Veterans Day 2023

In the heart of Ho Chi Minh City, beneath the shade of a weeping willow, stands the Vietnam War Memorial—a silent witness to the turbulent past that had shaped two nations. The air was heavy with history, and for one visitor, me, it became a gateway to a flood of emotions and memories.

As I approached the entrance, an unexpected wave of tears blurred my vision. I hastily wiped my eyes, vowing not to make a spectacle of myself. The memorial's gravity transported me back to 1972, to a time when my draft card meant the uncertain prospect of being thrust into a war half a world away and that I would become one of those who died on a land far from home and from my family.

There was a broadcast playing on a loop of Walter Cronkite, who most are too young to remember that concluded every broadcast with how many had died that day in battle. That was my future I wondered? I was more afraid than words can describe. It was a fear that is unlike being afraid of the dark, or a school fight, one hard to describe today but profoundly felt then. It was a chilling reminder of a past overshadowed by fear, a fear that gripped me as I navigated the exhibits. Each step through the museum unraveled layers of history, exposing not only the brutality of war but also the humanity that had been lost.

Once burdened with the dread of being called to duty, I found myself questioning the purpose of a conflict that had pitted us against people I found to be beautiful, friendly, and welcoming. The city, once a distant battleground, had transformed into a place of warmth and hospitality, with locals guiding me through its streets, patiently explaining the local currency, and sharing their lives without taking advantage of my ignorance.

I couldn't shake the overwhelming sense of shame for my country, even though fate had spared me from the horrors of war. My draft card, once a looming threat, now tucked away, but not before the tragic events at Kent State University stained my memories reminding me of the remnants of a war that had claimed millions of lives. I couldn’t help but question the push for a democratic system in a land that had suffered so much. The war, a chapter of darkness, had left scars on the land and the people, scars that were still healing both here and at home. Looking out over the crowd, I realized I was one of the oldest Americans present, prompting thoughts of how others might see my presence.

That night, sleep was rough, haunted by a dream of administering CPR to a woman whose fate remained unknown because I woke up in a cold sweat grappling with the weight of the past. Hours later, unexplained the light in the hotel bathroom came on sparking questions of signs and symbols. Was it a message urging me to emerge from the darkness of my feelings and into the light?? Was it a sign?? If so, it’s meaning was lost on me but I did take comfort feeling that the light was telling me it was okay.? That I was okay.

The Vietnam War Memorial had become a mirror reflecting not just the collective history of both nations but the deeply personal journey of my past. As I left the museum, the weeping willow stood tall, its branches whispering stories of the past to those who dared to listen and I heard every word.