They bring black men home in body bags. That’s what I thought back in high school
just before the Vietnam War came to an end.
I remember that day, April 30, 1975, when it was announced the war was
over.
My fear ended.
I’d seen too many who
came back home in one of those bags. For
those who made it back walking and talking, it felt like something died between
leaving and coming back home. The look on
their faces mimicked the panic of something lost. They walked like ghost seeking a house to
haunt.
I watched as older
cousins came back hooked on heron. They
poured the poison in their veins to avoid the memories of things too deep for
me to understand. I watched them die
slow physical deaths as drugs killed the last part left after the war took the
rest away.
The clock was
ticking.
My time would come
soon. I considered my dreams for a
better life, yet knew Uncle Sam would come knocking on my door. The draft was the Grand Reaper. The books I read seemed a waste of time given
the pain waiting on the other side of graduation.
The gloom intensified
with each report of lost lives. I watched
and listened as young people protested.
I listened to the songs of my generation, and fell in line with those
who fought against war. It seemed a
waste of human life.
More than anything, I
was scared to die. I didn’t want to
fight when there were too many battles in America. There were the constant fights with white
boys after racial slurs forced a response.
There were the fights for respect after being judged for reasons beyond
merit. It was an age of deep rage. Talk
of revolution was countered with a promise for integration.
I didn’t want to
fight for a country that didn’t want me.
It was hard to
understand war. The years following my
high school days have helped me view war from the lens of maturity. I’ve listened to the stories of men who
fought to maintain our freedoms. I honor
the sacrifices of those who came back home in body bags. Many didn’t want to fight, but their service
to our country is no less because they were forced to go.
Isn’t that the
tragedy that comes with maintaining our national security? Lives are lost. Others return mangled – some physically,
others mentally. It’s the sacrifice they
give to secure our freedom.
I watched as my
cousins came home. Broken by the war,
they were left abandoned by a nation at war with the war. The national debate over the legitimacy of
the war left them devoid of resources to transition back into life back
home. Many had no formal training. They knew guns. They knew death. They needed work.
They needed our
respect.
Many conflicts have
followed Vietnam. Countless have come
back home in body bags. Today we honor
their service to our nation. Some died
willingly. They signed up to fight for
the red, white and blue. Others were
forced to go. Their sacrifice is no less
due to the nature of their enrollment.
They were sons,
daughters, fathers, mothers, cousins, aunts, uncles and close friends. They
attended church on Sunday and Saturday.
Some went to the synagogue on Friday.
They came from every state in the union and every community from coast
to coast. They were Republicans and
Democrats. Some were Libertarians. Some didn’t care about politics. They were a blend of national unity – all races,
creeds and other forms of identity.
They died for our
freedom. So, to those who died because they were forced to go – thank you for
your sacrifice. For those who stood in
pride and died for the flag they loved so much – thank you for your sacrifice.
And, for the veterans in our midst, we give our flowers today.
We don’t understand
some of the wars we have fought.
Veterans Day is not about the politics surrounding war. It’s about the life and sacrifices of those
who have served.
So, thanks to all our
Veterans. You have served us
faithfully. We honor you. For those not with us, there’s so much I wish
to say.
Not enough
words. There will never be.
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