Their Names Are Written on the Wall

One of my biggest regrets, when our conference proposal got accepted, was that I would miss the Traveling Vietnam Wall (a smaller-scale replica of the real Vietnam Wall in Washington, DC) which was coming to Innovation Park, where I work, during the time I would be gone.

It turned out, however, that I arrived home from my conference on a Friday afternoon and the Wall will be there through Sunday. So I dropped my bags off in my office, phoned my husband to let him know I'd arrived and he could come pick me up, grabbed my camera, and hoofed it on over to the space between our parking lot and the next one, where the Wall had been set up.

There were some people there, but not an overwhelming number. The sky was full of clouds, and it looked like it might rain. Oddly, the darkening sky provided a perfect backdrop for the mood, which was somber.

My role at work includes advocacy for students with disabilities, which includes military and veteran students. You might not believe some of the stories I have heard about the barriers they face. There are stories I cannot tell; there are students I worry about at night when I awaken in the dark.

One of the first people I saw when I arrived at our work building was a member of our military team, who said he'd be playing Taps a bit later on, and I resolved to be there to see it. The last time he played it, he said, everybody cried.

And then I walked around and took pictures: the Wall itself, the wreaths, the flags, the items people had left, the visitors, the Missing Man Table (a place setting for one, with various meaningful and symbolic objects carefully placed, but with an empty chair). A monarch winged its way gracefully over the Wall, heading for the mountains in the distance, and I marveled at it. What did it all mean?

I thought, again, as I often do, that war is really a stupid thing, and a really awful way to solve differences between groups of people. War is a place where the rich and the powerful send other people's sons and daughters to die. Like Ben Franklin, I have never known a good war, or a bad peace. I can be - and am - an advocate for soldiers and veterans; I am, however, no advocate of war.

The war in Vietnam, on which I am certainly no expert, was one of our most unpopular American wars. The veterans, when they returned, were not given a heroes' welcome. The point of the war was ambiguous. The fighting ground was miserable. As with any war, many of those who returned (the lucky ones, I guess) were never the same.

Every panel of the Wall is numbered. Each one represents a period of time during which people died. The panel on the right is the first one. The one on the left is the final one. So what you see above - the centerpiece of the memorial - represents both the beginning and the end of the Vietnam War.

The Wall arrived at Penn State Wednesday afternoon accompanied by a motorcycle escort. It came during the 50th anniversary of the Vietnam War. Our goal was to show respect to the veterans; to remember their sacrifices; to give honor to many who received none when they came home.

I am a member of the military team I mentioned. A work email I received on Thursday from a fellow member of our military team said this about the Wall: "The arrival is complete.  It’s our turn to handle with great care and honor."

The only personal experience I have with Vietnam veterans was my oldest sister's friend Bobby, who was a Navy Corpsman in the Vietnam war. He saw many terrible things and was forever changed by it.

Perhaps not unlike many other veterans, he couldn't sleep at night. He self-medicated with alcohol. He behaved badly. He lost his license to drive. He quit drinking. It didn't help. He was still tortured by memories and ghosts.

In the early 1980s, my oldest sister took my little sister and myself on a bus trip to Washington, DC. Bobby went along. The Vietnam Wall on the Mall was under construction at the time, and the bus driver did Bobby a favor: he took him there so Bobby could look for names of his friends on the Wall.

So when the Traveling Wall came to Penn State, I went to see it. I wanted to pay my respects to Bobby, who returned from the war (but who is dead now), and to remember all of the others who did not. Especially the ones who had no family or loved ones to remember or visit them. Nobody else to look for their names, written on the Wall.

At Penn State, there were ceremonies around the Traveling Wall. Medals were awarded. Late in the afternoon, my work friend showed up with his trumpet. He stood on the hill above the memorial. He played Taps, every note pure and true. He was right: under darkening skies, under gently rolling hills, we all cried.

To the ones who cannot be here, to the honored dead: We read your names out loud. We witness your sacrifices. We see your names - too many names - written on the Wall.

The song to accompany this story is a favorite: the Dixie Chicks, with Traveling Soldier.