Melvin Morris did not set out to make history. He set out to serve.

That distinction matters—because it helps explain how a young man from segregated Oklahoma would grow into one of the first Black soldiers to serve in the U.S. Special Forces—and then quietly carry the weight of his service for decades before the nation fully recognized what he had done.

In recorded interviews, one thing comes through clearly: Morris never used more words than he needed. 

“After four days and hundreds of questions filmed for our exhibit, what stayed with me most was how disciplined Melvin was with words,” recalls Jenny Page, Content Strategist at the National Medal of Honor Museum, who interviewed Morris extensively for Conversations: Ordinary Americans, Extraordinary Stories. “He would think, then answer—clean, precise, and complete. But when you asked him about purpose, or why he kept telling his story, something shifted. That’s when you realized how much depth he was carrying.”

To understand that depth, you have to begin where Morris did.

The Boy from Okmulgee, Oklahoma

Melvin Morris was born on January 7, 1942, in Okmulgee (oak-MUHL-gee), Oklahoma, and grew up in a large family. His father, John, worked as a handyman while his mother managed the household. As a boy, he spent his time helping his father, fishing, and running around with his three brothers and four sisters. 

Long before the Army taught him fieldcraft, Morris learned it at home. He spent his childhood hunting and fishing, and he credits his father with teaching him to navigate the woods, track what others missed, and stay calm when conditions changed—skills that would later map naturally onto the demands of Special Forces.

“I was hunting around ten years old,” Morris recalled in a 2015 interview with the Library of Congress. “I was carrying 100 pounds of cement when I was 12 … Our family knew how to survive.”

Military service was a strong part of the Morris family story. Several men in his family had served—including two older brothers and an uncle who had been a paratrooper in the all-Black 555th Parachute Infantry Battalion—known by many as the Triple Nickles—during World War II, and Morris remembered admiring their uniforms as a child. 

He came of age when small-town Oklahoma offered limited career opportunities beyond what you could create for yourself. Morris enlisted in the Oklahoma Army National Guard at the age of 17, knowing it would provide some income and still keep him close to home.

A Uniform as a Doorway—and a Proving Ground

After proving himself in the National Guard, Morris transitioned to active duty in the U.S. Army. For him, the Army was not just a job; it was a place where performance mattered, and the stakes felt real. It was also one of the first environments where he worked side by side with people whose backgrounds differed from his own.

“We all had the same common goals, same common interests, so we got along well,” says Melvin in his National Medal of Honor Museum interview for the exhibit. 

Those early years shaped how he viewed leadership, accountability, and teamwork—lessons that would become foundational as he set his sights on one of the most demanding paths in the military: the newly founded U.S. Army Special Forces, the Green Berets. 

“I was intrigued,” adds Morris. “They were private. They were tough. They were professional. I had to volunteer.”

He volunteered, not fully convinced he’d be selected—and was. He also knew he didn’t match the stereotype on paper. “I was 5 foot 4 inches, 117 pounds,” Morris said in the 2015 interview. “But I was a strong little fella.” 

Among the First: Earning the Green Beret

When Morris set his sights on Special Forces, the “Green Berets” were still new enough to feel more like a whispered reputation than a widely understood assignment. Special Forces soldiers had already earned a name for doing the kind of work others couldn’t—or wouldn’t: small teams, unconventional missions, and demanding standards that required initiative as much as endurance.

Morris began Special Forces training in the early 1960s, at a moment when the green beret was moving from an unofficial symbol to a nationally recognized one. In 1962, President John F. Kennedy formally authorized the green beret for Army Special Forces, cementing it as an official mark of the force. 

Morris was there at the beginning of that era—one of the Army’s earliest soldiers to don an actual green beret, and one of the first Black soldiers to serve in Special Forces. For him, the prestige wasn’t just in the title. It was in the standard: the expectation that you could be counted on when conditions were uncertain, the mission was complex, and the team had to hold together under pressure.

“Just Something I knew I Had to Do.”

On September 17, 1969, near Chi Lăng in Vietnam, his training was put to the ultimate test.

During a combat mission, his unit came under intense enemy fire. When Morris learned that a team commander, Master Sergeant Ronald Hagen, had been killed near an enemy bunker, he did not hesitate. Short-handed and under heavy fire, he led an advance toward the position to recover the fallen soldier’s body—knowing that the sergeant was carrying a map case containing sensitive American military intelligence.

With heavy fire pounding all around him, Morris pressed forward. He single-handedly assaulted and destroyed multiple enemy bunkers using grenades, clearing the way to retrieve both the sergeant and the classified materials—taking the time to pray over the fallen soldier’s body. He was wounded three times as he struggled toward friendly ground. Read his full Medal of Honor citation here.

Reflecting years later, Morris described the moment with characteristic restraint:

“You go in together, and you come out together. That's the way it is.”

After being evacuated and recovering from his wounds, Morris returned stateside to his wife, Mary, and their three children—Melvin Jr., Jennifer, and Maurice. After he recovered and was medically cleared, Morris returned to Vietnam for a second tour—and continued serving in Special Forces there until 1971.

When asked, years later, “Did you ever question what you had to do on that day?” Morris replied, “I do not question a moment. It was just something I knew I had to do … I never question a moment—’Is this going to be unsafe? Should I do this?’—it just clicks … In training, you are taught to take charge of the situation and get involved without even thinking. It is just like your sixth sense kicking in.”

For his actions that day, he was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross—one of the nation’s highest military honors.

But the full recognition of his actions that day would take far longer.

The Long Road to Rightful Recognition

Melvin Morris retired from the U.S. Army at Fort Hood, Texas, in May 1985 after 23 years of service.

In May 2013, Morris received a phone call he never expected: President Barack Obama was on the line to tell him his Distinguished Service Cross was being upgraded to the Medal of Honor. 

The news came with one catch—he couldn’t tell anyone yet. “He also told me I had to keep it confidential,” Morris recalled later. “Keep your lips zipped for 10 months? That’s tough,” he joked. 

On March 18, 2014, Morris received the Medal of Honor at the White House, in a ceremony recognizing 24 veterans whose awards were upgraded after a review intended to correct long-standing disparities. 

When Morris spoke about the honor, he consistently redirected attention away from himself—toward the men who fought beside him, and especially those who didn’t make it home. 

The Legacy Beyond the Medal

For Morris, the Medal of Honor did not signal an ending. It clarified an obligation.

“To me personally, it means I was given a platform to do some good—a greater good,” he said in his Conversations exhibit interview. “And that platform was to reach out to young people. Being a minority, I know what happens when you don’t have a direction, so it gives me the opportunity to mentor young people.”

He continued to speak, mentor, and engage with veterans and students for many years, believing that sharing his story—honestly and without embellishment—might help others navigate their own struggles. 

“There was a different Melvin when he talked about what came after the war,” Page recalls, referring to the extensive interview process as part of the Conversations exhibit. “He became reflective—almost poetic. You could tell he felt a responsibility to keep showing up, even when it wasn’t easy, because he believed his story might help someone else survive their own.”

Preserved in His Own Words

Melvin Morris continues to represent the Medal of Honor at events throughout the country. And at the National Medal of Honor Museum, visitors can encounter him not only through written history, but through a unique combination of filmed interviews and interactive technology in the Conversations exhibit. Instead of watching a single video from start to finish, guests can choose questions—about leadership, service, fear, family, and more—and see and hear Morris respond in his own recorded words.

“The technology doesn’t invent Melvin,” says Page, who helped capture his story through over 800 questions about his life. “It preserves him—clip by clip—so visitors can hear his story in his own voice.”

Because each response is pulled from recorded footage, the experience captures a specific moment in time: Morris answering in his own words, from his own lived perspective. “That’s the closest thing we have to sitting across from him,” Page adds.

Presented by AT&T, the Conversations: Ordinary People, Extraordinary Lives exhibit is an invitation to listen carefully, ask thoughtful questions, and remember that history isn’t made in paragraphs—it’s carried forward through the people who lived it.