At the Wall

     I recently read about a project concerning the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington D.C. A group has decided that an individual photograph of all 58,000 of those names on the wall should be assembled and displayed so that people could see more accurately who these people were.  That is, what they looked like.  Of course, what immediately came to mind was the Life Magazine cover of June 1969.  That week an even 100 U.S. servicemen had been killed in Vietnam.  In previous weeks the numbers were higher, like 350 or 473.  But the even 100 prompted the editors of Life to issue a special fold-out cover.  The photographs of all 100 GIs were printed so the nation could see the faces behind the numbers.  The impact was immediate and overwhelming.

    I was in training with the VISTA Volunteer program in Austin Texas that week.  I vividly recall someone having a copy of that magazine and on an afternoon break from the training sessions many of us sat outside on a grassy quad passing that Life magazine around.  

    A high school friend of mine, Bill Garcia, had been killed in Vietnam the previous year, so I knew his photo wouldn't be on that cover.  But what struck me was how similar these young men looked to guys I knew.  I'm sure many of the photos were high school yearbook pictures, so that definitely increased the similarity to folks I knew.  

    So now,  when people go to the memorial in D.C. or when they check online, they will be able to see a likeness of the person whose name appears on the wall.

    I've been to the wall a couple of times.  On my first visit, I wanted to make a rubbing of my friend's name.  A guard will provide the paper and the lead pencils to make the stencil-like rubbing. As it happened, my friend's name was at the highest point on the wall.  The guard saw my predicament and deftly handed me a ladder.  I was hoping to have a peaceful, silent moment of reflection at the wall, but the minute I started to climb the ladder, people closed in around me, snapping photos. Suddenly I'd become a photo op.  I completed my task and then slipped up the hill in front of the wall and under the shade of a nearby tree to finally get my time with myself.  

    Recently I looked in my high school yearbook for Bill Garcia's Senior picture.  It wasn't there.  He must have been absent that day.  The photo they have of him in this new project must be from his Junior year.  Then, as I was leafing through the yearbook I recalled another candid shot of Bill.  It exemplifies his personality and showcases his black horn-rimmed glasses better than any Senior portrait ever would.

Don't Be Cruel

 His name was Larry.  He was about 14 years old when I met him back in 1971.  As a newly employed counselor in a residential treatment facility for kids that were classified as dependent/neglected, I had a lot to learn.  Employed was hardly the proper term.  It was $50. a month and room and board.  The counselors were mostly conscientious objectors to the Viet Nam War, and the placement there was a form of alternative service.  The theory was that to be classified as an alternative service, the work must disrupt your life.  Trying to live on $50. dollars a month will certainly do that.  

(Photo David Soffa)

Most of the kids that occupied the 3 houses which comprised "The Saint George Homes" were either violent or learning disabled.  They had been placed by either their parents or a court order.  Some had lived at other facilities, but because of their behavior were either expelled or encouraged to find another placement.  

Larry did not have learning disabilities nor was he violent.  His thing was running away.  He hopped freight trains.  It was not uncommon for him to be missing from his room in the morning and to make a phone call to the director of the facility's office from another city.  The St. George Homes were located in Berkeley, California, and Larry would call from Portland, Seattle, or Salt Lake City.  Eventually, someone would be dispatched to go to him and bring him back.  

We didn't always know the complete background of the kids we worked with, but occasionally some information would surface.  Larry would probably stay at this facility until he turned 18.  He had an abusive father and his mother was nowhere in sight, so there was nothing to return to.  

When I'd been working with these kids for about 6 months,  I was informed I was to be Larry's "Special Friend." This meant I'd be required to spend extra time with him and see if I could develop a mutual trust.  Hopefully, his hoboing would lessen or become a thing of the past.  W

We got off to a good start just by sharing ideas, and tastes in music and sports teams, and generally learning to be around one another.  I think I was chosen because of my non-macho demeanor and far gentler ways than many men.  My voice was perceived as calming as well.  

About three months down the road of our relationship, Larry's behavior (no running away or railroad adventures) had improved so much that he was given a reward.  He was told that he could go to any music concert of his choice.  I soon learned that Larry was an Elvis Presley fan of major proportions.  Naturally, he choose an Elvis concert, and I was to accompany him.  

We settled into our seats at the Oakland Coliseum Arena as a capacity crowd settled.  I recall walking in from the parking lot and marveling at the diversity of the crowd.  Elvis had fans of all ages, Black and White, and many whose first language was not English.  I vividly recall a mid-aged mad wearing alligator cowboy boots with a woman half his age on his arm.  Could be his daughter or not.

Elvis gave a great performance, all the while, tossing out scarves that had been placed around his neck to eager fans, mostly women.  He strutted down a long runway in front of the stage, so as to hit as big a section of the audience as his movement would allow.  
Elvis was just beginning to become a parody of himself at this time and as the evening wore on, I could see he was taking himself less seriously as his song choice progressed.  

Larry was impressed.  I think we got him an Elvis poster on the way out.  

About two weeks later I was suddenly removed as Larry's "Special Friend."  When I asked why I was told that Larry was having strong feelings that made him uncomfortable.  Apparently, he had stronger feelings for me than his father and it made him feel guilty and ashamed.  Even Elvis couldn't fix that.