In 1967 we came from America’s heartland and America’s ghetto; its beaches and its asphalt. We were a study in contrasts – Norman Rockwell middle class, Kool-Aid poor – from the Jersey projects and lean-to shanties of Appalachia. At that time we were, perhaps, the deepest poetry America had ever written.
In some sense, we were the anonymous throwaways of society; the ones that no one had time for. We were the ones lacking the sophistication to understand our role, but could generally whip the ass of anyone who did. And at some point even that became a point of pride.
Looking back now even the laughter is singed with irony. A few of us have become the same politicians we hated back then, but most wouldn’t know a dimpled chad from a chitterling. We are not a special interest group with a list of demands. We are not looking for favors or concessions. That’s why the VA hospital debacle was so hard to swallow. We were just waiting in line to be treated, and someone forgot the line. Many of us can’t even begin to understand the intricacies of protocol. We’re just Americans who served our country. We were o-my-gosh young, inexperienced and willing to stand toe-to-toe with the enemy wherever you drew the line. America trained us to fight, pointed us in the direction of harm’s way, and we marched - some of us ran – towards the fire.
If you are a Nam veteran you may have left the battlefield, but the battlefield never totally left you. Your combat scene may be 10,000 miles and 45 years removed, but all it takes is a photograph, a movie scene or the smell of mildew, and you are instantly kidnapped to a no-name swamp - a private, personal hell, shared only by others who have been there, done that.
We spot each other in the supermarket on Memorial Day and Veterans Day wearing our caps and fatigue jackets. We nod and smile that knowing smile of brothers who have been forced to visit our limitations on a regular basis. Each year our numbers dwindle to a precious few. The U.S. Census sometimes loses track, because many of us don’t have a doorbell with a home attached to it.
Some of us have lost so much; so much that not losing everything feels like winning.
So if you know a Vietnam Veteran, hug him today. He probably won’t want to be hugged, so you may have to chase him. But he’s no longer the spry 19-year old he was back then. Catch him, hug him, and thank him. Today. He may not have tomorrow.