ca·thar·tic
adjective1.
providing psychological relief through the open expression of strong emotions; causing catharsis.
"crying is a cathartic release"
When I first heard that a replica of the Vietnam Memorial Wall was coming to Richardson, Texas, where I live, my first thought was of a friend, a happy-go-lucky young man who died in a far away land, fighting a war that we knew little about.
I had written about Donnie Sanders on this blog on a previous Memorial Day paying him tribute, while at the same time remembering my time in the service. And now with the Wall just down the street those empty feelings of despair and confusion started to flood my mind again. In years past, I wrote my stories, paid my written respects, and after a few isolated memories, the day ended and I started life anew the next day.
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| Donnie Sanders |
But this would be different. The Wall was within walking distance of my home. My last connection with Donnie and all of the 58,000 men and women with whom I had formed a small and somewhat simple bond, our service bond, would expose me and force me to finally bear witness to my own humanity.
How would I react? Why did I need to react? Why after all of these years do those haunting memories have to return? Why can't we just tuck it away, stuffed deep in our hearts and minds and forget the period of time ever existed?.... I would soon find out.
The Vietnam Veterans Memorial opened in 1982 in Washington, D.C. and it was built and designed to begin the process of healing. Healing for the thousands of men and women who did not receive a proper homecoming from a war that left this country torn in half.
Since then, five travelling replicas have been built to bring the Wall, bring the cleansing, and bring the healing to the millions of people who would never get the chance to go to Washington, D.C. These walls have been in over 400 cities and each time they are displayed thousands and thousands of people come to touch a name, leave a memento and purge their hearts of the pain they have carried.
I was one of them but I didn't know why.
In 1970, when I enlisted, the War was escalating like it had done for several years prior. And, by the time Donnie became a casualty in Binh Dinh, South Vietnam in 1969, over 25,000 young men and women from our Armed Forces had perished along with thousands of Vietnamese civilians.
My job during the War was to write stories for the airmen and their families stationed at Langley AFB, Va. It was a cushy job. I went to work in an office, sat at a desk, drank coffee and sifted through pictures and information about the people who had "come home".They wanted to forget what they had seen and deep down, I didn't want to know. I did my job. I kept my head down. I went home at 5 p.m.. But, as I watched the news every night, I couldn't avoid hearing..."Another 86 soldiers have died today in Vietnam".
I didn't cry then. I didn't cry later. I did my job. I didn't want to be in the damn War. "Isn't this enough?" was a question that I asked myself daily and my answer was always the same."Damn right, it's enough .I'm serving, ok!"
I wore a bracelet like so many other people did, with the name of a Major who was being held as a POW in Vietnam. It helped me feel like I was doing my part...but then there it was...that damn guilt....I wanted to shout "I'm doing my damn part, quit haunting me". I don't know what became of the bracelet. I don't even remember if the Major survived. I just wanted to put everything at rest after the POW's were released and the War finally ended.
Another incident occurred after I had been promoted and given a new set of duties. I was the editor of the base newspaper now and I was reviewing stories from other bases. I picked up one from Pope AFB, N.C.and there on the front page of the newspaper was a picture of my brother, Dave, who was being presented the Silver Star, the third highest military decoration for Valor. It was for his role in trying to rescue POWs in North Vietnam. Again, I read the story, reported the news and tried not to think of the people dying while protecting our freedom.
The years went by.
Every now and then I would get on line and search a little about the War. I found a fellow airman I had served with while at Langley. Bill P. would later become an admired teacher and principal back in his home state. Another success story of someone who served but avoided that ultimate sacrifice.
A great boss, who we always referred to as Cap'n, emphasizing the humorous part of Cap'n , surfaced a few years later and we joked about the "fun" times during the War.Never touching on the horrible tragedies of war. Those thoughts were too deeply hidden.
And then....some 40 years later. Here comes THAT WALL. I didn't need it. My life is fine. I don't need anything to remember. Donnie was dead. So were 58,000 others.
Why did I feel the compelling need to visit it?
I rode my bike to the campus at the University of Texas in Dallas where the Wall had been placed. It was Thursday morning and workers were still making final arrangements for the ceremonies that would later take place the next day.
And then I saw it. A half-size replica of the Wall in D.C. with all of the names inscribed. I stared. I shuddered. and then I cried. I shook. I cried some more . And I stared.
A man about my age walked up and stood by me. I put my arms out and we hugged. Two grown men. Neither knowing each other. Complete strangers. We hugged and we cried. He said , "Welcome home, brother"
He escorted me over to Donnie's name where I had found the correct panel location and had it written down. I touched the name. I cried again. And I stared. Feelings that had been dormant in my heart rushed out and in that moment. I had that cathartic purge of my soul.
Am I melodramatic as some might think?. Perhaps. Do I embellish my stories as some might think? Perhaps. Am I able to open my heart and bare my soul? Yes. If it's a flaw in my character, then so be it. It's my life and if I can share it with any of you, well then here it is.
I went back on Friday to take a picture for someone who asked if I could find their fallen friend. I did. It brought solace to their heart.
It then dawned on me, why it's called "The Healing Wall". I had no more tears. I was healed of what an escort described to me the previous day. He said, all of us whether in the military or not. Whether we had friends who had died or not. We want to take their suffering, their families grief and help them carry the burden. We survived. They didn't"
When I posted a comment on my high school's page the other day, saying I was going to visit the Wall. I publicly asked the question. "what am I supposed to be doing with my life, since my name isn't on that Wall and other's names are?"
I found the reason on that overcast day after I shed some unknown pain, some unknown guilt and touched a simple wall that held a name of a forgotten friend. I am here to tell this story.
We all have symbolism in our lives, whether the hardest soul that shows no emotion or the wailing emotional wreck that cries when seeing a little puppy. We are all human. We experience things differently. Whether we take holy water and cross ourselves when we enter a church. If we say a prayer before we go to bed at night. If we say grace before our meals. We are seeking answers and expressing our faith. And until you are able to break the stone that has covered and enclosed your wound or pain, you'll live with that burden.
My words can't change how anyone feels. They are simple words from a simple man, who. unknowingly was looking for some answers and found them in the least likely place.
Peace.
How would I react? Why did I need to react? Why after all of these years do those haunting memories have to return? Why can't we just tuck it away, stuffed deep in our hearts and minds and forget the period of time ever existed?.... I would soon find out.
The Vietnam Veterans Memorial opened in 1982 in Washington, D.C. and it was built and designed to begin the process of healing. Healing for the thousands of men and women who did not receive a proper homecoming from a war that left this country torn in half.
Since then, five travelling replicas have been built to bring the Wall, bring the cleansing, and bring the healing to the millions of people who would never get the chance to go to Washington, D.C. These walls have been in over 400 cities and each time they are displayed thousands and thousands of people come to touch a name, leave a memento and purge their hearts of the pain they have carried.
I was one of them but I didn't know why.
In 1970, when I enlisted, the War was escalating like it had done for several years prior. And, by the time Donnie became a casualty in Binh Dinh, South Vietnam in 1969, over 25,000 young men and women from our Armed Forces had perished along with thousands of Vietnamese civilians.
My job during the War was to write stories for the airmen and their families stationed at Langley AFB, Va. It was a cushy job. I went to work in an office, sat at a desk, drank coffee and sifted through pictures and information about the people who had "come home".They wanted to forget what they had seen and deep down, I didn't want to know. I did my job. I kept my head down. I went home at 5 p.m.. But, as I watched the news every night, I couldn't avoid hearing..."Another 86 soldiers have died today in Vietnam".
I didn't cry then. I didn't cry later. I did my job. I didn't want to be in the damn War. "Isn't this enough?" was a question that I asked myself daily and my answer was always the same."Damn right, it's enough .I'm serving, ok!"
I wore a bracelet like so many other people did, with the name of a Major who was being held as a POW in Vietnam. It helped me feel like I was doing my part...but then there it was...that damn guilt....I wanted to shout "I'm doing my damn part, quit haunting me". I don't know what became of the bracelet. I don't even remember if the Major survived. I just wanted to put everything at rest after the POW's were released and the War finally ended.
Another incident occurred after I had been promoted and given a new set of duties. I was the editor of the base newspaper now and I was reviewing stories from other bases. I picked up one from Pope AFB, N.C.and there on the front page of the newspaper was a picture of my brother, Dave, who was being presented the Silver Star, the third highest military decoration for Valor. It was for his role in trying to rescue POWs in North Vietnam. Again, I read the story, reported the news and tried not to think of the people dying while protecting our freedom.
The years went by.
Every now and then I would get on line and search a little about the War. I found a fellow airman I had served with while at Langley. Bill P. would later become an admired teacher and principal back in his home state. Another success story of someone who served but avoided that ultimate sacrifice.
A great boss, who we always referred to as Cap'n, emphasizing the humorous part of Cap'n , surfaced a few years later and we joked about the "fun" times during the War.Never touching on the horrible tragedies of war. Those thoughts were too deeply hidden.
And then....some 40 years later. Here comes THAT WALL. I didn't need it. My life is fine. I don't need anything to remember. Donnie was dead. So were 58,000 others.
Why did I feel the compelling need to visit it?
I rode my bike to the campus at the University of Texas in Dallas where the Wall had been placed. It was Thursday morning and workers were still making final arrangements for the ceremonies that would later take place the next day.
And then I saw it. A half-size replica of the Wall in D.C. with all of the names inscribed. I stared. I shuddered. and then I cried. I shook. I cried some more . And I stared.
A man about my age walked up and stood by me. I put my arms out and we hugged. Two grown men. Neither knowing each other. Complete strangers. We hugged and we cried. He said , "Welcome home, brother"
He escorted me over to Donnie's name where I had found the correct panel location and had it written down. I touched the name. I cried again. And I stared. Feelings that had been dormant in my heart rushed out and in that moment. I had that cathartic purge of my soul.
Am I melodramatic as some might think?. Perhaps. Do I embellish my stories as some might think? Perhaps. Am I able to open my heart and bare my soul? Yes. If it's a flaw in my character, then so be it. It's my life and if I can share it with any of you, well then here it is.
I went back on Friday to take a picture for someone who asked if I could find their fallen friend. I did. It brought solace to their heart.
It then dawned on me, why it's called "The Healing Wall". I had no more tears. I was healed of what an escort described to me the previous day. He said, all of us whether in the military or not. Whether we had friends who had died or not. We want to take their suffering, their families grief and help them carry the burden. We survived. They didn't"
When I posted a comment on my high school's page the other day, saying I was going to visit the Wall. I publicly asked the question. "what am I supposed to be doing with my life, since my name isn't on that Wall and other's names are?"
I found the reason on that overcast day after I shed some unknown pain, some unknown guilt and touched a simple wall that held a name of a forgotten friend. I am here to tell this story.
We all have symbolism in our lives, whether the hardest soul that shows no emotion or the wailing emotional wreck that cries when seeing a little puppy. We are all human. We experience things differently. Whether we take holy water and cross ourselves when we enter a church. If we say a prayer before we go to bed at night. If we say grace before our meals. We are seeking answers and expressing our faith. And until you are able to break the stone that has covered and enclosed your wound or pain, you'll live with that burden.
My words can't change how anyone feels. They are simple words from a simple man, who. unknowingly was looking for some answers and found them in the least likely place.
Peace.
