VC # 1

He was from North Vietnam. I met him at a tea party at the Joiner Center at the University of Massachusetts, Boston. The Joiner Center studies wars and the social consequences of war.

They often host nights like this; some food, a few speeches. We were sipping tea and trying to socialize. He was a poet. I was a writer of true stories that were a part of my recovery program.

When I wrote, the words came quickly, tumbling out of my soul. My counselor at the Vet Center had helped me turn my memories into vignettes. He had some poems in his hand. I asked him if I could read them. They had been translated into English in Paris.

He said “Yes, you read.” I remember his glasses and the fact that he was a full head shorter than me. I read the poems, they were bitter and angry. We were about the same age.

As the H'ors deurves passed by us, he grabbed some rice cakes soaked in sake. He barely spoke a word of English. He finally looked at me and grinned, showing a gold tooth. Then he said, “I love Bill Clinton!” I cracked up and said, “So nice to meet you!” We floated away moving with the current of the room. I saw him talking to some other folks. The next time I looked for him he was gone.

By David Beakey

 Echo Company 1/20/68 - 2/1/69