As forty-two carefree students jumped off the bus at the Vietnam Veterans‘ Memorial in Holmdel, New Jersey, we could think of nothing other than not being in school. We quickly rushed into the Educational Center and scanned the history of the times that was portrayed around us. Dozens of war letters sat in glass cases in the middle of the room - letters of soldiers hoping to return home soon to their mothers, fathers, wives, and children. The date of their death was sadly engraved beside them.
Despite the utter despondency in this room, my classmates and I were not completely convinced, so we continued to walk around the center. As we wandered, I stopped at a movie playing called “Tour of Duty.” A veteran stood there next to me and watched. Though we were both watching the same movie, I could tell we did not see it through the same eyes. I saw the men being shot and killed; he saw his friends screaming in pain and covered in blood.
“You don‘t even know what this song means,” he uttered as “We Gotta Get Out of this Place” by the Animals sang from the TV. He willingly told me that it was a song they use to sing because they wanted to leave so desperately. This moment shook the foundation of my negligence, but didn‘t quite destroy it.
As we walked out into the brisk air of the memorial area, our veteran, Joe Kochanski, spoke of his experiences. I could feel his words tugging at the teardrop brimming in my eye, mirroring the stone we stood upon. Many engraved stones outlined the shape of a teardrop on the ground where we gathered. They were the names of the loving people who would never forget the war or the people involved in it.
As we walked down the pathway - past the American flag standing proudly on the grass in the center - we followed our interpreter of the war through his troubled past. We seemed closer to each other in this moment. It may very well have been the unbearable cold of this day, but maybe it was something else. Maybe it was the story that we now felt involved in, the story whose power and strength was the only energy warming our bodies.
We slowly trudged as a group to the entrance of the tunnel. “This is where we leave the safe side of the memorial and enter the world of Vietnam,” Joe said. The air became chillier, even uncomfortable, as we silently walked towards the other side. This signified how utterly uncomfortable it had been for Americans in Vietnam. Though it had not been cold that troubled them, they still felt awkward in the foreign, disease-infested land.
The opening of the tunnel became closer and we soon emerged inside a ring. Joe pointed up at the tree in the center and explained that is was a Red Oak, the state tree of New Jersey. Beside the tree were three statues: a woman kneeling over a dying soldier while another soldier gazed over her shoulder. This symbolized women in the war, all of the men who came home, and all of the men who did not.
Lastly, our veteran directed us to the edges of the circle, a wall made up of 366 black granite panels, one for every day of the year including leap year. The names of soldiers appeared on the panel of the day they died, or were declared missing, along with their birthday and year of death. He then allowed us to wander alone inside the ring.
“May 7th faces Vietnam,” he added as we solemnly walked away. I casually strolled to May 7th and laid my hand on the five names engraved into the granite. I leaned my back against it for a few moments and stared straight over the opposite side of the memorial. I wasn‘t sure exactly why I was looking, because I understood I wouldn‘t be able to actually see Vietnam, but just knowing it was directly across from me was intriguing. Vietnam became more of a reality as I stared in its direction and then at the 1,557 names circling me.
“If you look, you can see your reflection,” Joe said. He continued to explain that the reasoning behind this was that even if you didn‘t know the names on the wall, you still felt a connection because you could see yourself in them.
I stood and thought about the fear, struggles, and death in Vietnam. I knew that I would never quite grasp the reality of the war and I would never hear the gunshots ring out as the soldiers had, but I knew that my classmates and I were scarred with a little actuality of what had happened those twenty-eight years in Vietnam.
I turned back and repeated the names several times, but they were strangers to me. In fact, moments later I would probably forget them. But one thing I would remember was that moment - the moment I looked into the names and saw myself. It made me closer to the men and their experiences. It made me feel for the fearless soldiers. This moment at the Vietnam Memorial was one that will not be easily forgotten.
Amy M. Van Daele, Eastampton, NJ
Rancocas Valley Regional High School