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Reposted:
Plato
once said, “Only the dead have seen the end of war,” and though that
sentiment is crude, it’s also accurate. It’s always been “us” versus
“them,” and “right” versus “wrong.” Since the dawn of time, society has
engaged in two monologues with guns, bombs, and swords as a microphone.
It seems like the only thing that we could all agree on is that red is
the colour of our blood. (And even then, there are people who die and
kill for the notion of “blood purity.” But I digress; that topic’s for
another day.)
Long
before I was born, my da fought in Viet Nam. Two tours. Two different
men. The man I knew (know) as my da is not the same boy everyone else
knew. My da, Ronald, hated fireworks with a passion and disliked the
colour red. Ronnie, the little boy, adored watching fireworks displays
over the water. Ronald almost broke my momma’s neck when she once
quietly crept up to him when he was sleeping. Ronnie was a notoriously
hard-to-wake-up kid who slept through a hurricane. Ronald was a guarded
man whose trust had to be earned, and even then, had to be continuously
earned. Little Ronnie befriended everyone and anyone, and believed that
humans are inherently good.
Of
course, almost everything I’ve heard about little Ronnie came from
those who were there. My da, the man, only spoke about Viet Nam as a
part of America’s history. Despite him being a polyglot, da couldn’t
form the words to claim Viet Nam as his own history, because then he’d
have given a name to a nightmare that he spent a lifetime trying to wake
up from. Ronald, the man, wanted to forget.
I
see a glimpse of my da in every young soldier I meet, and each time I
see the emptiness reflected in their eyes, a little part of me becomes
half-orphaned all over again.
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