former congressman knows lobbyists.

Corporations know the former congressman.

Government agencies know the former congressman.

Other politicians know the former congressman.

And suddenly that six-year government employee is being offered a consulting contract worth more than the military retiree’s annual pension.

Again:

Funny how that works.

And this is where I think the conversation about “thanking veterans for their service” needs to become something more than a bumper sticker.

Because there is a profound difference between recognizing service and adequately rewarding sacrifice.

We have created a system where an 18-year-old can give the government twenty years of his life and still emerge financially behind someone who entered federal public service at 32, served six years, and left with a congressional résumé.

The young enlisted person gave the government their twenties.

Their thirties.

Their holidays.

Their weekends.

Their geographic freedom.

Their ability to make spontaneous decisions about where they wanted to live.

And potentially their physical health.

The politician gave the government six years.

Again, I’m not saying members of Congress don’t work hard.

I’m saying the scale of the commitment is wildly different.

And if we’re going to compare public servants, then let’s at least have the intellectual honesty to compare the entire package.

Not just the job.

The opportunity cost.

The years.

The restrictions.

The risk.

The retirement.

And most importantly, what happens after the government no longer needs you.

Because the military veteran gets a DD-214.

The congressman gets a résumé.

And in America, sometimes the résumé is worth considerably more.

Perhaps that’s the real irony.

We spend billions telling young people that military service is one of the noblest things they can do for their country.

And it is.

But maybe someday we should build a compensation system that reflects that nobility.

Because if an 18-year-old can give America twenty years and a 32-year-old politician can give America six, and the politician still walks away with the better long-term financial and professional deal, perhaps the problem isn’t that we’re failing to thank our veterans.

Perhaps we’re failing to value them.

There are two kinds of government service.

There is service to the government.

And there is service in government.

One gets you a DD-214.

The other can get you a pension, healthcare, a powerful résumé, a Rolodex full of influential people, and a second career explaining to corporations how government works.

And then we have the nerve to tell the kid who spent twenty years wearing the uniform:

“Thank you for your service.”

Maybe we should actually mean it.