This poem must surely have been written during my Christmas break drive to California, my first--and only--year at the Academy. Driving across from Tucson, where I stayed at a motel after dropping off the cadet, would have taken me directly into San Diego. I know I could not have resisted the need, after several years away, to return to where my obsession with military service became more pronounced because of the war in Vietnam.
On the tarmac of North Island Naval Air Station several years before had sat so many long-range civilian airliners, leased by the government to fly replacement troops to the war. In late 1978, however, the war was over and South Vietnam now a part of a reunified Vietnam. In the 2000's, especially, war veterans such as my gay friend Bill had returned to that country on guided tours. He did not tell anyone he met, however, that he had served there in the war, though I cannot imagine that anyone there didn't suspect.
That war had dominated our lives, and our youth, as had the Cold War. Just as the fight for equality would continue despite the thousands of deaths from AIDS and from hate that would soon consume my middle age after my resignation from the Air Force. We always seemed to be burying people prematurely.
We may not have been deemed "The Greatest Generation". We were certainly The Generation of Constant Conflicts: The Cold War, Korea, Vietnam, civil rights, the Middle East, Oil, Watergate, AIDS, the environment, and more. At 60, having been shaped by all that I have experienced--and yes, suffered--I am still finding my way toward equality and hope. I just never thought it would take this long.
Renewal
I passed through the zone on the border
that loans me an hour
to return to San Diego.
This day I counter years of exile,
never before aware of the pace accelerating here.
Easing the pedal down, I am as well disguised
until I turn back toward the main gate
and am untransformed.
Again confident of rank and mission,
I pass the small, grass field
where a girl from Norway and I hesitated,
inspecting weapons for Vietnam.
I turn by the inlet of water
where a lance-corporal, back from the war,
and his girlfriend paused--
peaceful always, as memory.
Parked off the drill pad and observing,
I now understand the precision of a sergeant's command.
I listen as would a monarch
who balances to serve all subjects.
Why like this generation
have my rebellions recessed?
I have not forgotten angry years,
each return to this base,
nor any sorrow.
Still, Point Loma summons me and I go
where in quiet sunlight I am judged.
Names and dates--each year unopposed--
are friends in place of my own.
But the dates once cut are not inclusive--
men are dead here every day.
Calendars repeatedly push them beyond us,
where numbers retain our only touch
until we recede.
Time enough unites us to our era
where we bury war-dead
and soon go after:
Mother reunited with son
and the sons of others.
An age so like a severed nerve,
where no scars
but newer tissues
cover now and repel.
On the tarmac of North Island Naval Air Station several years before had sat so many long-range civilian airliners, leased by the government to fly replacement troops to the war. In late 1978, however, the war was over and South Vietnam now a part of a reunified Vietnam. In the 2000's, especially, war veterans such as my gay friend Bill had returned to that country on guided tours. He did not tell anyone he met, however, that he had served there in the war, though I cannot imagine that anyone there didn't suspect.
That war had dominated our lives, and our youth, as had the Cold War. Just as the fight for equality would continue despite the thousands of deaths from AIDS and from hate that would soon consume my middle age after my resignation from the Air Force. We always seemed to be burying people prematurely.
We may not have been deemed "The Greatest Generation". We were certainly The Generation of Constant Conflicts: The Cold War, Korea, Vietnam, civil rights, the Middle East, Oil, Watergate, AIDS, the environment, and more. At 60, having been shaped by all that I have experienced--and yes, suffered--I am still finding my way toward equality and hope. I just never thought it would take this long.
Renewal
I passed through the zone on the border
that loans me an hour
to return to San Diego.
This day I counter years of exile,
never before aware of the pace accelerating here.
Easing the pedal down, I am as well disguised
until I turn back toward the main gate
and am untransformed.
Again confident of rank and mission,
I pass the small, grass field
where a girl from Norway and I hesitated,
inspecting weapons for Vietnam.
I turn by the inlet of water
where a lance-corporal, back from the war,
and his girlfriend paused--
peaceful always, as memory.
Parked off the drill pad and observing,
I now understand the precision of a sergeant's command.
I listen as would a monarch
who balances to serve all subjects.
Why like this generation
have my rebellions recessed?
I have not forgotten angry years,
each return to this base,
nor any sorrow.
Still, Point Loma summons me and I go
where in quiet sunlight I am judged.
Names and dates--each year unopposed--
are friends in place of my own.
But the dates once cut are not inclusive--
men are dead here every day.
Calendars repeatedly push them beyond us,
where numbers retain our only touch
until we recede.
Time enough unites us to our era
where we bury war-dead
and soon go after:
Mother reunited with son
and the sons of others.
An age so like a severed nerve,
where no scars
but newer tissues
cover now and repel.
No comments:
Post a Comment