“Thank you for your service” is what most people say to veterans. For Rory Sheriff, a UNC Charlotte graduate who left Reading, PA for Desert Storm at nineteen, those words don’t come close to what he actually lived through.
“I went in October of 1989. Basic training and AIT at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. From there, I went to Germany. While I was in Germany, Desert Storm broke out. We were a rapid deployment unit — anywhere in the world in less than 48 hours, set up and ready to go to war. And we did. I was there a little under nine months. Got back in May.”
Sheriff stops talking for a moment when he gets to that part. Nineteen years old, barely out of high school, about to go to war. Even the paperwork they had to fill out made it real.
“You don’t know it’s traumatic when you’re in it. You’re signing your will, putting everything in your mom’s name in case you don’t make it back. You don’t realize how much that changes you forever.”
A nineteen-year-old from Reading had never seen anything like the desert. But what Sheriff found there wasn’t just sand and bad food — it was brothers who’d stick with him for life.
Black soldiers in Desert Storm
Sheriff and other Black soldiers found each other in the chaos. It didn’t matter if you were from New York or L.A. — you were all serving the same country that didn’t always have your back.
“We, as Black men, we came together. Brothers from Philly, New York, Miami, Alabama, Chicago, Saginaw, L.A. — all over. We shared this common experience, and our bond was strong. We naturally had our own leaders. We made sure we were protecting each other, first and foremost.”
The conditions were brutal. Basic comforts most people take for granted — regular meals, clean water, a shower — became luxuries in the desert.
“There were no regular showers. Sometimes we had field showers, but often we didn’t. Food was MREs most of the time. Once in a while, hot food came through, and we were thankful. But mostly, it was brown boxes in the dirt.”
They all made it home. Sheriff still thinks about that.
When Sheriff returned to the States in May 1991, he thought the hard part was over. He was wrong. The war followed him home in ways he couldn’t have imagined as a teenager signing his will in the sand.
Coming home with PTSD
Back in civilian life, Sheriff knew something wasn’t right. The hypervigilance that kept him alive in combat didn’t shut off when he got home. His body reacted to every loud sound or sudden movement as a learned survival response.
“I didn’t know I had PTSD. I knew what I was feeling was from the war, but I didn’t have the name for it. It was actually my cousin, who also served, who told me, ‘Man, you might want to go to some groups.’ And when I did, I realized — that’s what I’d been going through.”
It never stopped. Sheriff couldn’t walk into a room without checking every corner. Sheriff couldn’t enter a room without automatically cataloging every possible threat, every exit strategy, every way to protect the people around him.
“Every room I go into, I scan it. Entrances, exits, best way to protect the people with me. Loud noises, backfires, books dropping — used to make me jump into a combat mindset. Somebody could’ve dropped a book and they could’ve lost their life. That’s how wired I was.”
Even his own home wasn’t safe from the war’s reach. The hypervigilance that kept him alive in combat created new realities at home.
“When my kids were in college, if they came home late, they had to announce themselves — even if I was sleeping. ‘Dad, don’t shoot us!’ That was real. I’ve got the Ring camera now, but back then, that was how we lived.”
Life after the military
Finding work that made sense proved difficult. Sheriff gravitated toward jobs that felt familiar — anything with structure, authority, the kind of clear hierarchy he understood from the Army.
“I worked retail, was a mailman, and I was a corrections officer for about five years. But it felt like I was locked up too, watching my brothers behind bars. It gave me the same euphoric feeling as the military, and that wasn’t healthy. I knew I didn’t want to keep living like that.”
The corrections job was particularly difficult. Seeing other Black men locked up, knowing the system that had trained him to serve was the same one putting his community behind bars — it fed something unhealthy in him, a cycle he recognized he had to break.
But Sheriff had something else, a passion that predated the military and survived the war: writing. It had been with him since high school, a constant through everything else.
“I’ve always been a writer. High school, I was writing. Later, I was a radio personality for sixteen years — Charlotte, Charleston, Baltimore, Texas. But theater became my second home. I’m an actor, a director, and a playwright. I’m the founding artistic director of BNS Productions (Brand New Sheriff Productions), Charlotte’s African American repertory theatre company.”
The discipline that got him through war served him as an artist. His writing routine sounds like military training early in the mornings, rigid schedule, mission-focused execution.
“I wake up three or four in the morning and write. Used to go to a 24-hour coffee shop. Write until one in the afternoon, crash, then carry on my day. That’s straight from the Army. The military gave me that discipline.”
Art became his way of processing what he’d lived through, of making sense of the contradiction of serving a country while carrying the weight of killing for it. But even in his creative work, he runs up against the limitations of how civilians understand military service.
Why “thank you” isn’t enough
Sheriff appreciates the intent behind the phrase most veterans hear constantly. He knows people mean well. But good intentions don’t bridge the gap between what people think they’re thanking veterans for and what veterans actually experienced.
“I hear ‘thank you for your service,’ and I know where it comes from. I appreciate the intent. But there’s still ignorance in it. It doesn’t hit the way people think it does.”
It took traveling to Africa for Sheriff to hear words that actually reached him. In Ghana, a stranger at a club recognized something in Sheriff that went deeper than polite acknowledgment.
“A big man at a club door looked at me and said, ‘Akwaaba.’ It means welcome home. That hit me harder than any thank you. That’s what I needed to hear.”
The difference between “thank you” and “welcome home” isn’t just semantic. One keeps the veteran at a distance, acknowledging their service as something separate from civilian life. The other recognizes that they belong, that they’ve earned their place in the community they served.
What four years of war does to you
On paper, Sheriff’s military service was finite: four years active duty, four years reserve. But the impact wasn’t something he could file away with his discharge papers.
“You’re nineteen, driving tanks, jumping out of planes, firing rockets. You don’t get to be a kid. So those four years — they’re forever. They shaped me for life.”
The bonds formed in that crucible don’t fade with time. When Sheriff reconnects with his fellow veterans — at reunions in Atlanta, Dallas, Myrtle Beach — something remarkable happens.
“When we reconnect — Atlanta, Dallas, Myrtle Beach — we’re nineteen again. Joking, laughing, like no time passed. Gray in our beards, but nineteen in our hearts. Because we never got to be kids then.”
They talk about the same things every time they meet, as if hearing the stories for the first time. The repetition isn’t memory loss — it’s ritual, a way of honoring what they survived together. They’re processing experiences that civilian life doesn’t have language for.
These men were teenagers who never got to be teenagers. They shifted quickly from school life to warfare, trading prom plans for drafting wills. That kind of compressed growing up leaves marks that last a lifetime.
PTSD doesn’t go away
Sheriff is clear about his reality: PTSD isn’t something you cure. It’s something you learn to live with, to manage, to work around. Some days are better than others.
“It’s not going away. I’ve learned emotional maturity, so I’m not as easily triggered as I once was. But I have brothers still suffering. When a veteran says they’re not okay, we rally up. Because when veterans talk suicide, it’s serious. Too many are gone.”
The veteran suicide rate is a crisis that doesn’t get enough attention outside military communities. When a brother in arms reaches out for help, Sheriff and his network respond immediately. They understand the stakes in a way that civilian support systems often don’t.
Sheriff believes in holistic approaches to healing — getting veterans outdoors, into nature, connected with each other and with activities that ease the mind.
“Hiking, fishing, nature — it eases our minds. I think there should be more support for those programs. And yes, the VA opening up to cannabis as treatment is a good thing. I don’t smoke regularly, but I support it. It helps some veterans.”
But for Sheriff, the most important medicine has been art. Theater lets him channel his experiences and turn trauma into something meaningful for others.
The weight of what he did in service — the lives taken, the moral complexity of killing for country — doesn’t go away. But art gives it purpose beyond the original mission.
“I’ve literally killed in the name of this country. I don’t feel good about it. I’m conflicted. But art is another kind of service. It’s where I put what I’ve lived through so maybe someone else feels less alone.”
Resources
Immediate Help
Veterans Crisis Line – 24/7 help for veterans in crisis. Call or text 988 and press 1, or chat at 988lifeline.org.
Mental Health & PTSD Support
VA PTSD Program Locator – Search for local treatment programs, support groups, and counseling specifically for PTSD. Visit ptsd.va.gov.
Vet Centers – Community-based counseling centers for veterans and families, offering readjustment counseling, family support, and referrals. Call 877-927-8387 or search at va.gov/find-locations.
Community & Outdoor Programs
Team Red, White & Blue – A nonprofit that helps veterans build community through fitness, outdoor activities, and social connection. Learn more at teamrwb.org.
Wounded Warrior Project – Project Odyssey – Adventure-based mental health support programs for veterans living with PTSD, offered free of charge. Details at woundedwarriorproject.org.
Creative Arts Therapy
Creative Arts Therapies at VA – Music, drama, dance, and writing therapies available at select VA facilities. Ask your local VA or visit va.gov/health-care/about-va-health-benefits/therapies.
Local Charlotte Arts Organizations
Brand New Sheriff Productions – Founded by Rory Sheriff in Charlotte, NC, this company stages original works and reimagined classics that reflect Black life, resilience, and healing.
Big Faith Productions – A Charlotte-based nonprofit using performing arts to empower youth and young adults through acting, singing, playwriting, and dance. Phone: (704) 890-2853 | bigfaithproductions.com