You Are Not Forgotten

Hello and welcome to an unseasonably warm Saturday here at the Wannaskan Almanac. Today is November 11th and Veterans Day.

My father and all my uncles served in the Vietnam War. I grew up thinking that all men had done a military stint because all the men in my life had. Uncle David, who had a 20-year naval career before returning to Round Lake to take care of his family and my grandmother's resort, had a large eagle tattoo on his forearm with the letters U.S.N. below its talons. This tattoo made perfect sense in my child's mind because "all" military men had tattoos. My father didn't have a tattoo, though, so maybe I considered him the exception to the rule. 

As a child born in the 1970s, I sensed the lingering aura and shroud that was the Vietnam War. The pervasive presence, just beneath the surface, of an experience lived by regular men too painful to talk about. Best just to get on with life, my dad might have said and probably did.

And get on with life is what these men did.

All handymen and mechanics, be it repairing vehicles, building engines for race cars, erecting garages, putting in the plumbing and electricity, roofing the roofs, these men were the steadfast fixers in our families. So I find it interesting that when I take time to reflect and ask myself, "Who were these men? Which words best describe them?" - Vietnam Vet takes first place. Not father, or uncle, or race car driver, or mechanic, or handyman. Vietnam Vet - with capital Vs.

In preparation for a 5th grade Show & Tell of international items, I poked through my parents' things, rummaging for something that would impress my classmates. I knew my dad had a small box of items collected during his service. In it, I found his dog tags, some coins, and a paper fan. When I brought them to school, I felt so proud, thinking I was bringing the most exotic, unique things. That specialness melted to mundane when classmate after classmate shared similar relics. At the end of Show & Tell, the teacher said, "We have enough items from Asia now. How about we focus on another part of the world?" I was crestfallen. My favorite teacher had unknowingly pierced my heart twice: my items weren't that special and I didn't have items from any other part of the world. Any grandfather or great-uncle who might have served in World War II was either deceased or wintering in Arizona.

"What was Vietnam like?" My dad never warmed up to this question. With troubled eyes, he'd shake his head. Over the years, his answers rang of the same sentiment, "You don't want to know." I'm sure my ignorance, followed by my romantic notions of foreign lands, both annoyed and pained him.

In junior high school, our social studies teacher brought two Vietnam Vets to our class as guest speakers. Finally, I thought, Men willing to speak about their experiences. I was eager and sat up in my desk, ready to give them full attention. They shared the hardship. The heat, the heavy packs, the bugs, the trenches, the rain, the mud, the fear of dying, the anger, the depression. They shared all of it. And I cried. These men were my father. For the first time, I was hearing the things my dad could not say. At the end of their presentation, I went to one of them and said, "Thank you for explaining my dad to me." He hugged me the way I wished my dad would, and said, "I know."

In high school, my mom introduced me to her co-worker - a woman who had also served in the Vietnam War. It was both obvious and surprising. Like, Duh. Of course women served in the military. and Say what?! Why would a woman want to go to Vietnam?

Yvonne was active in local veteran groups and activities. She was thoughtful and articulate about her service as a nurse. She coped with her own demons, but she is distinctive in my memory because she lacked the quiet settling in of suffering I'd witnessed in the men of my life.

This woman's veterans group gave me a scholarship that helped pay for me to be a foreign exchange student with AFS - American Field Service with its own history grounded in volunteer military service - in Belgium. Grateful for the dollars, while in Belgium, I made sure to listen for veteran stories. When I returned to give them a report of my year abroad, I shared with them this message, "You are not forgotten." and read them the poem, "In Flanders Fields"  - the fields which I had seen with my own eyes.

Veterans, of all wars past and present: You are not forgotten.

In Flanders Fields

by John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
    That mark our place; and in the sky
    The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
    Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
        In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
    The torch; be yours to hold it high.
    If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
        In Flanders fields.