Every year, on Nov. 11, I woke up knowing that I didn't have to go to school. I still had work to do, though: pull my Scouting uniform out of my closet, tuck the shirt into my pants and drive 15 minutes to the cenotaph at the rec centre to huddle in the cold with my friends. We would stand holding our flags, my dad beside us, his breast pocket gleaming with medals he'd earned from his 25 years of military service. Sure, the ceremony was long, and for many years, I didn't know the words to "God Save The Queen." But the ritual always felt incredibly important, not just because I'd been taught about the sacrifices of the uniformed men and women at the ceremony and the horrors of war.