Monday, November 29, 2004


Sound bombs Posted by Hello

See no evil, speak no evil

What I know is that my father did something with tanks. Drove them? Maybe. I've seen him get in tractors, buses, a helicopter once. Any vehicle it takes an average person months to learn, he can operate within a couple of minutes. Maybe he navigated, or manned the guns. I don't know yet, but it was tanks, and what I do know is that one day the gun was shot off and my father was standing next to it. Sound stopped for him, silence started. He watched doctors scribble notes to him on white legal pads for the next eight days. They told him they could not help, that Jim Morrison was dead to him. They told him he would not hear his name called again, not by a woman, not by an enemy. But they did not send him home.

As an infant, later a child, I rolled. With my hands clamped over my ears, in bed at night, I rocked back and forth, I did not suck a thumb or cradle a well-worn stuffed bear. I clenched my teeth and sometimes my elbow would gently brush the wall, over and over. In the morning, my sleeve would tell with small blood stains that came out in the wash. My mother laughs that I rocked apart three cribs as an infant. Later my long dark hair would inextricably matte, knit to my skull in the mornings, beyond repair. Such silly unkempt hair was a humiliation, I cut school at 7, spent days nestled in the library. At night I hummed and danced my dance. I sang jingles, rhythms, told stories to distract. Deaf ears lead to a quiet heart, I think.

He can hear. He hears me now. But we still both talk loud to each other because at 31 my hearing is going and I press him to tell me that maybe it's genetic. We're riding down the street in his fifty year-old station wagon, restored. Maybe that gun never went off, I think. Maybe he's never ridden in a tank. This car is a replica of his mother's first, a 55 stationwagon. Maybe it was all a dream. Maybe he lied to me, didn't watch cowboys in camouflage pat down six year-olds, spit the color of shit. Maybe not. But a car's driving by and like those old jokes he says "What?" and I say "Oh, nevermind." I hum a little now, tap my toes and he can't hear it and I can't hear him and his tank is rumbling past my brain like gunfire, like a story told too loud.

Saturday, November 27, 2004

Buddhists Riot

In 1963 my parents were sophomores at Berkeley High School. My father was assigned to two lunch periods and two shop classes. While he tested high, he was known as a fuck-up. Dark-skinned, poor and handsome, he ate nails and dated fair-skinned rich girls. He was a boxer by nature, the fourth of six children and the eldest boy in a family that bled loyalty.

Forty years later, the blossoming lines in his face contradict his boyish charisma, his infallible instinct. People lose adoring children and faithful dogs to my father. He is a snake charmer.

Even I was not immune to it. His charm translated into a power that affected the tides, made dogs howl, the moon rise. Growing up, I knew no fear in strange places. Though violence was never on the surface, it simmered below and the heat kept me a confident child, always safe in the knowledge that my father would kill for me. And while all this was true, my father is a pacifist. Stone-still in a storm.

In 1963 the United States began to intervene in Vietnam. In late May, Buddhists rioted in South Vietnam. Buddhists riot, after they are denied the right to display their flag during a celebration of Buddha's birthday. I think I can see them now, dropping lotus blossoms as they smash garbage cans, turn whispers into howls. South Vietnamese police and troops shoot at the Buddhist demonstrators. They kill one woman, and eight children.

My father didn't watch the news. He was smoking pot in People's Park and teaching his buddy Gordy how to hot-wire Corvettes. He knew about the war, grew up on Telegraph Avenue for Godsakes. But he was a punk, a shithead. He leaned on the hood of a 55', glassy-eyed and quiet, he smiled at the sky.

Monday, November 22, 2004

Deferring

"In 67 I had a chance for a deferment then. Berkeley Fire Department. They wanted me to become a firefighter. Public service deferment. I passed up on that because it was so close, I mean, weeks of when I was supposed to leave and I thought, 'Do I really want to be a firefighter for the rest of my life? Probably not.' But it was two years. I mean, I could do two years standing on my head. Who wants to send me to Vietnam?" He laughs, leans back in his chair, his father's chair. "You know, I'm a big screw up, a party boy."

Almost imperceptably he pauses here. I rewind and watch it on the video monitor two, three times. There is a pause, he turns his head slightly and smiles as he lowers his voice and says, "So I passed up on that."

I watch it again and shut the camera off. Later I ask him if he ever regretted turning this down.

When I was six I came home from school to an empty house. I had no key and took shelter in spikey shrubbery two houses up the road. I sat there for an hour, maybe less. It was close to forever. My mother came home and was mortified, it was the only time. Several years back I dreamt a therapy-induced dream. My adult self went down that road and stumbled across the child in the bushes. She sat in my lap and I whispered to her, finger combed leaves out of her tangled dark hair. When my mother called, she got up to go and I cried for two days after this. Cried for the want to stay and keep her warm and green.

I know my father would never admit to this regret. He was a born fighter, a reluctant soldier, a resigned killer, a constant survivor. He doesn't look back.

"No," he says, looking straight at me, slightly to the left of the camera lens. He smiles now, of course. Shifts slightly in his father's oak swivel and says, "What else would there be?"

Wednesday, November 17, 2004

Narrarator

I'm beginning to lose sleep over my own story. Beginning to wake at 3am and wonder if it is my story. Is it mine to tell? Am I good enough to tell it? Am I reliable? Competant? What exactly does this job require. I scan my qualifications and they always appear to fall short. I'm trying to move toward a place where I can tell it and love it like my favorite stories. Where I can forget that autobiographies don't sell. No one believes truth unless it's sheathed in multi-colored fiction. In my favorite story, it would be clear from the beginning that my wound is geography, that it is also my anchorage, my port of call.

If I were writing my favorite story, the one that took me furthest as a child, my mother would've believed in the dreams of animals. She would tell me that bees dreamed of honey and that the osprey dreamed of slow-motion herring. She wouldn't dream of nights without my father. She wouldn't wake to his ghost beside her and dull-edged chopping knives sweaty beneath her pillow. She would've raced us at dusk to watch the moon rise, and I would've believed she had brought it there, just for me.

She would not have woken my father late nights over hooting owls and she would not have been met by his warm sudden fingers milking her smoothe throat. If this were my favorite story, it would be an autobiography, my story, not my father's. It would not tell of fear or blood. It would be a book on tape, abridged. A lullabye. I would be an only child rocked in the lap of my family, it would take place deep in southern Mexico, or on a cool, rainy hillside north of Washington state. In a warm place, free of drafts. If this were my story, the end would have come much more quickly than it does.

Sunday, November 14, 2004

The real story

I ask my father why he registered for the draft. He doesn't give me a good answer. He looks me in the eye, but not for long. I believe him anyway, I believe everything he says.

"Most of my friend's were going to school and getting their college deferments. But I chose to work and do what I wanted to do," he says this and gives a small shrug.

I hear myself on the videotape saying, "Right, uh-huh." every so often, too often. I see the edge of my hand flutter past the screen, hear myself cushion every word, providing answers with my questions: "So did you think you'd be drafted - or were you just 18 and not really thinking about it?"

My friend Cori asks if he will tell me the whole story, if he will leave anything out. "No," I answer without hesitation. "I know he will tell me the truth." And he will, I believe he will. The question she didn't ask is this: Do I have the guts to ask the right questions? Am I willing to travel that far? Am I ready to become a believer?

It's been a month since our first interview. Since I first said the word Vietnam. The questions I asked stopped at the San Francisco airport. They stopped in California, miles and miles before he went to that other place. If I let this go, my father would never bring it up again. He would tell me tasteless jokes and help me remodel my house. He would confide in me like a friend, watch my dog whenever I go out of town. I see his old young face and I know I have to do this.

I'm looking to the sky for direction now, questions that don't have right answers. I want to cover my eyes, crawl under the table. But I know only a fucking wimp would do that. My father wears all weather boots now. They cradle his soft dark brown feet. They are ageless, wrinklefree, yet he hikes more than anyone I know. I'm thinking of investing in some expensive Rockports this winter. Really go all out. Sky's the limit, you know?

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

Jackpot


The Vietnam draft lottery began on December 1, 1969. With radio, film and TV coverage, the capsules were drawn from the container, opened, and the dates inside posted in order. The first capsule - drawn by Congressman Alexander Pirnie (R-NY) of the House Armed Services Committee - contained the date September 14, so all men born on September 14 in any year between 1944 and 1950 were assigned lottery number 1. The drawing continued until all days of the year had been paired with sequence numbers.

My father's birthdate, September 10th, was #71 out of 365. Too bad he'd been drafted two years earlier. By December 1, 1969 my father was home in his own bed again. His younger sister tells me now, "The man who came home looked like my brother, but I didn't know him."

I'm making lists of questions now in hopes my father will give me answers. Questions about weather, culture and practice. The ink is running low on my favorite pen and I'm scratching deep into the notepad, phrases like 'Did you' 'Have you'.

I'm thinking of buying a new ink pen, but I'm trying not to let my luck run out just yet. If I'd had a go at that lottery, been born just 25 years earlier, my number would've been 78. Born December 27th, I was drawn just seven capsules after my dear old dad. I wonder, what are the odds?

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

Definition



Dioxin, [noun] die-ox-in: Any in a family of over 200 chlorinated organic chemicals. The term is most commonly applied to
a particular chemical, 2,3,7,8-tetrachlorodibenzo-paradioxin which
is an impurity in the defoliant Agent Orange. Dioxins are known
to cause skin diseases, birth defects, miscarriages, and cancer.


Residue, [noun] rez-i-doo: Something left after other parts have been taken away; "there was no remainder"; "he threw away the rest".

or

Matter that remains after something has been removed.





Sunday, November 07, 2004

First draft

A couple of weeks ago my friend Chelsea and I met at the Claremont, a grand old hotel in the Berkeley hills, close to our roots with a view. She lives in Texas now, but we grew up together and a bagel shop I frequent has a coffee named after her, aptly described as sweet and nutty. She's a very political creature, a die-hard Democrat, this is one of the mysteries of our friendship, since at 31 I have never voted and consider it charming that I obstain from all forms of the news.

During this visit the presidential campaign comes up. I'm not sure how, but I know I'm not to blame. I mention stem-cell research, only because of my father and she tells me something that I still have yet to shake: "Well that's your vote this year then, you have to vote for your dad."

So less than a week before the legal deadline I mail in my official voter registration. I am now a registered voter. And while I know nothing of candidates or issues, I know my father needs medical help that doesn't yet exist.

In 1965, three months after he finished high school, my father turned 18 years old. He moved to Texas, for a girl he tells me shyly, slyly now. Anne Richmond, a debutante. Her father had a lot of money and connections. When my father was 16 he met Marlon Brando, a buddy of the old man, and rode motorcycles with him. "So I registered," he tells me now, "because it was the law."

The law , like he cared. "They were catching up with people and pushing you ahead in the line if you weren't registered," he explains. I pause with this answer. My father could hotwire a car at 13 years old, the law was not a concern. He watches me take this in. His eyes are hazel, layered green and gold. Mine are brown, dark to nearly black. I ask him if he thought there was a chance he would be drafted.

He fills his cheeks with air and looks up for an answer. Tips his chin down and exhales with a small laugh. "No," he says. "I just figured if it happened I would figure something out. Maybe something would happen with the war. Maybe I would go to school and get a deferment. Maybe this, maybe that, but none of that really happened."

He takes a long drink of his water, and I watch it quietly slosh in his tremulous hands. None of that really happened, he says.

Thursday, November 04, 2004

Bedtime stories

Daddy, will you tell me a story? Will you tell me a story about warriors brave and fair-haired princesses in far off towers? Will you tell me a love story? A story of a boy and a girl and happily ever after? Daddy, will you tell me a mystery story? A murder mystery maybe? A tale set in the jungle, a fairytale with lions and tigers and bears. Daddy, will you tell me a story about you when you were a little boy? Daddy, will you tell me a story about me?

I asked him if he would talk to me. My dad and I talk a lot. We talk about cars, family - we tell jokes.

I pinched the sides of my calves, held my breath and I asked him to tell me about Vietnam. Now he slowly looks into a video camera before me and begins to tell me a story. I ask lots of small questions, take it slow. No need to get to the action scenes too quickly. He smiles his daddy smile and begins, "Once upon a time...", I hold my breath.

Tuesday, November 02, 2004

20/20 Hindsight


Posted by Hello


The story I have always known is that my parents met when they were twelve. I always thought it was a romantic story.

They were friends growing up, my parents. The story goes that my mother's high school boyfriend was my father's best friend. After graduation, my parents dated eachother. I knew that later on, when he proposed, she refused repeatedly and finally said yes in a jealous rage over another girl. So the time in between graduation in 1965 and marriage in 1970, I filled in myself. I know what love is, and I imagined passion and a bond that would lead to my conception and life as I've known it.

They dated, I am now told, in the late sixties, you know how things were then. In his final 30 days in the states, my father took some time to visit my mother in Wyoming, where she attended college. In pictures she is slim, bombshell blonde, always smoking.

I once heard her joke to a friend that he was supposed to leave on a certain date and that a week later they were skiing in Colorado and she asked,

"Weren't you supposed to leave a week ago?" and he said,

"What the fuck? I'm AWOL already. What are they going to do? Send me to Vietnam?"

She laughed like this had been a really clever joke. My father always has been a kidder. In pictures he is sometimes smiling, his hands are rarely visible. All this, I knew as history.

What I didn't know until recently was that my parents were only casual lovers. My father returned to the states one year later and married my mom within six months. When he was at war, she wrote him, once.

Monday, November 01, 2004

Bittersweet fruit

When I was five I went to stay at my grandmother's house for two days. No one told me where my parents were. I don't remember who dropped me off. This was not a special treat, time for me and grandma.

It was close to Easter, I know that much. My grandmother cut toast into tiny triangles and let me watch 'Via Allegre', even though I couldn't speak Spanish. I was mesmerized by the ferris wheel, the Spanish children laughing all day in an amusement park. Though foreign, they were magic to me, poetry in lace-trimmed blouses. My grandmother tucked me in tight, I wiggled to catch my breath and wished to stay forever. Two days of quiet and softly buttered toast and suddenly I was picked up by my father.

At home things would go on, they probably thought I would not remember these days, or the ones that later came to pass. I suppose I hugged my mother when I got home. In bed, deflated, she probably smiled. I wonder if they bothered to give me any explanation. There would not be any real talk of a baby for several years.

A decade would pass before my mother told me that the doctor blamed Agent Orange for these losses. It would be another decade before I understood that it was not a man with a secretive job that hated my father, but an invisible mist that rained down on a country that it would take too long for me to believe existed. I am the eldest of four children, but my brother and I are seven years apart and each an only child, by most definitions.