The Vietnam Experience or Coloring on a Tabula Rasa

Dr.  Frazier (Terry, in green shirt) hand-pedaling in 2020

If I was born a blank slate, it did not take long for the world to write the word WAR upon me. It was 1965 and the number of troops in Vietnam went from around 23,000 to over 180,000. That’s 180,000 young Americans sent to a country that most had never heard of, to fight a war that was un-winnable. A war that was misguided at best, illegal and immoral at worst. Soon the death toll of Americans would rocket and the shockwaves created would reverberate through every aspect of our lives. The names of the fallen were read each evening on the nightly news as families sat around the dinner table. Each name smudged on our collective psyche. Each wave of bombing would shake and tear at the fabric of our social order. The broadcast of real war footage into our living rooms shone a light on the horror of war previously unknown to those who had not been in battle themselves. This war, fought so far from our safe lifestyle here in America, would shape the world around me. It changed the music I would hear. It affected the films that I would see. It shook the conscience of clergy and drove them to action for Justice. It was a catalyst for social change that would forever erase a generation’s innocence.  If I was a tabula rasa the war would etch death, protest, and the upheaval of social norms upon me. And if I was a blank canvas it would also paint music, poetry, and art on my soul.

He rolled into the auditorium style classroom at the University that I attended. I had seen him around campus. His legs amputated at different and odd locations as if done in a hurry. No thought given to the aesthetics or potential functionality. He sat in his chair nervously twitching the 6 inches of leg that remained below one knee. The other leg barely existed. Just enough there that he could bend at the hip into a normal sitting position. His appearance in the room had resulted in an immediate hush of nearly 100 students. He said nothing at first. He paced the floor by wheeling back and forth, as if he wasn’t sure how to start or what to say. Without a word he pulled a pack of cigarettes out from his shirt pocket. His hand trembling slightly, he placed a cigarette between his lips and lit it. He inhaled deeply and let out a long billow of smoke. This was the 1980’s. Smoking was allowed in most buildings, but not inside of a State school, let alone a classroom. I’d never seen anything like him.

By the early 70’s I was a coloring book and the world had scribbled graffiti all over my pages. Phrases like mutually assured destruction, baby-burning, and carpet-bombing. Words like napalm and Viet-cong.  Protest songs were being recorded into my skull: “War, huh! What is it good for? Absolutely Nothing”, “What are we Fighting for? Don’t Ask me I don’t Give a Damn”, and “Four Dead in Ohio.” Images were burned into my brain: Naked girl on fire, Asian man with a gun to his head, Soldier without legs being escorted home in his wheelchair across an empty, wet airport tarmac.

I have been told that that in the 1950’s, America itself was like a blank slate. Or maybe it was an etch-a-sketch. All the ugliness of two World wars erased by vigorously shaking itself clean.  So I have imagined what it must have been like for a young man born twenty years before me. A young man raised by the Greatest Generation. I have thought of him and how he must have believed in our government and had been taught the value of serving his country. And that the United States was a country that was morally superior to the rest of the world. He would have heard our President argue that the freedom his parents had fought for was at stake and the only way to save it was to stop the spread of communism that was domino-ing its way around the world. I Imagined this brave, honorable, kid would have voluntarily put his life on the line. I have pictured him signing his name on a document that would seal his fate forever.

After exhaling, he broke the silence, “I’m Terry and I’ll be teaching this class.” More silence. The class seemed stunned by the strange behavior they were witnessing. The cigarette smoke was spiraling upward in streams and dissipating into the high ceilings of the classroom. He continued,” If I’m going to teach this class, I’ll have to smoke. If that’s going to be a problem for you, leave now and drop the class.” A couple of startled students started quickly gathering up their materials. As they started to head down the steps toward the exit he added, “And I might as well add that if you will be offended by my use of the F-word or any other cuss words then you should leave now too. You can drop the class.” More students made rustling noises as they gathered up their things. A couple appeared to be in a real huff. He sat quietly and took long drags off his cigarette as ten or fifteen of the original 100 made their way out of this madman’s class.

When the last of the deserters had fled, Terry relaxed a bit. He told us that as long as he was smoking, we were all free to smoke in the class as well. Someone on the front row asked if they could bum a cigarette from him. Terry laughed and then obliged. He seemed glad to have gotten past the smoking and cussing disclaimer. Instead of pacing in his chair he now authoritatively wheeled front and center and addressed us in a casual voice. He had our attention.

The class was new. It had caught my eye when I saw it in the offerings of the English Department. There was no description. It just said ENG965: The Vietnam Experience, Frazier. In my Freshman Composition class, I had written a research paper on The Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial. It had only been dedicated the year before. There had been nearly as much controversy around the Memorial as there had been about the war itself. Prominent conservatives had objected to the design. They had called it a wall of shame. They had been upset that the designer was of Asian ancestry. A compromise had to be reached in order to have a memorial at all. A second more traditional statue was built close by to satisfy the opposition. The research had piqued my interest in the war itself. So when I saw this class, I registered for it.

The wall was a blank slate before the war.

Terry informed us that it was going to be a film class. We would watch Hollywood movies about the War in Vietnam. Then we would have discussions comparing the films with his own experience as a soldier in the US Army. He told us that his legs had been blown off when he was hit by a mortar. He said that the Doctors had told him that prosthetics were not an option due to the small amount of leg that he had remaining. To lighten things up he assured us that he was in full possession of another appendage and he had children as proof!

Platoon was a fairly new release and would be the first film shown. Our professor would be watching most of the films for the first time. There was no syllabus. Our professor was candid and told us that the class was going to be tough for him. He said that he was not sure if he would be able to complete the whole semester. It was going to be therapy for him. He explained that there was only one requirement to get an A and that was to complete a project of any kind about the Vietnam War by the end of the semester. There was no attendance or participation requirement. Ha! All those people that were offended by smoking and cussing left before that nugget was revealed!

He had not talked much about his experience in Vietnam or his feelings about it. He was using this class as a mechanism that would enable him to approach the subject academically. But it was obvious that this class was going to be anything but academic. Personally, I was about to participate in the only class in my entire college career that would change me in a fundamental way. With each film we watched and each emotion laden discussion led by Terry, I began to question everything that I thought I knew. Not just about Vietnam, but about our Government. I questioned our country’s honesty with itself.  I began to see that our entire worldview can be shaped by half-truths and one-dimensional perspective. I began to question myself. What kind of person was I? What kind of person could I be? And I questioned our entire system of education. Surely the experience in this smoke-filled, emotional, free to cuss seminar was at the core of what real learning should look like.

With each class Terry began to reveal more of his own feelings about the war. He talked about how his political views had been changed by his experience. There were heated debates that led a few more students to walk out and never return. I was riveted to my seat. I was flummoxed that college kids like me, that enjoyed the luxury of being of age during peace-time, could be so self-inflated as to believe that they knew more than our teacher. Our teacher had been there. He had crawled on his belly through the jungles of southeast Asia. He could point out the inaccuracies of the firefight scenes in Platoon because he had been in the middle of the real thing. He could tell us that it was true that our leaders had supplied them with crappy M-16s that jammed and cost men the seconds they needed to protect themselves or their friends. The students that stomped out were slates just like me. Their slates were covered in indelible ink. Their ideas were like permanent tattoos not to be altered and as a result they walked out of the best class ever.  Other students just stopped coming. They were probably quietly disgruntled or just not interested. Half way through the semester we were down to about forty from the original 100.

Those of us that kept showing up had started sitting close together toward the front of the room. I had a regular spot on the front. I had started on my project. I was testing a theory from a sociology class that suggested the popular culture prevalent in society reflected the political state of the country. I enlisted the help of my brother who had a large record collection and some nice recording equipment. The research entailed logging the major events of the Vietnam War and comparing the timeframe of those events with songs in the top ten pop charts according to billboard magazine. Then I would record my voice narrating the events over samples of the songs and demonstrate the relationship. The correlation exceeded my own expectations. I was excited about the finished product and turned it in early.

Terry rolled into the room with a jam-box in his lap. I wondered what was up. Was he going to play my tape? My stomach turned over. The thought made me nervous. I told myself that that he would not do that. It probably wasn’t as good as I had thought. He placed the tape player on the dais. He said, “Before we discuss the next film I want to tell you about a project that was turned in early by one of your classmates.” My face heated up. Oh Lord. I hoped he was talking about someone else’s project. Sort of. I also hoped that he was talking about my project. He went on, “Someone in this classroom has turned in the best project I have ever received.” Holy Crap! Could he be talking about me? That would be a first. Surely it was someone else. Then he started describing the project. My project. I was breaking out in a nervous sweat. I thought he was going to say my name. He didn’t. He told the class that he had listened to it several times. He talked about how much the music from that era had meant to him. Then he played it. LOUD! He was smiling. He was snapping his fingers to the music. I was shifting between ecstatic at his enthusiasm and then completely embarrassed every time my nasally sounding voice came back in over the music.

He played the whole thing. When it finished the class burst into applause!  Now I wanted him to say my name. He didn’t. I caught the eye of the girl who sat beside me. I gestured to myself. She mouthed, “That was you?” I nodded. She whispered, “Wow. You’re like Walter Cronkite.”  Best compliment I had ever gotten!

I didn’t start out in Terry’s class a tabula rasa. I had words and phrases. I had images. I had music. But his class didn’t just add new information to my slate. He taught me that I was an ever expanding canvas. New space was being created all the time. Clean, white space to paint colorful new ideas. Blank space not just to record music but to recognize its power. I learned that ideologies were not meant to be permanent tattoos. I learned to find confidence in my voice. And that I could use my voice to speak up in the hope that there will be a day when we come into this world and it etches only the word LOVE on our slate. That our world will not even have a need for the word PEACE because it has no opposite.   

More about Dr. James "Terry "Frazier: 

https://www.upi.com/Archives/1988/05/22/Terry-Frazier-who-lost-his-legs-during-the-Vietnam/2058580276800/

UPDATE:  I was able to reconstruct the playlist from the project by looking back through Billboards Top 100 for each year. Thanks to the internet and can give provide links to some of the songs: 

1961 - The first officially reported deaths in Vietnam of American soldiers. The song I chose was meant to reflect back on the innocence of the 50's and represent a generational shift at the same time. A hit in 1961, Travelin' Man by Ricky Nelson seemed to fit that criteria. Ricky Nelson was the son of Ozzie and Harriett Nelson known for a popular TV sitcom in the 1950's.     

1962 -The Kingston Trio, Where have all the Flowers Gone? - Folk Movement reflecting a shift toward social consciousness. 11,300 Military "Advisors" in Vietnam.

1963 - Blowing in the Wind  by Bob Dylan Folk movement continues along with a call for Social Justice. 16,000 Troops in Vietnam. 122 Americans killed.

1964 - Following the assassination of John F. Kennedy, Rolling Stones History of Rock and Roll stated that the Folk movement was over. It was to heavy and morbid for the country and it left a void in popular musi. That void was filled by The Beatles who had most of the Top Ten in that year. I chose two songs: A Hard Day's Night and Love Me Do.

1965 - Major Troop level increase in Vietnam from 23,000 to 184,000. An unlikely Top Ten hit clearly proved my theory about popular culture reflecting military and political events. Eve of Destruction by Barry McGuire.

1966- 385,000 and 1967 - 485,000 Troops serving in Vietnam, New Folk Movement - songs included  Sound of Silence by Simon and Garfunkel, and For What it's Worth by Buffalo Springfield.

1968- Tet offensive, 536,000 Troops in Vietnam - The Beatles turn political with Revolution.

This is me flashing Peace sign at age 6 in 1971.

1969 - Counter Culture Revolution in full swing - The Concert at Woodstock Country Joe and the Fish make a Anti War statement with Feels Like I'm Gonna Die and Broadway glorifies the Anti-War movement with it's production of Hair. There was a third song in the project for this year and it was one of my favorites  was a Top ten hit by Edwin Starr called War.

1970- This song is not in the Top 100 for 1970. But it represents an important event in the Anti-War Movement - Ohio by Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young.

1971- First major reduction in troops since the War began. Song meant to reflect change in mood of the United States - Joy to the World by Three Dog Night.

1972- Troop levels reduced to 24,000. The number one hit was a very long song called American Pie by Don McLean.

1973 - Cease Fire signed. Nixon declares "Peace". Joy to the World by Three Dog Night

                                                 

The Power of Sunset or Who Owns this Beach Anyway?

Last Sunday was our first full day on the white sugary sand of Siesta Key; our vacation destination last year and this year. Located near Sarasota on the Gulf Coast, we crossed through long stretches of South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida to get here. A tiring trip, but worth it because once you make it here it truly lives up to its name. A perfect place to relax.  After dinner, we sauntered back down to the shore to watch the evening sun make its magnificent descent into the clear line along the horizon. We had realized last year that this was something we had never seen before, having been East Coast people our whole lives. Watching the last sliver of bright orange disappear into the water gave me a comforting sense of order in the universe. And this year I needed that sort of comforting reassurance more than ever. My previous post, Finding Balance in a Wobbly World, is about needing a reminder of G-d’s presence in our lives ever since my mother passed away in March of this year.

So as we passed through the last of the thick sea oats along the dune line and the sand and sea opened up before us, I was eager for the sun to put on its show. We were surprised to find that another type of show was about to begin. There were rows of benches in the spot that we had staked out as “our own” last year. In front of the benches, a crew of two men were busy setting up large sound equipment. And there were far more people gathered in this particular spot than we had ever seen last year. Then we saw the sign. “Public Welcome, Sunset Worship Service.” Then I noticed the 8’ tall wooden cross that had been planted like a beach umbrella in the sand.

In another post about my interfaith marriage, I talked about how being married to a Jew had made me more keenly aware of our society’s insensitivity toward people that are not Christian. So this awareness shaped my view of the activity being organized on the public beach where I had planned for my family to watch a quiet solar display of G-d’s power.   It was a jarring and unwelcome intrusion on my imagined vision for the evening. The large speakers, the gaudy sign, and the flyers being passed around touting the impending sermon and musical performance by an “America’s Got Talent” celebrity felt wrong to me. It seemed unnecessary.

The universe itself was about to pay tribute to our divine creator, so what did we need loud music and amplifiers for? And what about the people on this public beach who did not subscribe to whatever religious doctrine was about to be sung and shouted over the PA system? I mean these are public beaches maintained by tax dollars, right? I had to admit to myself that I really did not know the answer to that last question.

I remembered having read something, perhaps in my Real Estate training about this, but I could not remember exactly how the law regarded beaches. I have never been denied access to any beach, so my assumption has been that they are public and maintained with tax support. So, as I continued to watch the preparations being made for the church service on the sand, this became all I could think about. These holy rollers were disturbing my peace. This has been a pattern in my life; Religion was interfering with my religious practice. So I needed to know what gave these folks the right to hold a religious service on “our” beach.

So here is the tricky part. 

The particular spot on the beach that we were calling “ours”, was situated directly in front of a structure that could not be called anything else but a mansion. Not a McMansion, a real mansion. The chiropractor who founded 800-Ask-Gary owned 7 acres of beachfront property and built a 30,000 square foot Beaux-Arts style single family residence on it. It is a beautiful piece of architecture but the community has complained that it is not appropriate for its location. I wondered if the ability to hold a church service on the beach was a kind of wealthy white privilege that is taken for granted in our country. 

I walked up to the two guys setting up the sound system. “Hi”, I said. And then asked in a friendly and curious voice, “What are you guys setting up for?” One of them explained that they were about to hold a worship service hosted by the local Church of God. Still smiling and inquisitive, I asked how that worked. Did they have to get a permit? The sound guy politely explained that there was not a need for that as the location was on private property and pointed to the mansion. He said that Gary was letting the church use the house and the beachfront for the service. I thought about this as I watched the flip-flop wearing worshippers trample close to several sea turtle nesting areas that had been taped off. In fact, one speaker stand was placed within a foot of a nest. 

“Did baby sea turtles like loud praise music?”, I wondered to myself.

I pressed a little more and suggested that the beach front was public and it seemed like a permit would be required. The friendly sound tech explained that 800-Gary owned the land and water from the corners of his lot all the way to the start of the international waters, but that he just let the public use his beach for free.  I was doubtful of this, but I was not looking for an argument. I went back toward the public access where my family was eagerly waiting to see what I had heard. I explained what I had been told. My wife immediately began talking about this Gary guy being able to take over the beach just because he was rich. She voiced concern that this would be a nightly occurrence during our one week of vacation. My 16-year-old daughter was exclaiming that this just was not right, convinced in the way that teenagers often are that something is either right or wrong. My 11-year-old daughter, however, was giddy with excitement! She loves a bit of drama!

On our trek across three southern states my daughters had heard me complaining about the billboards along the interstate. One read, “If you die in bed tonight, what will it be? Heaven or Hell?” Another one said, “Jesus is the ONLY way to God!”

Many of them proclaimed that Jesus is STILL the answer. We also talked openly about the numerous and large rebel flags, being flown over the interstate.  I talked openly about my feelings that these flags were meant to intimidate.

I ranted a bit about how Christians are always complaining about not being allowed to talk about God or Jesus, yet they are the only religion that I see advertising on billboards that it is their way or an eternity in hellfire!

Lyric, as my younger daughter is insisting is her new name, loves when anyone in the family gets wound up about something. She will push all the right buttons to wind things up even more. “Ooooooh, Mommy and Daddy are not going to like this!”, she exclaimed. Then gleefully adding, “They are going to be talking about Jesus over those speakers!” She was giggling and doing her best to stir the pot. As we were discussing the issue at hand, Lyric then said, “Here they come!” Two heavily tattooed guys were making their way along the beach handing out flyers inviting the public to participate in the worship service.

This is the part where I would normally express my opinion about public rights versus free speech rights to a couple of guys who probably could have cared less. They tentatively offered up the flyer and asked if we were interested in having information about the service. Before I could launch into my dissertation, Lyric announced loudly and happily, “Sure! We would love a flyer!” I had to smile at this. The tattooed men went on to explain how exciting it was that an “America’s Got Talent” star was going to be performing during the service. Lyric interrupted, “Is there going to be food involved in this?” Now my smile was approaching a laugh out loud moment. The tattooed guys said that they didn’t think so. Lyric replied, “Well, we will have to just think about it.” Now I was laughing. The two Christian soldiers seemed unsure what to make of us and proceeded down the beach to find better prospects.

My wife was relieved to see that the flyer said that the services would be held once a month. We would have “our beach” back for the rest of the week. Satisfied with this information, we skipped the sunset and the service and headed back to our vacation rental. We let go of our resentment toward the event organizers who were clearly happy in this moment sharing the “Good News” that they believe is theirs to spread.

We could return the next evening. G-d would put on his magic display again. He always does.