Today is officially Veteran’s Day. We observed it yesterday so working folk could have their paid day off, but today is actually the day. It was originally Armistice Day – the ceasefire on November 11, 1918 that officially ended World War I or what was then known as the Great War. 

Veteran’s Day was always a happy holiday for me. It was the day after the Marine Corps Ball and my dad had the day off after a night of celebrating his calling in life. He was a Marine through and through until the day he died. 

I was a Daddy’s girl through and through, but four tours of Vietnam took a toll.  For more than four years between my ages of 7 and 14, he was away from home at war. In the in-between years, he was home and I was the apple of his eye. When he was finally done with Vietnam, my dad spent his energy keeping his PTSD from annihilating him.  He had no more energy for me.  When my son came along and put the light back in my dad’s eyes, I was both grateful and jealous.  But he had something to live for once again.  The two of them had an epic love story.   

My son probably needs therapy due to the circumstances of my father’s death.  That makes it sound so suspicious.  What it was is that it was unexpected.  Sudden.  He was fine and then he was dead on the floor while my mother was at church. I had to call Jeremy and tell him late at night.  He was 500 miles away in Atlanta, but I feared the news would break on Facebook and I didn’t want him to find out that way.  I started my phone call with, “Punkin I have really bad news.”  I hate when people give you bad news without leading you to expect it.  It’s unkind and unnecessary.   

I followed that with “Your grandfather is dead.” 

I heard him gasp. And then I heard him say with tears in his voice, “He was my hero.”   

Mine too, punkin.  Mine too.  

Was he a hero?  He was certainly damaged by four tours of Vietnam.  Two stints in the nuthouse, PTSD, and eventually 100% disabled.  The mental torment of the aftermath of that war has haunted thousands and thousands of people.  My dad is a drop in the bucket. 

But I knew him, and I loved him, and he was my hero. 

I want to tell you about my dad.  

And so, I am writing a memoir about my years as a military brat in the Vietnam era. Included are letters written by my father, excerpts from his journal, and from his memoir. Writing this is a voyage of discovery for me. The Writing Gods decree that I must have a point and I’m not sure what the point of it is. Is it to warn others that war is not healthy for children and other living things? — a slogan during the unrest of the 60s. Or is it a simple biography of my dad in which case I need to edit myself out, or is it my discovery process for finally coming to a decision of my own on how I feel about Vietnam?  

For years I have said I was too close to the situation to have an unbiased opinion as to whether our involvement in Vietnam was the right thing to do or not. My dad thought it was. That was enough for me for some time and then it wasn’t. And then I became anti-war across the board. That’s where I am now. Surely there is a better way to solve political differences? 

I have no interest in reading the war history of that conflict. Who did what to whom first and who decided when boots on the ground were necessary. In this case, facts are not important to me.  

I have my lived experience and that should be enough, but it’s not. I have always been cursed with the ability to see two sides to everything. Sometimes three and four sides. I have personally worn out the phrase on the other hand.  

Maybe this memoir is just the laying out of my thoughts with the necessary anecdotes to let readers decide for themselves? Mostly, I don’t want people to forget that this war happened. And for those who weren’t there? I want them to understand that it did happen, and we need to keep it from happening again. The Gulf War and Afghanistan were different in that the combat troops were and are treated as heroes. Not so those who were in Vietnam. They were much maligned and mistreated and came home to crowds who spit on them and called them baby killers. 

On Veteran’s Day, we honor the heroes. My dad was a hero. He was my hero.