|My ship up a river in the Mekong Delta in 1966|
CC Jean Stimmell
Saturday, September 23, 2017
In conjunction with the premier of Ken Burns' documentary on Vietnam, the Concord Monitor asked me, along with other veterans, to share personal stories about our Vietnam experience. Below are my three vignettes.
Fighting the War: Not finding the big answers to life, I dropped out of Columbia College in 1964. The Vietnam War had not yet winded up and was little talked about. I didn’t know what to do with my life but was infatuated with that Red Badge of courage sort of thing, thinking I needed to prove I was a man – and also to placate my father who was a combat veteran. But deep down in my heart, I knew this war was wrong and still feel deep guilt about going to this day.
While my tour, on the rivers and along the coast was extremely grueling, there was with little hostile action. But my ship’s luck ran out the year I returned home when it was blown up by Viet Cong sappers, killing 17 shipmates. Meanwhile, the casualties among the circle of people I knew in the Pittsfield area continued to grow: by the end of the war, two had been killed, three seriously wounded and, and two, committed suicide, including a recon marine who had received a silver star for valor in combat.
Resisting the War: A friend and I were crashing in NYC, coming back from an anti-war demonstration in Washington DC when we heard of a big protest being planned for Wall Street. Wandering around the area with our long hair and clinched fists stenciled on our tee shirts, we found ourselves suddenly surrounded by rampaging construction workers with clubs and crowbars, in what turned out to be the beginning of the “Hard Hat Riot of 1970.” We thought we were done for. Just then, a burly, red-faced NY cop arrived, snarling, “Okay, guys, I’m taking over. I’ll make sure these hippy scum get what they deserve,” and started pushing us through the suddenly subdued mob toward the entrance of a nearby subway station. At that point, he shoved us toward the stairs, yelling, “Hurry, boys, run for your lives.”
Working for VA: After getting my counseling degree at almost 50, I took a position at the Sanford Maine Vet Center where eventually I became team leader. At closing time, only a couple of weeks into the job, they decided to test me. The team leader said they had a Vietnam veteran on the phone who was threatening suicide. The vet, whom I will call Joe, had called previously in a suicidal state and the police had been called which resulted in an all night, armed standoff after Joe barricaded himself in his house. Joe agreed to talk to me so I drove to his remote house where I was immediately knocked down by his lunging German shepherd. Joe was a massive man with only one leg as result of a combat injury; he was very drunk and suffering severe pain from pancreatitis. I finally negotiated a deal where I would take him to Togus VA medical center for treatment, sweetening the deal by letting him bring a beer in the government vehicle which was against the rules. On the way to Togus, his dog came close to ripping off the Biddeford toll taker’s hand. After admitting the veteran, I had to deal with his dog. Because I had pledged to Joe that I would take care of his dog, I took him home, where he immediately tackled my girlfriend, pinning her to the ground. But this story has a good ending: after treatment and therapy, Joe went on his way, doing well. So did my girlfriend.
Friday, September 22, 2017
Saturday, September 16, 2017
|Still Life Constructed in my backyard: 3/30/17|
CC Jean Stimmell
Everything seems fine as usual. The days fly by. We get in our shiny cars, drive to work each day, come home to our families, buy lots of stuff on Amazon. Yet, deep down, we have this persistent, nagging feeling that things aren’t fine, that, maybe, we are headed to hell in a hand basket.
But the consequence of admitting to these primal fears is more than we can stomach: We avoid thoughts and feeling about them at all costs, blocking them from our conscious mind.
Instead, like the addicts we are, we escape back to the sanctity of infotainment TV and our spending ways. But, if we could but just sober up, it would be obvious that these fears are real with devastating consequences.
How can we not comprehend that we live in a supreme bubble of denial: Mired in political gridlock and failing infrastructure while still insisting that we are God’s chosen people, destined to live on the shining city on the hill, even if the city is collapsing from neglect, graft, and the cost of fighting a succession of futile wars around the world.
Meanwhile, due to the increasing risk from global nationalism and proliferating nuclear weapons, the doomsday clock has moved to only 2-1/2 minutes from midnight –the symbolic moment humankind will be annihilated, according to the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists.
Finally, the earth is in midst of a catastrophic mass extinction from a combination of toxic pollution, invasion by alien species and climate change. Billions of populations of mammals, birds, reptiles, and amphibians have already been lost and the rate of extinction increases each year.
Facing this tsunami of destruction, how could we not be in denial: how can we possibly wrap our minds around the devastation that lies ahead, becoming qualitatively worse each day that we continue to hid our heads in the warm, comforting sand of our material culture – which, of course, paradoxically, further fuels our addiction.
What’s the answer: how do we break this cycle of addiction and start climbing out of the hole we are digging for ourselves?
I have a modest suggestion based on the answer Buddhist master Ajahn Chah gave to Mark Epstein, an American psychotherapist, when asked what he had learned from his years of contemplation that would be of interest to those of us in the West. Before saying a word, he motioned to a glass at his side.
“Do you see this glass?” he asked us. “I love this glass. It holds the water admirably. When the sun shines on it, it reflects the light beautifully. When I tap it, it has a lovely ring. Yet for me, this glass is already broken. When the wind knocks it over or my elbow knocks it off the shelf and it falls to the ground and shatters, I say, ‘Of course.’ But when I understand that this glass is already broken, every minute with it is precious.”1
I was profoundly moved by the wisdom of this story: as with the master’s glass, how can I take my world for granted when it is guaranteed to come crashing down– in most cases, sooner than later.
If tigers and elephants and countless other magnificent beings will grow extinct, it makes those still living, more precious, fragile, and worth saving. If great cities and cultures around the world are in danger of being incinerated – as we did to Hiroshima – it makes the cities still living and breathing more precious, fragile, and worth saving.
When I open myself up to their ultimate fate, I can, for the first time, identify with them fully in the here-and-now. If I have the courage to open myself up to the truth of uncertainty, it sets me free.
I have a long way to go but feel like I am on the path.
Denying that our world is broken either numbs me, making me take my everyday world for granted or paralyzes me, making me want to stick my head in the sand like the proverbial Ostrich. Conversely, wholeheartedly admitting the obvious truth that our world is already broken, opens me up to a floodgate of emotions: sadness and grief at what has been lost but, at the same time, unleashing a sense of awe and wonder at the beauty and majesty still surrounding us.
In a different context, Rob Acevedo’s sentiments expressed recently in his music column in the Monitor uncannily resonate with what I am feeling: “The simple beats, the heavy thinking wordplay, the triumphant hero leveled by a life less given. These songs filled me with a kind of beautiful sorrow that I wanted to drink in, feeding me in ways that didn’t require a textbook…2
Because I see the glass is already broken, it makes me more motivated to save my precious fellow beings of all species who have not yet fallen off the shelf due to human greed, hate, and delusion, while savoring in every moment, the faces of my loved ones and the splendor of everyday life.
1 Epstein, Mark. The Trauma of Everyday Life (pp. 44-46). Penguin Publishing Group. Kindle Edition
2 Concord Monitor, 9/14/17, Rob Azevedo’s Soundcheck Column