Amy Hill Hearth

 

I was seven or eight years old when the Vietnam conflict exploded into a full-fledged war in the mid-1960s, but I remember the era very well. We lived in Columbia, South Carolina, the home of Fort Jackson, and soldiers were a common sight. My mother once mused quietly, as we waited at a stoplight and a small group in uniform crossed the street in front of our car, "I wonder which ones are headed to Vietnam?"

 

She didn't add what I knew she was thinking: "How many of them will come back in a casket?"

 

As the war dragged on, tension grew noticeably in our household. By 1969, my eldest brother was draft age, and the second-eldest would soon be. My brothers said little about it in front of me, their baby sister, but my parents, who were completely against the war, had difficulty hiding their feelings. They were worried about other people's sons, not just their own.

 

Mom and Dad knew a thing or two about the reality of war. Dad had served overseas in the Army in World War II. Mom had volunteered for special assignments for the War Department. She refused to tell anyone, even Dad, what those assignments were. She had been, also, a "Rosie-the-Riveter" (a woman doing a man's job because so many men were in the armed services) who spent a summer assembling timing mechanisms for bombs at a converted Bulova watch factory in Queens, NY.

 

World War II had a profound impact on my parents and, therefore, their four children. It was so massive, and so horrible, that for decades afterward it was referred to as "the war" as if there had never been another.

 

But I was confused. Why had my parents been gung-ho about World War II, but not Vietnam? What, I asked Dad one day, was the difference?

 

"Pearl Harbor," he replied. There was more to it than that, he added, but Pearl Harbor was the tipping point.

 

I had learned, even by that tender age, some basic facts about World War II, mostly from my father, so "December 7, 1941, a day that will live in infamy," as President Roosevelt famously referred to Pearl Harbor, was not new to me.

 

"Remember, we were attacked at Pearl Harbor," said Dad. "Out of the blue, by the Japanese. When someone does that, you have no choice but to fight back."

 

There was no such event with the Vietnam War, he explained.

 

The Vietnam War continued until 1975, when I was in high school. Since then, there have been more American wars, including, most recently of course, our long entanglement in the Middle East. Now we have started a new war, also in the Middle East although this time in Iran.

 

Growing up in America during the Vietnam War, and in the long shadow of World War II, I understood at an early age that war is commonplace. But does it really have to be this way? To quote a famous anti-war song heard frequently during the Vietnam War, "When will we ever learn?"

 

 

 

"It took me 100 years to figure out that I can't change the world. I can only change Bessie." – Bessie Delany at age 102

 

I think of this quote from Having Our Say every time I feel frustrated and helpless about our country and the world today.

 

Realistically, what can I do to stop the bloodshed in Ukraine or Israel or Sudan?

 

Here in the U.S., our divisions are unlike anything I've experienced in my lifetime. It seems impossible to persuade anyone to consider an alternative point of view. We've become a nation of shouters, not listeners.

 

So, as Bessie noted, the only control we have is over ourselves. I can improve myself as a human being – and even that's not easy to do.

 

Most of us are taught that we can make a difference in life, that even the smallest gestures can impact someone's future in a positive way, and surely that's true. I'm not saying we should abandon those efforts. In fact, we should double-down on them in these hard times.  

 

In the big picture, however, the deeper truth is that very few people (and I am not among them) have actual power in this world, and unfortunately, many of them wield that power in grotesque ways.

 

I can write letters. I can donate money. Probably the most important thing I can do is vote in November, and you can be sure that I will.

I wonder if a part of our national divide over culture and politics stems from the huge decline in the proportion of Americans who serve, or served, in the Armed Forces. Perhaps part of what made the Greatest Generation great was that such a large proportion of them fought in the war, and thus, got to know each other in ways they wouldn't have otherwise.

 

My dad's experience was typical in that regard. He enlisted in 1942 three days after earning his high school diploma from Wauwatosa High School in Wisconsin. His family was originally from New York & New Jersey. He knew no one from the South or West until his Army days. He became lifelong pals with men from completely different backgrounds. The ones I recall were from Texas, Mississippi, South Carolina, California, and Iowa. Most were from working or middle class backgrounds. A few were wealthy. It didn't matter.

 

There were other differences that didn't matter, either. For example, Dad became great pals with a Jewish soldier from the Bronx named "Dersh" (short for Dershowitz). After the war ended, Dersh said, "If you get home ahead of me, and you visit your grandparents on Long Island, will you give my mother a call and say hello for me?" Dad, of course, being Dad, agreed. And that's how it worked out: Dad got home first and made the call. Dersh's mother was thrilled. She invited Dad to come up to the Bronx, and that's how Dad found himself the guest of honor at a family Shabbat dinner. So my point is that through the miliary and serving in the war, millions of Americans from various backgrounds got to know each other as individuals.

 

I should add that even before the war, when Dad was in basic training in Mississippi, he had a long, memorable conversation with an older Black farmer who gave Dad, who was hitch-hiking, a ride to a city. I can't remember where they were going, but it was a long ride in a slow farm truck on back roads, and they must have had quite a good time together because Dad still recalled it when he was in his nineties. ("It was swell!")

 

Now I'm not suggesting, heaven forbid, that we need another world war in order for Americans to get to know one another, but instead, perhaps it could be mandatory to serve a year or two in the Armed Forces (or some alternative) for all young men and women.

 

I often encounter young men and women in publishing in NYC who have no clue whatsoever about huge swaths of the United States of America. They do not know their own country. They only know what they know. They are far more progressive than most of the country and they don't "get" that at all. Perhaps if they were to serve in the Armed Forces or were thrown in together fighting fires in the West or helping with the massive flooding in St. Louis and Kentucky, they would see the humanity in the "other" America - and vice-versa as well.

Eighteen years ago I interviewed a brilliant Holocaust survivor named Leo Petranker. He shared many observations about life, democracy, and the nature of human beings. One of his comments, in particular, sticks in my mind:

"Always watch the language of a people," he said. "When people use extreme words, like 'assassinate', this is a sign of trouble to come."

In the years since I interviewed Mr. Petranker, American culture has become much more coarse. Read More