Vietnam Veteran's 9th Infantry Division, 6-31st | home
Reflections of the Wall
For those of you that have had the opportunity to visit the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall in Washington D.C., or have had the opportunity to view The Moving Wall, you understand how moving the experience is, for those who have not, it is difficult at best to put into words. A few years ago, when my daughter was participant in a high school leadership program in Washington, they visited The Wall... later in college she would use that experience as the subject of a writing assignment. She graciously offered her writings to me to incorporate into the website, here are her reflections of The Wall...
Even before we arrived, my usual talkative and enthusiastic personality had diminished. Instead of talking the entire time that we were on the bus, I sat in my seat and stared out the window. As we pulled up to the memorial, I hesitantly made my way off the bus and looked toward the wall that was close to five hundred feet long. “You can do this,” I told myself, not really believing my words.As I looked toward the memorial, I realized that the early morning sun was shining. There was a small breeze and the air was a cool 60 degrees, a normal morning for early October. The grass was a vibrant green, while the trees with their leaves of changing colors, were swaying in tune with the wind. It was a typical, autumn day in the city of Washington, D.C.
As the group of teenagers walked towards the memorial, I heard the people around me talking. Some were discussing the World Series that was on the night before, while others chatted about the dance that would be held that night. As for myself, not a word escaped from between my two lips. I was walking at a slower pace than most, feeling as though everyone had passed me.
We finally reached the first of the seventy panels. One line, five names, died or missing. I continued to walk, staring intently at the names that covered the wall. Names that were only a little more than a half an inch tall, names that were engraved in the granite, that came from Southern India. I walked further down the pathway. As I looked around, people's faces were expressionless, with dark, solemn eyes. Where the wall and the ground met, people had placed roses in memory of those who had fought and lost their lives. American flags, placed every two feet. Each flag was a symbol in memory of soldiers who lost their lives unnecessarily. Letters spread throughout the length of the wall, written by friends, family or strangers, for those who had died.
Staring at the names on the wall, my reflection was easily seen. My long brown hair had fallen out of my ponytail, and the make-up that had been so carefully applied not even an hour beforehand had disappeared. My lips quivered and the corners of my eyes filled with tears. The touch of the granite, the feel of the engraved letters, so deep and cut so sharp, caused me to shiver. The smell of the roses that lined the foot of the wall, the smell of the freshly cut grass, instilled into my memory.
I stopped where the two halves of the wall met, and I knelt down. I held my cross between my fingers and my right hand reached out and touched the wall. As I knelt down in front of the wall, I said a prayer. I prayed for the soldiers who had died, the soldiers who lived but fought every day to survive, their families, their friends, I even prayed for myself. After I said my prayer, I slowly stood and finished my walk down the path. The remainder of the path showed much of the same. The names engraved, the roses, the flags, and the letters all placed at the foot of the wall. I never once heard the people around me talking, not once did anyone speak; everything was silence, a silence that surrounded the memorial.
I looked back at the beginning of the wall, and I saw my Uncle's face in my mind. I remembered growing up and hearing about Vietnam. He would never tell me what happened, but my mother would. She would explain that he had lost many friends in the war, and although he never told me, I knew that he had lost more than friends in Vietnam, he lost himself. His name may not have been on that wall, but after the war, he might as well have. I was told that when he was younger, he had so much life, and when he came back, that life was gone. As I thought about that, I remembered the day when the American flag was placed over his casket. The wall reminded me of how much I missed and loved him, although I don't need the wall to do that.
The walk had not taken me more than five minutes, but it seemed like so much longer. I had reached the end of my painful walk. I looked at the last panel, one line, five names, a little higher than a half an inch tall. I ran my index finger one last time over the granite, feeling each dip and curve. I felt the marks, and I felt the stone, and I felt the tears on my face. I walked away from the wall that day, but the image never walked away from me. Even now, I can still see the names, and I can still feel the granite. I even smell the freshly cut grass. ~ Rebecca Doyon ~ 19 October 1999
Click Octofoil to return to 6-31st Wall