And the blind shall see...
Posted by Rebecca Mon, 29 Oct 2007 19:30:00 GMT
We are blind to things we do not wish to see, and deaf to things we do not wish to hear. Perhaps we are blind to ourselves and our flaws, or to the reality of the tragic world around us. Perhaps we are deaf to our friends and family, who try to tell us where we should grow, who try to tell us the truth.I know it is this way with people, because it has been this way with me.
I am twenty-six years old, and the most traumatic thing that has every happened to me is a car accident.
Forty years ago, my father was twenty-six years old. He was in Hoa Phu, a village in Vietnam. He was part of the Marine Corps combined action program which supported and organized villages in the northern I Corps are of South Vietnam.
Forty years ago, my father was twenty-six years old. He had seen friends die horrible deaths. He had ordered comrades into their final firefights. He wallowed in jungle muck, inhaled agent orange, delivered babies, killed at least boa constrictor with his M-16, and killed Charlie many times over.
I am twenty-six years old, and until last night, I always took all of this for granted. It was mythology. It was a story.
But when my mom found a copy of Fortune magazine from April 1967 which included an article about my father, who had a price placed on his head by the Viet Cong, something fell into place inside me. Last night, when my mom said “Hoa Phu” and for the first time I knew that my dad had lived in a real village in Vietnam, and that it was a real place, everything changed.
Scales fell from my eyes. Rocks fell out my ears. I could see, and I desperately wanted to hear.
For twenty-six years, I’ve taken his experiences in Vietnam for granted. For forty years, his Vietnam experiences have haunted him daily. He made decisions that resulted in death. The hardest decision I have to make is what restaurant to go to for dinner.
I used to say that my father was an idiot because I thought he was irresponsible. I used to say that my father had his head up his ass because he would never listen to any of us and because he ignored us. I use to say that my father was an asshole when he yelled at one of us. I cried into my pillow at night and called him a son of a bitch.
For twenty-six years, I didn’t give a damn about the dead faces that he can still see, or the dying screams that he can still hear, or the rattle and rumble of the rifles and mortar going off around him in his head every time someone lit a firecracker on the fourth of July.
Maybe I’ve been the one with my head up my ass. Maybe I’ve been the idiot, the irresponsible asshole, the son of a bitch. But no more. I’m ready to listen. I am ready for the stories. In fact, I want the stories.
I need the stories.
I need to get to know my father, while there is still time. I need to see him. I need to hear him. I need to know him.
