As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve been working on my Vietnam projects for quite some time. Initially I felt compelled by obligation but soon realized that sheer willpower would not help me sustain this “fight to write.”
Fortunately, something else showed up and gave me strength.
In August of 2014 I wrote:
It's rare that you hear the word "love" associated with Vietnam. At least not in the historical context . . . My father was different somehow; he found a great love for the place.
“[R]ight now I feel a very great closeness to Vietnam and the Vietnamese people,” he wrote early in 1974. “From the ragged kids in the streets to the elegant ladies I see in the cathedral at mass to the great talents I meet every day at the studio.”
I had been filled with a deep dread of all the darkness I would need to traverse in my studies but when I came upon this I realized that despite the danger and horror ahead of him, there were redeeming circumstances, moments of joy.
Over the years, I’ve noticed that I have a lot of reasons to love the subject of Vietnam, the country, the people, the history, the hope, and perhaps even the future.
Reason One:
Next time the word “Vietnam” comes up in conversation, pay attention. Do you notice a shift in the atmosphere of the room?
For me, nine times out of ten, a spark lights in the eye of the person I’m talking to. I’ve noticed this even with American veterans and South Vietnamese who lost their country. I think this spark speaks to depths we’ve yet to plumb together.
Reason Two:
In 2015, my daughter and I traveled to Vietnam to “Follow in my Father’s Footsteps.” In 2017, I was the guest at a House Seven Reunion, a core group of people that he helped to escort out of South Vietnam at the end.
In both instances, I encountered moments of profound connection to someone I’d only met briefly when I was a child in Saigon. Those feelings further encouraged the notion that there’s something more to this journey than meets the eye.
Reason Three:
After months and years of revisiting and telling and re-telling the same stories, I noticed something fascinating. The material which could have—should have—become rote and too well-worn, was remaining alive and vibrant.
Reason Four:
This photo causes me pain. Though it is just one difficult image amongst the millions in the Vietnam War canon, it is one that was in my father’s personal papers. I cannot simply throw it away. Lest it is to eat away at me, I must elevate it somehow. It challenges me to move beyond the pain and into wisdom.
Mythology tells us that where you stumble, there your treasure is . . . where it seems most challenging lies the greatest invitation to find deeper and greater powers in ourselves. ~ Joseph Campbell
Reason Five:
When Michael Palin (of Monty Python fame) visited Vietnam in the mid-90s on his Full Circle world tour, he said:
“My impression is of a small crowded country riding on a high tide of energy and confidence. A country where there's no point in shouting stop—no one will hear you.”
My impression in 2015 was much the same. Then, at the 2017 House Seven reunion I was struck by the wealth of my hosts, by the community bonds the group had kept up.
There is something to be said about a country and a people who can rise up from such deep loss and shine with resiliency and strength. I cannot help but hope to learn from it.
Bonus reason:
I invite you to love Vietnam, too, for the sweetness yet to be found in the stories of the past, the stories we can find now, and the stories to come.
We should not shy away from where we’ve been damaged for there’s treasure to be found there could prove sweet indeed.