Starting
Point Vietnam memorial to lost relationships
By JUDY BROMBERG
It was over 100 degrees in
Washington this particular Saturday evening. While there were a fair number of
people out, the Vietnam Memorial was far from crowded. This was my first visit
to The Wall about which I had heard a great deal. I knew that it
was capable of evoking strong feelings -- from anger to grief, from sadness to
reconciliation.
I count myself fortunate that I did not lose anyone close to me in
this war. I did oppose it, demonstrated, boycotted and so forth, but I had no
idea how I would react to being at the monument in person.
The thousands and thousands of names are certainly overwhelming
and bring the enormity of the loss home in a most visual way, but still I was
not overly moved. Yes, the mementos, the wreaths, the photographs were
touching. Whether it was heat-induced lethargy or sensory overload from a
packed few days in the capital, I could not say.
A little boy with two twigs would change that.
We were standing, just standing, at the right-hand end of the
monument -- people-watching in part, but mainly prolonging the long, steamy
walk back to a Metro stop. My companion noticed him first, the same 10-year-old
African-American boy we had observed earlier in the sparse crowd in the company
of a white couple.
This youngster, now very near to us and alone, was crouched down
in front of a panel on which the names had narrowed to four lines or so and he
was matching up a dog tag with one of those names. He knelt in silent
contemplation for quite some time, and we could not help but wonder about the
relationship between this child and one of the dead. Clearly, he was too young
to be a son.
Then he left, just as quietly as he had knelt there, but before we
had moved on, the boy returned to this same panel and was now attempting to
fashion a cross from two twigs he had retrieved from the grounds. He made
numerous futile attempts to balance them but the two pieces simply would not
comply. I remarked that I wished I had something to offer him with which to
bind them together, but I knew, even as the words were leaving my mouth, that I
should never have intruded on that private moment.
He was infinitely patient until, by force of will if nothing else,
the long piece rested at the lip of the walkway and the crosspiece protruded
precariously over the edge. He paused to make sure it would hold, then slowly
moved away.
There are 58,196 names on that wall, and I cried for one man and
one child I didnt even know. Indeed they, themselves, had never met, but
that is not to say that they didnt know each other. Whatever the
relationship between this Vietnam vet and this boy, love had transcended time
and distance and was palpable in that crude little cross.
It came to me that the delicate balance of those two twigs is
synonymous with relationship, and that the boys patience in achieving the
effect he wanted is a model of achieving relationship -- at best, its own
delicate balance.
And then, that the symbol of their connectedness would be a cross
made of wooden twigs represented to me the ultimate relationship -- Jesus as
perfect model of how to love.
This child obviously loved someone he had never met. Yet he knew
the one whose name was on that dog tag and left part of himself behind in the
shape of a cross.
St. Paul tells us that God is love, but before that means anything
to us, we must move beyond the words into relationship through each other with
God. I had a God-moment that hot August night. Moses got a burning bush. Most
of us meet God when and where we can.
I got a 10-year-old with twigs.
Judy Bromberg lives and teaches in Kansas City, Mo. She is a
regular book reviewer for NCR.
National Catholic Reporter, October 1,
1999
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