Sometimes
We May Not Know That of Which We Speak
My hometown
library recently hosted a reading and book signing by a regional author. The
work was described as a collection of short stories chosen from this author’s
collections of short stories published earlier. The short story chosen to be
the “read” for the evening struck me as more of a memoir than a short story. It
was not strictly fiction; it recounted a somewhat brief classroom incident when
the author as a college professor in his mid-40’s taught a class titled
“English as a Second Language.” This was also the title of the piece. The
author acknowledged that no details were altered, not even the names of the
students. The students included: a Vietnamese woman, two Japanese men, a man
from Hong Kong, and a Laotian man. The author’s classroom interaction with the
Vietnamese woman formed the central focus of the “story” with frequent
references by way of triggered memories back to the author’s Vietnam experience
as a U.S. Marine some 25 years previous.
I was
confused by the short story descriptor and its memoir flavor. I’ll leave it to
the literature folks to sort out that matter. What I found troubling was the
disparity between the autobiographical message which I heard in the reading of
the story and the author’s denial that this underlying message applied to him.
If not to him, then to whom? Or was the message that I heard hidden from the
author? Was I projecting my own experience into the story? I think not.
In setting
the story up, the author described his voluntary enlistment in the Marine Corps
at 19 years of age in early 1964 before the Gulf of Tonkin incident and before
the massive build-up of the U.S. presence in Vietnam which followed. The author
recounted his intention behind his enlistment as a desire “to see the world,”
among others. He also somewhat casually noted, but with a certain edge to his
words, that his Vietnam experience had not affected him “physically, but. . .”
And he did not finish that statement and simply moved on after chuckling under
his breath. The author also flat out stated: “We lost that war.” There is no
nuance, no equivocation. It is unclear if he is referring to: (1) the common
soldier and marine stationed in Vietnam, (2) the U.S. military brass, (3) the
U.S. political leadership, or (4) some combination of these. I found such a
blanket statement unusual for a veteran.
In his story
the author was looking over the student’s shoulder as he read a piece of
writing that he had given as an in-class assignment. As he read the student’s
first few paragraphs, he would make specific suggestions with respect to
missing words, stilted use of English, and so forth. At this same time, the
author’s choice of words to describe the woman’s clothing and appearance are
drawn from his Vietnam experience. The color and patterns in her clothing recall
for the author the colors and patterns he observed in the jungle environment
during his tour in Vietnam. Her long hair hanging loosely and hiding his view
of her face is described as very similar to the dark and heavy foliage of the
jungle capable of shielding an enemy soldier.
Interspersed
with the author’s description of his instructions to the student as to the
changes or corrections to be made in her prose, the author described his
experiences as a teenage Marine in Vietnam and, more specifically, his
interaction with an alleged Vietcong prisoner. The author/marine was tasked
with moving prisoners brought to the Marine base by helicopter from the landing
zone to the motor pool. The prisoners were bound and blindfolded. One
particular prisoner was calling out or shouting (“raising a ruckus,” I think
was the author’s exact words.). In order to quiet the prisoner, the author, as
a young marine, “kicked him in the ear and stuck a rag in his mouth.” It was
not stated how the prisoner ended up in such a position that the author was
able to kick him in the side of his head. As the story proceeded in the
present, the author realized that his attempts to get the student to edit her
writing were futile; he eventually gave up and directed his attention to the
other students in the classroom.
The
assignment given by the author/professor was to write about the best thing that
ever happened to you. The Vietnamese woman had written about her mother and all
that she had done for her daughter. The student was sobbing silently and during
much of the incident unbeknown to the author, since he was not able to see her
face. It is not known if the student’s mother was alive or dead, in the U.S. or
Vietnam. Clearly, she was distraught at this time. We never learn why. The
author/professor gave up on any attempt to communicate with the student on
either a verbal or an emotional level and moved on. The author then elicited
the participation of the other students, and they exchanged the various words
for mother, mom, and ma in their respective languages. The story concluded with
a reflective comment on motherhood. In making a leap from the particular to the
universal, the author facilitated his escape from a troubling emotional
engagement either present or past; the latter might well be described as a “memory-as-present,”
that is, a flashback. Any emotional distress experienced by the author could
now be self-identified with the loss of his own mother during the time the
author was stationed in Vietnam—a much more understandable and tolerable
emotional state.
The
Vietnamese woman is the only woman in the class. The other students, all men,
are from Hong Kong, Laos, and Japan. The author commented that he was able to
understand these students more easily than the woman and at the same time
attributing that “ease” to having spent time in other Asian countries during
his Marine Corps enlistment. If he has spent the standard 13-month Marine Corps
tour of duty in Vietnam, how is that he didn’t pick up a comparable ability with
respect to a Vietnamese person?
The
juxtaposition of the interaction with this student and the interaction,
including mistreatment, with the prisoner creates an eerie paradox. The student
chose not to speak or was unable to speak to the author/professor in response
to his questions and suggestions; the author/marine refused or was unable to
communicate with a pleading prisoner. The author acknowledged that the prisoner
could well be an innocent farmer as much as a Vietcong soldier. It is also
likely that some prisoners were women and the mothers of daughters now the age
of this Vietnamese student. The author is clearly frustrated in the present as
he was in the past, which may be the core linkage between the memory and the
contemporary experience.
A couple of
times during the story, the author indicated that he would look out the window
of his classroom and observe construction taking place on campus. He notes it
was as if the entire campus was a construction zone. Military bases and
outposts in Vietnam looked very much like perennial construction sites: dust or
mud depending upon the season, earth berms, buildings clad in raw lumber,
mounds of construction materials and waste, and crappers (military) or
port-a-potties (civilian). Military hardware and equipment are not so unlike their
civilian counterparts. There may even be much the same machines and vehicles,
just a different color. Olive drab to reduce visibility; safety orange to
increase visibility. The former in a place where being seen poses the greater
risk to one’s safety; the latter in a place where not being seen poses the
greater risk to one’s safety. The view from an upper floor of a building out
onto a campus under construction appears not unlike the view of a military
outpost from a guard tower.
My
take-a-way from this evening: I don’t know how this author was able to draft a
“story” such as this and, at the same time, suggest that the war had no effect
upon him. Self-awareness in such matters is twofold: (1) an awareness that such
an experience may or may not have had an effect, and (2) the specific operative
impact of such an experience. One’s
awareness of the former does not include or preclude the awareness of the
latter. This observation may be summarized by the statement: “I know I have
been affected by such an experience; it is just that I am not aware of the impact
that it has had on my day-to-day life or even its ability to creep into my
day-to-day life without warning and, at times, with an ability to be present in
such a way that I am not able to see any evidence of that presence.” One may
know the why and the how or just the why or the how. This knowledge can be full
or partial, accurate or in error.
I read with
the expectation that a writer knows that of which he or she speaks and then
knowingly shares that with the reader. I came away from the evening program ill
at ease. I did not ask this author to address my befuddlement during the time
allotted for questions.