Hometown Memorial Overcomes Differences

Schenectady Gazette
May 11, 1988

I had to go home again. It was as if a magnet was drawing me back to Staten Island.

On May 7, Staten Islanders dedicated a memorial to our 84 men killed in the Vietnam War, and those of
us who survived. I had helped create this memorial but looked forward to the dedication with some
anxiety. I was known as the local founder of Vietnam Veterans Against the War. How would I feel? How
would I be received by the parents of my friends who killed? I have been involved in numerous
memorials – planning, consulting, speaking at dedications, researching and writing about them. This one
was different. It was mine. I could have been one of the 84 names. This one was personal. New York is
my city. Staten Island is my neighborhood.

When I first visited the memorial in Washington D.C, I felt the costs of the Vietnam War again. But on
this trip home the feelings were different. I felt pride as I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge in New York
City parade. On Staten Island, I felt dignity and I felt sad. I left my politics upstate, the way a gunfighter
checks his tools at the door. I wish some others had done the same. I have learned that politics can be a
substitute for feelings. I wanted to be respectful.

Staten Island had sent me to war. My enlistment let the local draft board select one less Islander to fill
its quota. Somehow I did not mind being the one to go. My culture did not prepare me to say no. In
August of 1963, I did not take the full 10 days allowed prior to registering for the draft. It was more an
opportunity than an obligation. A draft card turned a boy into a man. I could join the other men at the
bar. When I entered the military, I felt that I completed the transition having left aside the ways of a boy.

As I marched in the Staten Island Vietnam Veterans Parade I felt the dignity of public service and the
sadness of believing that manhood is a uniform you can put on. I felt the pain of the families who lost
sons to the war. As my daughter watched from the sidelines, I thought of those who did not have
grandchildren. For some the family name died in Vietnam.

As we approach Memorial Day 1988, I want to reflect on these feelings, inviting others to experience
their own. I know that mine are no better nor worse than those of you who read this. War is more than
the extension of politics; it is the personal lives of those who fight and those who wait at home.

As I walked two miles to the memorial site, my emotions played me like a piano. At first I was
embarrassed to have bystanders applauding. It is not always easy to be appreciated. Sometimes it is
easier to stay in the rut of isolation and self enhanced rejection. A lot of us have exaggerated
characterization of having been spit upon. We may not have been treated as heroes but some of us

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could've done more to engage a public that did not know how relate to us. We still have an opportunity
to open up and share our feelings. Respect is a two way street.

At the memorial site, I found myself more comfortable out in the sun with the veterans than in the VIP
reception and then. I ran into old friends who were resentful of the role politicians were playing in the
dedication. I was amazed at the self-congratulatory speeches. I was moved by the families of the dead.
Their pain was as present as if their son or brother or father had been killed yesterday. I was grateful for
the opportunity to be supportive of the mother of my friend Bert who was killed more than 20 years
ago.

One gets quite a view from the dais looking out at a crowd of thousands. The audience hardly heard
what was said as they stared transfixed at the speaker. It was more a spiritual act, meditating while the
people at the microphone droned on the mantra.

The real feelings came with the unveiling of the names. Taps, then Amazing Grace on the bagpipes made
the ritual almost complete. Then there was the communion of touching the names. One can almost feel
the loved one’s spirit resting in his name. It was hard to leave. I stayed there because I did not know
what to do. I still do not know what to do. I miss them even those I never met.

I had to go home again I did not and I did not know why. Staten Island sent me to war and this year it
brought me home. Without politics as a weapon, I can feel again. I was with people whose opinions
about the war I do not share. They did not care what mine was either. What we shared was a respect for
each other’s experience. Our spirits are stronger than our statements.

Politics is important to me. It is values in action, programs being implemented. I know I will pick up my
tools again. They are essential part of democracy. I will wait until after Memorial Day, however. I will be
a little more careful I you use them. A warrior must know when to be in peace. I am glad I went home
again.

Edward Murphy, of Saratoga Springs is a Vietnam veteran and political activists. He is a regular
contributor to the Saturday op-ed page.