A Recollection

I am so off my game today. Spring break is this week. That means my routine has been interrupted. I slept in because I could. I also had to wake up my son, prepare lunch for him, our exchange student, and Tim who are all working on the geometry take-home exam. I have to be ready to leave at 2:20 to take them to the baseball game at school. In between I've tried to work on various projects for which I actually receive compensation. As it turns out, I can't do anything until I hear back from others. While I like the downtime, I never know when it's coming or when I will suddenly be swamped again. Since I can't get into the writing mood today, here's a piece I wrote a couple of years ago.

A Recollection

The professor--we called him George--snapped off the projector. The class was silent as the free end of the tape flapped around with each revolution of the reel before slowing down and finally coming to stop. We had just watched a short film depicting the aftermath of the Vietnam War.

We shifted in our seats. Our class, U.S. History 1940 to the Present, consisted mostly of juniors and seniors in their early 20’s. I was glad the film was over and glad that Vietnam was over too. I had grown up during Vietnam. The war was like elevator music for me--always in the background. I didn't pay much attention to it.

Although the war was over, the memory of it was as fresh as a television commercial seen over and over. As a generation we were happy that we didn't have to worry about being drafted into the war, didn't have to fight with our parents about the war, and didn't have to decide where we stood.

“George,” said one of the students, “at least we didn't treat the hostages like we treated the Vietnam vets. ‘Tie a yellow ribbon and all that.’ Did you hear that all the hostages were given life-time passes to major league baseball games?”

A few months earlier the country had welcomed home the hostages who had been freed from Iran. We were happy to focus on something positive.

“They’re becoming celebrities. You can hardly turn on the TV or radio without hearing their stories, what they’re doing now, or the gifts they received,” said another student.

“That’s true,” George nodded. “The hostages were given a hero’s welcome. You probably saw the ticker tape parade they received. How many parades do you think were held for the Vietnam vets?” George asked.

“I came back on a hospital plane with four inches between my nose and the stretcher above me.”

“Tony?” George asked. “Would you like to address the class?”

Tony seemed to be a little older than the rest of us. He wore his dark hair neat short while the rest of the young men wore theirs a little longer and shaggier. He also wore a plain green fatigue jacket and walked with a limp. He carried a cane.

“I was 17 when I went to Nam. I had all kinds of idealistic hopes, but I wasn't prepared for what it was all about. Until you put twelve to fifteen pounds of pressure on your shoulder and blow someone’s face off, you don’t know what it’s about. And I did it for nothing. I have to live with that.”

“But it was self defense, right?” someone asked.

“You can argue all you want about it being you or him. That’s bullsh*t. That doesn't make it any easier. In Vietnam most killing took place within 10 meters. So if you could see 30 feet away, you could see who you killed.”

Tony stared straight ahead as he spoke from a seat in the front row. He didn't seem to be addressing the class but seemed to be speaking from a place deep within himself. Though he was sitting, he held the top of his cane in his hand and rested the tip on the floor as if he needed it for support while sitting.

The class was transfixed. Most of us started at his back as he spoke.

Tony continued, “Our grandfathers who sent us over there don't acknowledge us. Our fathers don't acknowledge us because they won their war. Our generation doesn't acknowledge us -- they sat in protest and I didn't. The people that came behind us don't even know what the hell we did and don't care. We don't want parades and hero worship. We don't want people to say we were right all along. We just want people to say ‘Hey you did what you had to and you did a good job.’ I can live with the fact that the government sent me over there, but what I cannot forgive my government for is that they made me kill another human being.”

Tony spoke for the remainder of the class period as the rest of us sat spellbound. He told us about his injuries and his medals. George just let him talk.

When the class finally ended no one left for several minutes until it was apparent Tony had nothing more to say. As we slowly filed out of the room, each one of us stopped at the front row and reverently said “Thank you” to Tony. As I passed him I took a long look at his face. His face was attractive – young and old at the same time with deep lines that etched its contours. A slight scar ran the length of his cheek.

Since that day I've often thought of Tony and the others like him. When I think of the Vietnam War, I remember his tortured face and how he brought the war home to me.