Legacy Angels

A Tribute to My Dad, Master Gunnery Sergeant Albert Senna

 

My dad was born on March 5, 1936, in China to my grandmother, Annie Broderick. His father was largely absent from his life, so he was raised primarily in a single-parent home alongside his two siblings, Allan and Karen, as the oldest of the three. From early on, he learned responsibility, resilience, and what it meant to show up for the people you love—values that would define the rest of his life.

He grew up on the East Coast and attended East Hartford High School, graduating in the class of 1954. Even then, he stood out—not just academically, but as a leader. He was involved in the audio-visual club, played football, wrestled, sang in chorus, and served in both student leadership and honors organizations. He was driven, well-rounded, and full of potential, with dreams of becoming a doctor. But when financial limitations made college difficult, he made a decision that would shape his life—and so many others. He joined the United States Marine Corps.

My dad went on to serve 33 years in the USMC, including two tours in the Vietnam War, where he was awarded the Purple Heart for his bravery. Much of what he did in the military remained private, but I came to understand, even as a curious child digging through his papers, that he had lived a life filled with sacrifice, discipline, and courage.

Beyond the uniform, my dad had a love for life and connection. He played rugby, enjoyed darts, and traveled extensively—including to Thailand, where he met my mom. He had already taken the time to learn the language, both spoken and written, which says so much about the kind of man he was—curious, committed, and willing to meet people where they were. My mom was 23 and he was 35 when they met. They married and eventually made their way back to Connecticut to meet his mother.

For the first ten years of their marriage, they traveled often. With my dad’s military commitments and my mom adjusting to a new country and language, I believe they spent that time building a strong foundation—one that would later become the home I was lucky enough to grow up in.

I was born in September 1984 in Oshkosh, Wisconsin—though to this day, I’m not entirely sure why we were there. Soon after, we spent four years living in London before settling in Oceanside, California in 1988, where my parents bought the home we still live in today. That house holds a lifetime of memories.

Growing up, my dad was my constant. While many of my friends had moms who were always present, I had my dad—and at the time, I didn’t always understand how special that was. He was the one who helped me with homework, took me to school events, and drove me and my friends everywhere. He was my built-in chaperone, my steady presence. He left work at work and brought only calm, patience, and kindness home with him. He was soft-spoken, never harsh, and always made me feel safe.

There were moments, like when he dropped me off in his green Ford Pinto and I got teased, or when kids made comments about his clothes, that I didn’t fully appreciate him the way I should have. But now I understand—he wasn’t trying to impress anyone. He was just being himself, and he was fully devoted to his family.

After retiring from the military, my mom went to work and my dad went back to school, eventually earning his master’s degree in sociology. When I once asked him why he chose sociology, he simply said, “Because there’s no right answer.” At the time, I didn’t get it—but now I do. He saw the world in a thoughtful, open-ended way. He didn’t need all the answers—he valued understanding.
I remember him sitting in his favorite spot in the living room, watching sports—especially college games—and taking me to baseball games whenever there were giveaways. He loved the simple joy of getting “extras,” and even more, he loved sharing those moments with me.

Later, he returned to work as a tax consultant, working seasonally for over a decade. He also spent time as a substitute teacher at CSUSM and MiraCosta, teaching taxes. Even in retirement, he found ways to stay engaged, to contribute, and to connect.

Every Sunday, he attended church at the Mission at 9 a.m., followed by breakfast with his longtime military friends—something he looked forward to deeply, until time gradually changed that circle.
My dad was a simple, humble man. He didn’t need much, and he gave everything. To his family. To his country. To his friends. And especially to me.

Life was better with him in it. And while I didn’t always understand him growing up, I see him clearly now—and I am so incredibly grateful. Grateful for his sacrifices, his quiet strength, his unwavering presence, and the love he gave so freely.

I’m thankful I had him to guide me all these years. And I carry him with me, always.