Another Memorial Day (Part One)
Remembering Those Who Fought for Our Freedom
I originally posted the amazing poem, “The Wall Within” by Steve Mason in February of 2009. And whenever Veterans Day or Memorial Day rolls around, I repost it. That’s because I wish to honor the memory of our veterans who gave the ultimate sacrifice so that we Americans can enjoy our freedoms today.
Mom and Dad Served in WW2
Both of my parents served in World War II. They never spoke of their war-time experiences. I learned about the reasons for World War II in school, read books, and questioned survivors.
My husband, Mark and I hosted several Pearl Harbor survivors in our living room studio where we interviewed them for the History Channel. These greatest generation veterans recounted the moment that Pearl Harbor was bombed and how their lives changed forever. They spoke about fighting Hitler and his Army who rampaged across the land to eliminate all Jews from the face of the Earth.
A Time of Reflection
The presidency of Trump sparked a sinister flame under white nationalists. Consequently, they have risen to parade with pillowcases on their heads against people of color, uppity women, and anyone else whose views they don’t like.
If Steve Mason were still alive, he would be appalled at this turn of events.
This is a time of reflection for all of us.
Steve Mason and The Wall Within
I have read and re-read Steve’s poem “The Wall Within,” many times. And it illustrates perfectly why a soldier is the best activist for peace. – Patty Mooney
Congressional Record
A few years ago, I was going through some old files and found the copy of a Congressional Record from January 30, 1985. In it was a poem entitled “The Wall Within” which Vietnam Veteran poet laureate, Steve Mason had presented on Veterans Day 1984 on The Mall.
According to the Preamble by the Hon. Stewart B. McKinney of Connecticut, Veterans Day had taken on a new dimension.
The Vietnam Memorial
was completed, dedicated and turned over to the United States and its people. Most of my colleagues were unable to participate in the Veterans Day ceremonies on The Mall, but I would like to share with them a part of the observance which I believe to be a positive sign in the healing process from the Vietnam war.
“The National Poet Laureate of the Vietnam Veterans of America, Steve Mason, read to the vast crowd that day an excerpt from his work “Johnny’s Song.” Having served his country in Vietnam, Steve Mason knew a lot of Johnnys. Having known a lot of Johnnys, Steve Mason continues to serve his country.”
Steve Mason had signed the document and written this to me:
For Lady Patricia,
who writes poetry
in a world led by men
who make no music and
have no dreams –
Thanks for being who you are.
-Steve Mason
I thought back to when I met Steve at a writers’ conference in Southern California in the late 1980’s. I remember feeling honored and touched when he gave me the poem. I read it and put it in my file cabinet. Then, 20 years later, after producing a documentary on homeless combat veterans (“The Invisible Ones: Homeless Combat Veterans“) this document found its way into a virtually whole different set of hands, mine, in that I had reached a better understanding of what Steve went through as a veteran of the Vietnam War.
After that, I googled “Steve Mason” to see what had become of him and found that he had died on May 23rd, 2005, from Agent Orange exposure.
A Poem for the Ages
I decided to post the poem, “The Wall Within” by Steve Mason. A poem that took me over 20 years to fully appreciate. A poem that needs to be shared.
Delivered at the commencement of the National Salute II in Washington, D.C. on November 10, 1984, as part of the official activities prior to the dedication of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial (“The Wall) as a national monument. It honors the personal list of love and loss that each American has marked in his/her heart. Poem entered into the Congressional, January 30, 1985. Johnny’s Song: Poetry of a Vietnam Veteran. Steve Mason. (May 1986). Bantam Books.
“Dedicated
to all of us
who know the true cost
of war
and have paid the price.”
The Wall Within
Most real men
hanging tough
in their early forties
would like the rest of us to think
they could really handle one more war
and two more women.
But I know better.
You have no more lies to tell.
I have no more dreams to believe.
I have seen it in your face
I am sure you have noticed it
in mine;
at the unutterable,
unalterable truth of our war.
The eye sees
what the mind believes.
And all that I know of war,
all that I have heard of peace,
has me looking over my shoulder
for that one bullet
which still has my name on it–circling
round and round the globe
waiting and circling
circling and waiting
until I break from cover
and it takes its best, last shot.
In the absence of Time,
the accuracy of guilt is assured.
It is a cosmic marksman.
Since Vietnam,
I have run a zigzag course
across the open fields of America
taking refuge in the inner cities.
From Mac Arthur Park
to Washington Square
from Centennial Park
to DuPont Circle,
on the grassy, urban knolls of America
I have seen an army of combat veterans
hidden among the trees.
Veterans of all our recent wars.
Each a part of the best of his generation.
Waiting in his teeth for peace.
They do not lurk there
on the backs of park benches
drooling into their socks
above the remote, turtled back
of chess player playing soldiers.
They do not perch upon the gutter’s lip
of midnight fountains
and noontime wishing wells
like surrealistic gargoyles
guarding the coins and simple wishes
of young lovers.
No.
I have seen them in the quiet dignity
of their aloneness.
Singly, in the confidence
of their own perspective.
And always at the edges of the clearing.
Patrolling like perimeter guards,
or observing as primitive gods,
each in his own way looks out to the park
that he might “see” in to the truth.
Some, like me
enjoy the comfortable base
of a friendly tree that we might cock one eye
to the center of the park
toward the rearing bronze horsemen
of other wars
who would lead us backwards to glory.
Daily, they are fragged
by a platoon of disgruntled pigeons saying it best for all of us.
And with the other eye,
we read the poetry of America the Beautiful
as she combs her midday hair
and eats precise shrimp sandwiches
& salad Nicoise catered by Tupperware–
and never leaves a single crumb.
No wonder America is the only country in the world which doesn’t smell like food.
…and I remember you and me
picnicking at the side
of the Ho Chi Minh Trail in the rain
eating the Limas and Ham from the can
sitting easy in our youth and our strength
driving hard bargains with each other
for the C-ration goodies
we unwrapped like Christmas presents.
Somehow it really seemed to matter
what he got versus what you got.
It wasn’t easy trading cheese and crackers
for chocolate-covered peanut butter cookies!
And the pound cake–Forget about it!
I knew a guy who would cut a hole in it
and pretend it was a doughnut.
For six months I watched that
and refused to ask him about it.
I did finally. And you guessed it.
He hated pound cake.
And remember the water biscuit
that came in its own tin?–
I think they had the moxie to call it a cookie–
it came with the marmalade
and was made by that outfit in Chicago
we promised to burn to the ground someday.
Damn, how did your buddy, the animal,
ever eat that crap?
Then, we’d happily wash down the whole mess
with freckly-faced strawberry Kool-Aid
straight from the canteen
some days there’d be goofy grape
(anything to keep from choking on the taste of purified water).
Bleck.
But somehow I sensed all the while
that I’d never be able to forgive myself
for enjoying your company so much
or being so good at the game we played.
We were the best–you and I.
In our parks there are whole other armies of veterans
mostly young and mostly old
but always ageless
who are not alone.
They share with their families
and their friends
these open-aired
above-ground time capsules
of our national culture.
They read aloud to themselves
and their children
from the plaques and statues
monuments and markers
those one-line truths
of our common experience
as if there could be a real significance
in words like Love and Hate tattooed
on the clenched, granite fists of America.
(To be continued…)