Killing
Fucking
Drinking
Yep, 1967 to 1968 one of the best and worse years of my life.
Was there for Tet.
Artillery.
Got sprayed, coated in Agent Orange.
Over and over.
Not dead, not yet.
Green Beret got some steaks for my birthday,
shipped em out of Saigon. Giant fuckin T-Bones.
Giant Birthday cake.
Yeah, It was a good year.
Too much of everything.
Not enough of nothing.
Army veteran
January 26, 2024
In 1987 while I was a Peace Corps volunteer in Fiji I met the then New Zealand Minister Of Railways and Transportation and his Fijian wife. We got to know each other well enough that they invited me to visit them when I was going to be in New Zealand.
I was there for almost a month mainly in Auckland but also visited Wellington. I took to riding the bus a lot while I was there. It is always a great way to see and visit with people and observe everyday interactions - the ones that make up most of our lived moments.
One of the most haunting images I remember is that of two Maori kids maybe in thier early to late teens. A boy and girl, small in stature, both beautiful. They were in the back of the bus and had a huge zip-lock bag of clear glue they were sniffing and inhaling. Their eyes were wide and staring. Unblinking as they gazed out upon the world.
Who knew what they were thinking? Not I. At 26 years old at that time I knew so little of the tides and winds that made the world what it is. Nor little of the history of colonialism, coercion, lies and violence visited not just upon the Maori but the other indigenous people of the world. I do not wish to paint any of them JUST as victims. That robs them of identity and me of any humanity I cling to and treasure.
But still . . . that image remains with me to this day. It speaks of oppression, lost culture, denigration, violence both physical and mental.
How does a culture come back from this? I look to the Maori for the answers to that, they have spoken, they have regained some of what was lost and I have no right to speak for them in any way. I can look to them for teaching however. To learn from them and absorb.
I remain and sit with that memory of their thousand yard stare and my interpretation of hopelessness in their eyes. My projection of hopelessness is a more accurate statement. I did not stop to ask why or if I could help. I had never seen that before and felt that it was something I could do nothing about. Now of course, if it was my country and my moral duty to act . . . I would speak up.
I will always wonder . . . and hope.
