|
•
|
|
It's So Cliché
by
When my editor complained that the Vietnam vet in my first novel was "so cliché," he was right. We've heard enough about the plight of the boys broken by the swamps - plagued with depression, guilt, and self medication. Eager to have the book published, I revised my character to have a mysterious past, a private torment in place of the black hole of history. What I didn't tell my editor was that the character was no cliché, he was my husband. His time in hell is what attracted me from the start. Here was a real man in my lackluster parade of boys, boys at the bottom rung of the boomer generation whose only risk to freedom was a lack of funds on Saturday night. On our first date, we met at a bar where I practiced the art of seduction, not with sex, but with rapt attention. He told me he dropped out of college to defend democracy in Vietnam. He told me he saw his cousin die on TV when he was in the hospital with malaria. He told me that after his first tour as a Marine Sergeant, he became a Conscientious Objector, was tried for Sedition, then was spit on when he finally came home. He told me things that night that he's never mentioned since. Other things, I saw for myself. I read the Commandant's handwritten note of permission to not carry a weapon. I found the FBI at the door long after he had quit protesting. I watched him mourn the last of his swamp buddies, one who survived Tet and twelve steps only to gas himself in a garage. But, while I squeeze puss from holes left by lichens on his back, I don’t ask questions. His war is a history that he can’t find in our children’s textbooks, our only war without heroes. It is big and public and small and personal and he doesn’t want to talk about it. As our children grew and gave him purpose, his nightmares changed. Instead of fearing that he was stranded without ammunition, he dreamt we had boys. He no longer jumped to full attack mode when I surprised him in the dark, or maybe I just learned not to surprise him. And he finally realized that Semper Fi, the profound loyalty that helped him survive the swamps, is a disadvantage on dry land, where success demands singular ambition. He buys every book on Vietnam; I hide them. He studies every word in the newspaper; I skip to the horoscopes. He feels it is his duty to stay tuned to world events, I feel it's my duty to ignore them, to embrace our lack of control as the best way to shelter our girls. For their sake, he kept mum through the first Gulf War, stood and applauded the ticker tape parade. But he is still outraged that the government lied to him, that they lie to us still. With a new generation at war, the nightmares returned with deafening volume. He was fine in the sunshine: a successful and charismatic professional, a warm and generous father. But when darkness screamed, he covered his ears, stared at the bedroom ceiling, and waited for the battle to abate. I cowered from his rage, calmed him when I could, and closed the door. I popped corn and picked a movie, hushed the girls and held them close, told them Daddy heard a siren that would soon pass by. But the ambulance is parked at our curb. And there is nothing I can do to help. He learned, in those formative years, that needing help is shameful. At the same time, he believes he is beyond help. In a world where reputation rates higher than accomplishment, my husband insists on secrecy. And, surely, he is not the only one: hidden between the homeless and the high achievers, the modest majority suffers in silence. See the person behind you at the grocery story, in front of you at the movies, beside you on the golf course? People should know, I protest. But he shakes his head, they won't understand, can't accept weakness in a warrior's heart. It is a human strength, I argue, how can we love if loss has no affect? He ignores my sentimental yearnings, counts off the immediate risks: losing respect, work, the ability to feed our children. Why did he fight if not for the rights of these children? I have no answer, except: it's not fair. The fair comes once a year, he always tells me, but this time I won't laugh. I feel stranded on this island of patriotism, alone and lonely. It's his life, of course; but it's my life, too. I am proud, defiant, seething. As the war pales, he is pleasantly distracted by life. He stands tall before the television as young Marines shuffle through the rubble of victory. With the Marines on duty, success was assured. Yet his hands are still clenched at his sides. Who knows what horrors these heroes have experienced, what memories will lodge in their minds, what emotions will lash out at their loved ones? The lucky survivors. They will speak of sand and suffering, but we will never know. We will only know the difference between darkness and light: days when they protect us, days when we protect them, and nights when we protect ourselves from them. And another war will break out, like a rash. More scars. When I was ten, our daughter's age, my mother drove me across the Ohio State campus where she taught to the hospital to x-ray the fingers I hurt doing a back handspring. Two hours away at Kent State, the National Guard had just killed four students protesting the Vietnam War, where - unbeknownst to me - my future husband was fighting. A long-haired boy flashed us the peace sign, but I couldn't raise my broken fingers in return. My mother had no argument with the beaded and bellbottomed "hippies" rocking our car when we stopped at the corner; she showed them her necklace that read, "War is Not Healthy for Children and Other Living Things." When they let us pass, I asked to wear the magic necklace. I thought it meant that bombs wouldn't hurt me. I didn't know about human shrapnel, that generations of people are injured, that some wounds scab but never heal. I finally threw away that tarnished necklace when packing to move last year. If only I had saved it, if only it could ward off another war, another generation of veterans too young to remember. I watch young couples who think they know what they are getting into, think pride will outlive the pain. I thought so once. That night of our first date, I sat twisting on a barstool, my crooked fingers peeling the label from my beer. I thought I could make him happy, that my love would save him, that he would get over it. I was wrong: some things you never get over. I love my husband. Yet, if years from now, one of our daughters finds herself twisting on a bar stool, falling in love with a freshly minted vet, I will say: Run. As a writer, I strive to invent original descriptions. But when a phrase is used often enough to be called a cliché, that means those words are more true, not less. Whether or not we claim success, we create yet another generation of damaged people. And, inevitably, when we tire of hearing their problems, we'll roll our eyes at the easy excuse, revise our characters to have more mysterious pasts. Not another disillusioned vet! It's so cliché. |