I'm doing 22 things
Visiting the Wall – 1990
It’s spring in DC, but still cold. Buds are tucked inside tree skeletons and the fact that it’s April doesn’t seem to matter. It’s chilly. It could be October, but it’s not. It’s a day devoid of a season. The sky is blue, but so what? It’s nothing special. There’s no depth to it like in a Maxfield Parrish print. Though cloudless, the sky hangs nearly gray. Even the sunlight doesn’t seem to care. It’s just a day that won’t be remembered for much of anything.
The Vietnam War Memorial stands about 100 feet away. I’m supposed to be impressed and I might be, but I’m not sure. The monument seems to blend into the ambiguity of the weather. It’s cold and gray, season-less, but the people standing there in front of it offer the scene a humanity, something to remember.
Three long-haired, big-bellied, 60 year old hippies, wearing vests covered in buttons, and faded tats skulking from their sleeves, crouch down and watch as one of them rubs a pencil over a piece of paper, transferring a name that they all stare at. Another piece of paper ends up over the name and the act is repeated. They’ll all bring their buddy home with them. I guess it’s significant and since they’re there, I hope it does their souls good.
There are names here I could look up, but I don’t want to. Memorials creep me out, especially the spontaneous kind. I hate seeing loads of flowers, teddy bears and religious items at the roadside where some driver lost his life. For the first day, it’s heartbreaking. After a week, after it rains, after the funeral is over and the next guy is killed, the stuff fades away and it’s an ugly reminder that even grief can decide it has better things to do. This Wall is like that, a constant reminder that men and women died for a nonsensical war. I guess it needs to be here, though. I want it here. I don’t want to forget. I’m not sure that’s it. I don’t know. I really don’t know and that bothers me.
A young couple brings their baby to meet grandpa. It’s odd to think that these names would be grandfathers now. The loving pair reverently introduces the infant to engraved letters. There’s only significance in this act for the parents. Baby hasn’t a clue and won’t for a long time, if ever. Even my nephew, the high school teacher, views Vietnam as a blip in American history set sometime when his dad and I were bickering siblings, but we lucked out. My brother was not healthy enough to be drafted.
I look at the names because I’m supposed to. I don’t want to see them. I want this day to be empty like the sky and the trees and the air. Each name is a dead man. Somewhere he had a family that maybe loved him, maybe not.
The gray of the tall marble sags into the vague gray sky. I walk the length of this memorial and I start to hear scared men calling out. I feel the thunder of explosions around me. My feet drag along in muck tinged with blood. Scared, brave men and I stayed home safe and sound, protesting my country’s involvement. I have no regrets over protesting. It began my journey as a pacifist.
This Memorial wants us to remember, but it’s simply a monument where names get safely tucked away. Put their names on the Wall and we honor their deaths. I guess that’s easier than remembering their lives.
Where is Dan Borah?
