Why can’t Dad just tell me about what happened?
Ever think your father spoke a different language? Or, maybe, that his eyes weren’t really looking at you when you asked him about Vietnam? Sure he was a marine, but did that explain why he seemed to drink more than others? Ever wonder why he didn’t talk about those rifle-carrying times or what it was like to endure Vietnam? Yeah, he might talk about some gooks or not getting enough sleep or the mud and bugs, but there was always something missing, something he didn’t want to discuss. He may have had pat answers …or maybe his eyes just listed to the side.
In my book, Just Dust, I offer some introspection about stuff that happened in Vietnam as best I could. No, not blood and gore, not Rambo or John Wayne shoot’em ups, either …no, not even about any wounds you could see, only ones you couldn’t. Back then, there wasn’t even an official-esque-sounding response from NCOs or officers to marines explaining why they didn’t feel right. Instead, “Kwitch-yer-bellyachin” was the retort from those of higher rank or experience. Guys emotionally withdrew because they had a tough time self-managing such inexplicable events. There was a kind of flannel-blanket security when alone, a safer place to be, private, comfortable.
There were hours of tension, explosions and excruciating noises impacting one’s head even without spilling blood. There were moments where your dad wrestled with his own imagination amid the mental and physical traumas of others. Then there were the helicopters …flying food and ammunition in …dead bodies in those dark-green plastic green bags …out.
“Just suck it up, man!”
Sure, there were days of utter nothingness …boring days of on-edge restiveness, lack of sleep, and private I-can-do-it public fronts from those not wanting to show their bruised souls. There were days and days of repetitive emptiness …followed by flash-flooding lethal minutes …followed by day after day of eroding washed-away spirits.
“Man up, marine!”
Such personal thoughts never got written down in journals. They were carried instead, embedded under the skin …drug-around anchors no one saw, or perhaps only shared in a smoky bar after four or five shots of whiskey. I know I carried a couple good-time remembrances. But I also stashed away some inexplicable twists of fate, like when I was overlooked then abandoned or when others did what they were supposed to do then were wounded or killed. I survived forgotten but unscathed. Just what mattered, anyhow? In Just Dust, I identify these coming-of-age events …some treks that were admittedly mine and unique, yet penetratingly parallel events that impacted quite a few of us … some more significantly than others. Most of these stories remain untold.
“Get your butt and gut out and get going, bud!”
What’s now known as post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) was dismissed in the 1960s as “shell shock” or being a sissy, and trivialized for this challenging slow-to-heal condition. From writing about my own journey traversing these recollections, invisible wounds, and guilts, comes a better understanding about what does matter. For those reading their dad’s diaries or trying to read his wrinkles, it may help them listen with a different eye.