waving, cheering, dancing in the streets. There was always some young woman climbing up on the tanks to kiss the soldiers. The people from
this
camp just stood there, though you'd figure they'd have been the most relieved to be rescued. But they just looked at the camera, or beyond it, with their hollow eyes, as though they'd given up hoping and weren't ready to believe they'd really been rescued.
I couldn't stop looking, even though I wanted to.
Kevin came in then, and he plucked the pictures out of our hands. "These are the ones who were rescued," he reassured me, even though I hadn't said a word. "These guys survived."
I hoped Kevin was right, and ignored the feet that his foot came down on Dwight's before Dwight could talk about the ones who weren't rescued.
Exhibit Whatever.
That was my vision of the war my parents had lived through: the valiant Americans who came in the nick of time to rescue the downtrodden people of the world. Bad was bad and good was good. Once in a while there were hard choices—wounded buddies, no-win situations—but generally if you thought about it long enough, you would know what you had to do if you were brave enough to do it.
Then came the war in Vietnam.
At fourteen I was more interested in trying to iron my hair straight and in reading J. R. R. Tolkien's "Ring" trilogy than in watching the news—especially news that was always depressing. And it wasn't just that American soldiers were getting killed. Buddhist monks were setting themselves on fire to protest the war; college students were burning flags and draft cards and ROTC buildings, yelling and screaming into the TV cameras. I was vaguely annoyed at the rude and messy ruckus, but mostly I was grateful—grateful to be a girl so I wasn't draftable, a Catholic so I could look down my nose at the suicidal Buddhists, and too young to go to college, which looked to be fast becoming a dangerous place to be.
Kevin, of course,
was
draftable.
He was also more sympathetic to the draft dodgers and the protesters—Buddhist and U.S.—than anybody else in the family. Is that another piece of evidence to support that he couldn't have turned into a vengeance-seeking ghost, that he was sympathetic by nature and didn't approve of killing?
Or is it a sign pointing at exactly the opposite?
"When I was your age," Dad told him at the dinner table, the day he got his draft card with a number so low we knew he would be drafted, "I was proud to serve my country."
"When you were my age," Kevin countered, "the United States had been attacked at Pearl Harbor, and Hitler was an obvious psychotic who wanted to take over the world and re-create it in his own image."
"Yeah?" Dad wouldn't have been surprised that his patriotic pep talk was being sidetracked. This was not a new conversation.
"Now,
we're
the bad guys."
I thought,
Can't we talk about something else for a change?
Being stuck at the dinner table, with the conversation endlessly going round and round, the only thing I could think of was
Hey, how about those guys on
Ed Sullivan
last night who spun all those plates on those poles.
Probably not the most brilliant opening for diverting an argument.
"The bad guys," Dad said, "are the ones who keep undermining their own country—kids who have too much time on their hands and don't appreciate that their parents are going broke sending them to college."
"Have you looked at a map lately?" Kevin asked. "North Vietnam is ... what—the size of Florida? Talk about the bully that can't pick on someone his own size."
Mom, spooning out mashed potatoes, murmured, "Kevin, you don't need to be sarcastic to make your point And, Tom, we're all right here—you don't need to shout to be heard."
"He isn't making a point at all," Dad said, "and I am not shouting." But he did lower his
voice: "Obviously
this isn't an issue between the United States and North Vietnam. Because
if
it were just North Vietnam"—Mom handed me the bowl of potatoes, since Dad was
this
camp just stood there, though you'd figure they'd have been the most relieved to be rescued. But they just looked at the camera, or beyond it, with their hollow eyes, as though they'd given up hoping and weren't ready to believe they'd really been rescued.
I couldn't stop looking, even though I wanted to.
Kevin came in then, and he plucked the pictures out of our hands. "These are the ones who were rescued," he reassured me, even though I hadn't said a word. "These guys survived."
I hoped Kevin was right, and ignored the feet that his foot came down on Dwight's before Dwight could talk about the ones who weren't rescued.
Exhibit Whatever.
That was my vision of the war my parents had lived through: the valiant Americans who came in the nick of time to rescue the downtrodden people of the world. Bad was bad and good was good. Once in a while there were hard choices—wounded buddies, no-win situations—but generally if you thought about it long enough, you would know what you had to do if you were brave enough to do it.
Then came the war in Vietnam.
At fourteen I was more interested in trying to iron my hair straight and in reading J. R. R. Tolkien's "Ring" trilogy than in watching the news—especially news that was always depressing. And it wasn't just that American soldiers were getting killed. Buddhist monks were setting themselves on fire to protest the war; college students were burning flags and draft cards and ROTC buildings, yelling and screaming into the TV cameras. I was vaguely annoyed at the rude and messy ruckus, but mostly I was grateful—grateful to be a girl so I wasn't draftable, a Catholic so I could look down my nose at the suicidal Buddhists, and too young to go to college, which looked to be fast becoming a dangerous place to be.
Kevin, of course,
was
draftable.
He was also more sympathetic to the draft dodgers and the protesters—Buddhist and U.S.—than anybody else in the family. Is that another piece of evidence to support that he couldn't have turned into a vengeance-seeking ghost, that he was sympathetic by nature and didn't approve of killing?
Or is it a sign pointing at exactly the opposite?
"When I was your age," Dad told him at the dinner table, the day he got his draft card with a number so low we knew he would be drafted, "I was proud to serve my country."
"When you were my age," Kevin countered, "the United States had been attacked at Pearl Harbor, and Hitler was an obvious psychotic who wanted to take over the world and re-create it in his own image."
"Yeah?" Dad wouldn't have been surprised that his patriotic pep talk was being sidetracked. This was not a new conversation.
"Now,
we're
the bad guys."
I thought,
Can't we talk about something else for a change?
Being stuck at the dinner table, with the conversation endlessly going round and round, the only thing I could think of was
Hey, how about those guys on
Ed Sullivan
last night who spun all those plates on those poles.
Probably not the most brilliant opening for diverting an argument.
"The bad guys," Dad said, "are the ones who keep undermining their own country—kids who have too much time on their hands and don't appreciate that their parents are going broke sending them to college."
"Have you looked at a map lately?" Kevin asked. "North Vietnam is ... what—the size of Florida? Talk about the bully that can't pick on someone his own size."
Mom, spooning out mashed potatoes, murmured, "Kevin, you don't need to be sarcastic to make your point And, Tom, we're all right here—you don't need to shout to be heard."
"He isn't making a point at all," Dad said, "and I am not shouting." But he did lower his
voice: "Obviously
this isn't an issue between the United States and North Vietnam. Because
if
it were just North Vietnam"—Mom handed me the bowl of potatoes, since Dad was
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