By David Eames-Harlan

It wasn't easy for me to make the decision to visit the Vietnam Memorial in D.C. last year. Having grown up in the post-Vietnam era, in an upper-middle class family, everything about that war held an almost mystical taboo for me. We knew it was wrong, but we didn't talk about it. We hoped it would just go away.

But I was an adult, standing next to a scaffold-covered Washington Monument and the decision was made. So I began shuffling toward the Lincoln Memorial, remembering the map that showed the black wall down a path to the right of the most famous American Greek temple.

As I stepped off the grass and turned onto the sidewalk that runs parallel to the reflecting pool, I fell into step with another man who had just risen from a nearby bench.

He must have been in his fifties. He was friendly, but reserved. Fit, but limping. He glanced at me and nodded. His face was worn but warm.

We exchanged the wary greetings of two average American men in unfamiliar surroundings. He told me he was from Illinois and asked me if I was from Washington. I told him no, but asked him what he was trying to find. He said he was looking for the Vietnam Memorial. I told him he was headed in the right direction and that was where I was headed too. The walking was clearly not easy for him, but the pain didn't seem to matter.

We made small talk. "Where you from?" "In town on business?" "Long walk, eh?"

At one point I asked him if he knew people on the wall. His eyes stayed forward as he gave me a simple (but not impolite) "Yes."

For some reason I asked if he had been "over there".

With intensity and quiet pride, he turned toward me and said: "Yep, '69 to '70. And that's all I ever say about that." But then he turned away and quietly added just a little more. "I lost too many friends to talk about it."

I made noises that were intended to indicate some level of understanding (inadequate, I'm sure) and we were quiet for a while.

We soon returned to small talk: weather, business, travel, family. When we reached the place near the Lincoln Memorial where the path splits and heads down to the wall, we saw the abrupt black slash in the tidy green lawn. By mutual consent, the conversation stopped.

previous page  |  next page
Page 1 of 3