Vietnam. The name still haunts and, at its mention, a well of emotion rises to the surface from the deepest places within. To this day, I can hardly read about, talk about, or, just now, write about Vietnam without the feelings coming back.
The war. My generation can easily be identified by our knowing recognition of which war is being referred to by this common shorthand. For us, there will always be "the war." It ended our childhoods, focused our lives, commanded our energy, and defined our relationships to our country. The civil rights movement and the war raised us and caused us to grow up.
The wall. A black granite slash in the earth has come to symbolize our pain, gather us together, and begin the process of healing. It is a place like no other, a "monument" different than all the rest. We are drawn to it in some inexplicable way. Fifty-eight thousand one hundred and eighty-three American memories linger here, along with those of millions of unnamed Vietnamese. In a sense, all of our names are somehow written there.
THE VIETNAM Veterans Memorial was 10 years old this November. The same month, the first American president who was against the war in Vietnam was elected. Bill Clinton may have fudged on the facts of his draft history, but he never equivocated on his opposition to the war. That was something you didn't waffle about; it was just too important.
Coming to realize that your country was wrong was a very painful thing for young white Americans who had been taught that it never was. That passage to adulthood shaped a generation, defined friendships, and established covenants.
Soldiers in Vietnam fought more for each other than for a patriotic cause. Even with a betrayed cause, the soldiers remained true to each other; the continual poignant scenes at the wall demonstrate this. Ironically, the anti-war movement was like that too, with bonds established in personal anguish and political conflict that are not easily forgotten.
Whatever Clinton's shortcomings, I will always be grateful to him for not backing down on the war for the sake of political expediency. When the 10th anniversary of the memorial came shortly after the election, I wasn't sure which was more healing-- the tears and momentos left at the wall or a new president who felt what I did during the war.
The truth about the war has been denied by presidents ever since it began. Now, finally, the truth is admitted and the pain acknowledged. While I feel no need, at this point, for retribution against those politicians who carried out the war's deception and brutality, I am finding a quiet peace at the prospect of having someone in the White House who knows it was wrong.
A few years ago, I was asked to speak at a Martin Luther King Jr. anniversary event at the wall. On that occasion I realized another truth about Vietnam: We are all veterans of the war--those who fought the war and those who fought against it. For many long years, Vietnam was at the center of our lives, and none of us will ever be the same again.
On the anniversary of the wall, I heard the reflections of an Army nurse who served in Vietnam; she was a guest on Diane Rehm's talk show on the local National Public Radio affiliate. Words from Winnie Smith's book, American Daughter Gone To War: On the Front Lines With an Army Nurse in Vietnam, put our experience as well as anything else I heard that day.
For us the subject is not history, it's a condition of our lives. In a country where youth is adored, we lost ours before we were out of our 20s. We learned to accept death there, and it erased our sense of immortality. We met our human frailties, the dark side of ourselves, face to face and learned that brutality, mutilation, and hatred are all forgivable. At the same time, we learned guilt for all those things. The war destroyed our faith, betrayed our trust, and dropped us outside the mainstream of our society. We still don't fully belong. I wonder if we ever will.
Jim Wallis is editor-in-chief of Sojourners.
Got something to say about what you're reading? We value your feedback!