Daughters, Sisters, Friends

I took my family to the Vietnam Wall on Friday, November 11, 2011.

There were a lot of "relatives" and "friends" along. I use the quotes because while the Vietnam Vets had their brother Vets with whom to share the occasion, I am not a Vet. I am a daughter of a name on the Wall. I couldn't share stories of war, of injuries, of death. I did know what SOS meant as a breakfast meal.

I did find other daughters, who I find are now my sisters. We had never met before Friday, but we found we had stories to share; similar stories of war and of death. Who knew? When you're the only person you know who has a Father killed in a war, you're the only person you know - there's typically no clubhouse.

As for the friends I mentioned in the title of this post . . . I have two new ones as well. One is my bus seatmate. A man about my age, did his duty in Vietnam and moved on with his life. Friday was the first time he had ever seen the Wall. I don't know if he was scared; he was sometimes quiet and sometimes very talkative. We sat together during the ceremony and made the occasional comment to one another. He reminds me of me, my husband, my father. The second new friend is a high school classmate. I have not seen her in over 40 years, but she made the over one hour drive into D.C. to attend the ceremony and meet me at the wall. If that's not friendship, then I don't know what is.

There are good good people in this world.

No One Wall is Big Enough

to list even one name of a soldier killed in war . . . any war. I'm talking about several walls, some large, some small, but each carrying the names of men and women killed in Vietnam.

The photo above is from a Wall here in Chicago, just south of the river, almost touching the river; lots of green, lots of traffic noises, and the occasional jogger. Today it was the scene of a celebration of remembrance - for the men and women of Illinois who made the "ultimate sacrifice." There are more than 2900 from Illinois and 900 of those from Chicago.

Today's celebration, The Call for Photos, is a collaboration between The History Channel and the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund. This initiative has as its goal a photograph for every name on the Vietnam Wall - over 58,000 of them. These photographs along with other memorabilia will be housed at the soon-to-be-built Education Center at the Wall.

Readers of this blog and those of you who know me probably know by now that my Father was killed in Vietnam in 1967. His name is on Panel 25E, Line 94. I wasn't much interested in Vietnam until I got closer to the age he was when he was killed. Then, it became imperative to find a way to make sense of someone my age dying in a war; I use art and writing - it probably makes less sense now than it did. I'm almost 20 years older than my Dad was when he was killed. One of the speakers at the ceremony today was born the year I graduated from high school; his Father fought and came home. It wasn't until after the son had served three tours in Iraq that he could sit and have a beer with his father and understand. The son said that he still doesn't feel like he gave as much to his country as his father did. He's a nice young man, I met him, he's the same age my Father was . . . time has its own sense of humor and irony.

So, along with the art, I've been involved with a group called Sons and Daughters in Touch. These are all kids, and now grand kids, who are related to a name on the Wall. In Houston in 1992 there was a huge celebration. It was close to the 20th anniversary of the end of the war and the 10th anniversary of the Wall. I got to ride in a parade, I got to represent a lot of kids. I heard people cheering for the same men and women who were disregarded when they came home from Vietnam. Now we're closing in on the 40th anniversary of the end of the war and the 30th anniversary of the Wall.

I'm still not quite sure how I got involved in today's event except that I answered a notice for The Call for Photos and someone called me back. To be honest, I didn't know there was a Wall here in Chicago until three weeks ago when this all began to unfold. But if I can share my photos and my stories I will. Today there were lots of those around. A group of maybe 30 people, mostly Vets, and me with a caring friend, sat in the pouring rain to listen to speakers, mostly politicians - but interestingly enough, most of them Vets. They got to sit under a tent, we sat under enormous umbrellas provided by The History Channel.

I was impressed and moved by a lot today - the Chicago Army Recruiting Battalion Color Guard who presented colors (they didn't have large umbrellas) and the 85th Army Band from Arlington Heights who played The National Anthem (no umbrellas) - but ultimately by a woman who sat in the back row of speakers. She was an Army nurse. She served in Vietnam. She was at the field hospital in Pleiku where my father first went after he was injured. I showed her a photograph and told her I didn't expect her to remember. She was silent for a moment before she told me that every soldier who came through her hospital was loved.

When Will They Ever Learn?

                                             Photomontage: Gail F. Wilson

I have never considered myself a particularly political person, but my views on war are becoming more concrete and clear as I get older (and wiser?). I recently became involved in a cool project, sponsored by History and the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund, whereby every name on the Vietnam Wall will have a photo associated with it. A gentleman involved with the project called to interview me about my experience of losing my dad in Vietnam. He then went on to question me about our more recent conflicts. While it's difficult to answer the question, "Knowing what you know now, would you still have supported [fill in the blank]?" what I can answer is there has got to be more thought given to our intentions, our expected consequences, and any potential unintentional consequences.

I recently heard a reporter state that Iraq and Afghanistan can never happen again, as in, they won't because we'll talk things through. Based on my increasing jaded and cynical outlook on war, I don't believe that and here's one reason why. In 1958 my Father was sent to Vietnam as an "Advisor", he went back 10 years later and was killed. Our country just sent 100 "Advisors" to Uganda . . . what are the consequences? Are they there to "talk"? Or are they there to stay and escalate in numbers?

Lessons on My Ladder to Dreams

                                         Elizabeth Borden Goodloe, circa 1932

Swimming
Ballet

Tap

Woodcarving

Piano

Ballet

Riding

            Western

            English

            German

Ballet

Elocution

Square dancing

Guitar

            Classical

            Folk

            12 string (acoustic and electric)

            Bass

Charm school

Typing

            Manual

            Electric

            Word processor

            PC

Driving

Singing

Ballet

Tennis

Bartending

Framing

Knitting

Gardening

Patio-making

Photography

            Pinhole

            35mm

            2 ¼

            Large format

            Super 8mm

            Polaroid

            Disposable

            Digital

Jewelry making

Cooking

            Mexican

            French

            Italian

            Pastry

Salsa

Drawing

Ballet

Calligraphy

Writing

Surfing

Shouldn’t I be able to do a pliė?

The Corps

My husband says you have become my friends. Can I have friends who are dead?

I know a lot about the wall of you, albeit dressed alike. One West Pointer after another - the Long Gray Line.

In your yearbook every one of you has condensed four years of your life into a paragraph.

I know the activities in which you participated:

          Fencing
          Track
          Pistol
          Rifle
          Press Representative

          and girls

I know your nicknames:

          Zero
          Doo-Daz
          Boomer
          Rads
          Smo

I know one of you piloted "Puff the Magic Dragon".

I know one of you thought Cam Rahn Bay was in North Jersey.

I know one of you was my grandfather; one of you was my father.

Beautiful Young Men I

I have been sitting here, staring at you, waiting for you to tell me what to say. You’re going to make me tell a story aren’t you? I use the phrase “a story” rather than “the story” because any tale I tell will be made from your memories, your musings, and my questions about my part in all of this.

My grandfather starts my journey with his diary, buried in the Philippines, discovered later, finally transcribed by me.

Forty-one of you served in the Philippines. You were at the first American surrender. You marched in the Bataan Death March. Some of you made it to a POW Camp. Some of you made it to a Hell Ship. Some of you almost made it home; one of you did.

I know all of you men; you appear on a roster completed by my grandfather in 1946. I know how far you made it in your journey. I know some of your stories from journals and documents collected at the end of World War II.

After 1942 you got a respite, you Beautiful Young Men. But, then from 1945 through 1952 your numbers decreased in Korea – the proxy war.

And then Vietnam; the first American Advisors were there in 1958, less than a thousand. My father was one.

The word “escalate” means to become more intense or serious; those were the looks that passed between my parents in the mid-1960s as U.S. involvement increased.

The deaths started happening – random, senseless, from a sniper or helicopter crash, a grenade.

I know you too, not as well because I don’t have your diaries or documents, but I know your sons and daughters, and I am one of you.

"The War Department Won't Promote Dead Men"

Quote from correspondence between Zero Wilson (my Grandfather) and General George Parker, 23 May 1946.

Really? No promotions for dead men? But what if they were supposed to be promoted before they were dead, they just happened to be incarcerated as a POW? For the War Department in 1946, and I suspect today, it doesn't matter - dead, then no promotion.

It's an interesting concept, promotions, and I suspect it is as similar in the corporate climb to success as it is in the military. My Grandfather, along with his best friend, "Dinty" Moore (at West Point everyone gets a nickname) and many others received what are called battlefield promotions. Available to enlisted personnel as well as officers, these promotions are typically awarded for behavior in combat. What they don't tell you is that after the war, the War Department may decide to take yours away. So Granddaddy and Dinty got demoted in 1946 after all their hard work (rather an understatement for POW Camp, the Hell Ships, and Manchuria).

Promotions are awarded at specified times throughout a career; the better you do at your job, the more responsibility you take on, etc. helps in the promotion decision. I find it ironic that while my Father loved his country, wanted nothing more to be than an Army Officer, expected to receive a promotion upon his return from Vietnam. Unfortunately, he was killed in action and we all know what the War Department says about Dead Men.