Cloud Nine

The narrow street that stood in front of Clayton Park was dark and lonely. Occasionally a car would pass by, with its headlights on, occasionally someone would run by the street, past the street –another street among many. But it was in that same street that he had kissed me. It was in that same street were we had held hands and watched the night sky together twenty years ago. It was in that same street where he walked out my life, where he whispered his last goodbye and slipped out of my fingertips forever.

I no longer lived in Panama; it was now a small town for me, although it had once been my everything. It felt unknown, with all the new buildings everywhere, without the smell of nature around me. Panama meant home, it meant memories –something I was always trying to avoid. I met Bryce in the same street where I stood and back then, he was all I had, he made me feel happy and sad, he was my North Star, and he was home. I took a deep breath, and I could almost feel his hand playing with my hair, I remember how his thumb had a weird shape I always made fun of.  I could smell the fancy cologne he stole from his father, and as if the wind whispered in my ears, I heard his laugh; I saw him smile with his right front tooth slightly crooked. And as a tear rolled down my 35 year old cheek, I felt him awkwardly run down the street, like the boy he used to be, not like the man he never was.

That night we had walked home from school, something we started doing on a Friday, after he said he wanted to hold my hand for a really long time. He opened a pack of gum and for every time we made each other laugh, we each had to eat a piece. By the time we got home it was getting dark but I felt like time no longer existed, it was just a word: time. It meant nothing as long as I was with him, and all he wanted was to be with me, tell me how beautiful I was and I felt my head spinning all over the place. It was like those movies I hated; he was awkward and weird and so was I. Suddenly, being like the people in the movies I hated didn’t feel wrong at all.

As we approached our houses, he stopped walking and leaned in to kiss me, he did this forehead kissing thing that really had me going; just like his eyes and his smile and his personality had me going since day one. He touched his pocket and realized his phone wasn’t there –I joked about him being clumsy and dropping it along the way– and said he had to go back. I insisted on going with him, or calling our parents but he said he’d be fine. He looked into me and wished me a goodnight, whispered in my ear and said he loved me, two shadows hugging in a narrow street, in a town that meant everything to me. His eyes looked greener under the moon, the starlight made it look like it was magic, and we were stuck in cloud nine.

It was in that street where a red pickup truck was going too fast, Bryce was too busy picking up his phone from the ground, his eyes weren’t quick enough, the car wasn’t careful enough. His eyes stopped blinking, his chest stopped moving, and his bloody figure was all that was left.

The narrow street that stands in front of Clayton Park is dark and lonely. Occasionally a car would pass by, with its headlights on, occasionally someone would run by the street, past the street –another street among many.

I love remembering his crooked right front tooth, smell the fancy cologne he stole from his father and feel him kiss me, love me. But now, there are no red pickup trucks, there are no lost phones, and no one is here to remember. There is no one except me; a 35 year old woman that no longer lives in Panama, because she’s too scared to remember. She’s scared to remember how she lost the only thing she ever cared about. She’s scared to remember how his green eyes stopped blinking, how his chest stopped moving, she’s scared to remember the bloody figure that remained.

A Star-Shaped Story

The Man I Killed is told by Tim O’Brien, but it is not told from first person. Instead, Tim relates the story by describing the man and questioning the facts and through these details; the reader tries to decipher what Tim might be feeling. This chapter has an excellent description of the young man Tim killed and it all has an extended double meaning. What I love about this chapter is the tone Tim uses to depict the guilt and agony that death creates in him. He feels lost and he lets this excruciating pain take over him, and as if guilt itself were writing this chapter, I was able to experience what he felt when killing.

Throughout the whole chapter Tim describes the young man, and knows many details about him; what he did before the war, what he was carrying, what he loved, what he wanted. All of these details are impossible to be known by an American soldier, and this leads us to feel the guilt that Tim carries after killing this man. He decides to make up a life for the man, to imagine all he could’ve been, all he lost after dying. And through this story, he sees himself in the man. He was just another boy, with hopes and dreams of his own, a keen dislike for war and no stomach for violence. He was just another boy that got killed but this time, it had been Tim’s grenade, and it had been his fault.

After reading this chapter, I remained skeptical about all the knowledge Tim had on the man he killed; however, when I read Good Form I was able to fully understand why Tim made up a life for the young man. He explains that not knowing the faces and lives of those he kills creates an empty feeling and he’s only left with faceless responsibility and faceless grief. In a way, I think this is true; however, it led me to deeply think about the following question:

Would you rather know about the life of the man you killed, or not know anything at all, yet be left with doubt, faceless responsibility and faceless grief?

This chapter is incredibly deep in thought and is a great example of how the presence of guilt can take over a man’s soul. 

When America Turns into Vietnam

What a classic "Mary Anne" would look like

This chapter is a perfect example of what war does to the soldier, to the human being. The events that take place in the Song Tra Bong are imperative to the point Tim is trying to get across throughout this book; war and its effects on the individual who experienced it. In this chapter, Mark Fossie decides to bring his high school sweetheart Mary Anne to Vietnam. At first, this seems like an excellent idea –although very out of place– and everyone seems satisfied with a girl in the middle of Vietnam during a war.

Mary Anne is the symbol of innocence and home. She embodies America perfectly; with her blonde hair, blue eyes, bubbly attitude, culottes and her sweet disposition. Her attitude towards war was more like curiosity and interest; almost like a cheerleader visiting the opposite team’s locker rooms. But soon, Mary Anne’s inner America was gone. She became Vietnam and the war slowly swallowed her up, just like it did with every single one of the soldiers in this story.

What killed Mary Anne was war. It was Vietnam; it was the adrenaline, the thrill that comes with the kill. The bubbly 17 year old was no longer bubbly and cute, she was intrigued, and she was carrying guns, cutting her hair off, becoming war itself.  I think that this story was trying to portray what war does to the body and what goes beyond the body: the soul. Mary Anne was never the same, and her destiny is unknown to the reader. It wouldn’t really matter whether it was a woman or a man,  war would still take over the person, take over anyone who sets foot on the jungles of Vietnam, whoever steps into the darkness of war itself. However, introducing a female character and letting her become a savage, a killer and get consumed into war, creates a deeper shock and increases the agony and cruelty of killing innocence –killing the one thing the soldiers love and turning it into the one thing they fear more than their enemy: war.

The fact that Rat tells the story does make it a little less believable, since he has a reputation for telling very imaginative things, things that might not necessarily be true. Nonetheless, the story is so unbelievable, it becomes true; it becomes possible. The outcome is so surreal it actually makes you doubt why couldn’t it happen? It is so absurd it makes sense, and this is why I think of it as a great, true war story.  This story has no moral, and as far as we know the facts could be fiction and the fiction could be facts. The play of words and connections to both the real and imaginary world make this story seem real, like a true war story. The unreal facts are combined with the cruelty of war and together, they make it completely believable and fit all of O’Brien’s criteria and define it as a true war story.  

Leave The Good Things At The Door

This quote refers to the peace story told my Tim during Spin, one of the chapters in this amazing book.  The story is about a man who went AWOL (absent without leaving) and had fun times with a Red Cross nurse. He then, eagerly went back to war and when asked why, he answered with the following quote:

“All that peace man, it felt so good it hurt. I want to hurt it back.”

What happens in war, I don’t know. What one feels after being in war, I don’t feel. But what is so interesting about this book is that you can get a feel of that dull boredom. It’s almost as if you opened your eyes and for a second you were there, you were Tim, in Vietnam, at the intersection between past and present. I feel like a soldier and although I can’t understand what it feels like, it’s almost as if I were nodding, accepting Tim’s stories and trying to forget the impossible.

When I read this quote, I literally nodded at the soldier and almost felt sorry for him. I felt sorry for everyone because it wasn’t their fault, war wasn’t their fault. They had been thrown in there, to kill each other and wait for it to be over; no one told them how much they would change, how the agony would consume them, no one mentioned peace would hurt.

This quote is the perfect example of how much war damages the human being. One would think that peace amidst war would create joy and relief but it does the complete opposite. It makes you feel dirty, it feels wrong; like cleaning your M-16 the wrong way, like packing the wrong type of grenade. Peace is wrong because you are in the middle of chaos and crime and violence. Peace is a burden, because you are supposed to feel savage, and wild, and angry; you shouldn’t feel happy, you shouldn’t be having fun with a Red Cross nurse. Peace is not accepted in war.

This soldier felt too good next to the nurse, he felt too clean, too happy until he realized where he was, what he should be doing. He claims he wants to hurt peace back…but why? Is this what soldiers do? Yes, they leave their moral, their feelings, their memories and their values back at home, with their wide eyed high school girlfriends wearing culottes because peace and joy are not welcomed during war time.

In war, you better take whatever makes you smile and turn it into evil. 

Remember this: If you are happy, you are doing something wrong. 

Just Another War Letter

Dear Alex,

I feel different. I feel like all the happiness and good in me has been sucked by the agony of this place. A place that is scary and dull and lonely. I’m so scared…for real Alex. People here are mysterious, they’re skeptical about talking, about smiling, about trusting. I have nothing here except guns and ammo that I don’t want to use. I hate war, I hate people hating each other, I hate hate itself. I want to tell you about so many things I did, but I feel that they’re not worth your time. You are back at home, and I can picture you, sitting in your chair with your headphones on, doing what I used to do before I came here. Before war swallowed me up. About three nights ago, I killed a little girl. I killed a girl that was walking along one side of the camp and I still don’t know why I did it. She was wearing a white tank top and blue shorts, she had brown eyes and brown hair; like you. She was playing with a flower, plucking each petal slowly, almost rhythmically. I loaded my gun and shot her, right in between the eyes –just like people in the TV shows we watched remember? I cried after I heard the shot, the shot that came from my own gun, and the shot that killed a girl. A girl that was walking along one side of the camp, a girl with brown eyes and brown hair…just like you. I walked over and closed her eyes, ran away and hid in my foxhole until the next day, and while I was crying in there, all I could see was her eyes. Looking over me, and in her, I saw you. I saw your eyes, I smelled your hair, I heard your voice, and I felt you hug me; but around me, all I have is death. Death is here to remind me where I am, what I need to do, what I must forget. I want to forget about the people I killed, I want to forget about those eyes but what they want me to forget is things that make me doubt violence. Things like talking, smiling, trusting. They want me to forget people that make me happy, like you; yet they want me to remember that every person I see is one more animal I must kill. And honestly, I’m tired. I want to kill myself, I want to be the one that they forget, because I know I can’t. I feel helpless and I need to keep my head up if I want to make it back home. Sad thing is…lately I wonder if I even want to make it back home. I hope that the tears being shed right now won’t ever come back, I want this tragic feeling gone, I want the filth of death out of my system.

Promise me you’ll sing for me tonight, promise me you’ll look up to the sky and think of me, pray for me, love me and miss me as much as I miss you right now.

Sincerely,

Natalia. 

I wrote this letter to Alexandra, because she’s the only person in this world I can be honest with. Writing a letter to my parents or my sister would not help me get things out of my system, out of my head. Expectations are too high, and my agony is too overwhelming to lie. With Alex I hide no stories, I hide no feelings, I say what I need to say. She is a part of me, a fragment of my mind, my heart and my memory; she is the only one that will understand without explanations, without excuses…she is the only one that understands me. 

The One With Nothing To Carry

Carrying things around everywhere might seem ok to most people, but it seems completely extraneous to me. I’m not saying I have no possessions, because I do (too many I think) however, I believe there are some things that are not necessary when you leave your house.

Being a student definitely separates my two lives and determines the possessions I really care about. For example, inside my backpack I have things I would not carry around when I’m with my friends at the movies. I thought about doing a nice, organized chart comparing and contrasting the things I carry to school and the things I carry outside of school but after doing it multiple times, it turned out to be more of like a list of two.  School related things inside backpack, nothing inside my purse.

What I find extremely ironic is that I love purses and handbags and everything that is cute and has many little pockets, yet I leave everything everywhere. I lose my sweater, my water bottle, my earrings…everything. I am also the kind of person that is too lazy to carry a purse around and instead shoves 20 dollars in her pocket and has her phone in her hand. Nonetheless, these are two things that I always have with me: Chap Stick and Kleenex.

My Companion #1

I always have Chap Stick because I have an obsession with having dry lips. I think it looks very disgusting in front of people and it is improbable that a normal person will tell you they look disgusting. I just think Chap Stick can always help in times of need, whether it is right before you take a picture, or when you’re bored in class or even to avoid those awkward moments where you’re just standing there with nothing else to do. Surprisingly I never lose my Chap Stick.

My Companion #2

I also have a pack of Kleenex all the time, a routine I owe to my obsessive mother. Ever since I was a child, she would always give me a packet of Kleenex before I left the house. She packed extra ones in my lunchbox and even shoved some in my pockets before I left for school. Although she doesn't do that anymore, every time I go somewhere I make sure to have Kleenex, excusing my actions and saying “I might need them for something” which is indeed just a cover up since not having Kleenex feels like I’m unsatisfying my obsessive mother.  I now “hump” this item all the time, clearly something more of a routine than a necessity since I've had the same packet of Kleenex since the school year started.

Newest Member of the Empathy Group

Some members of the "Empathy Group"

Vietnam War. Yes, I have heard this before. Where? Somewhere. Can I summarize it? Probably not.

These are only some of the things I said to myself when the topic of this war was introduced to us during class. I knew absolutely nothing about this war and now that I’m familiar with the topic, I feel ashamed of my lack of cultural knowledge.

            

The Vietnam War was a military battle fought between North Vietnam (communist) and South Vietnam (supported by the US) from 1959 to 1975. Why was the US involved? Domino Theory. They believed that if Vietnam managed to become communist, soon all the other countries would become communist as well. With the execution of the South Vietnamese leader, Ngo Dinh Diem, chaos broke all over and the opposing forces took advantage of this weakness. The fighting continued for many years and despite signing the Paris Peace Agreement (which was later violated) the war seemed implacable. On April 30^th, 1975 the South Vietnamese (US included) surrendered and many fled the country by all means.  Since then, both poles became one unified Vietnam and there has been a reduction in political oppression.

           

Not only was this war the longest and most expensive war in American history, it was also the first “living room” war. This means that it was televised, which created a great impact on the people watching. For the first time, war not only meant good deeds and victory somewhere far away from all the perfect pie-eating, blonde and blue-eyed families; war meant death and violence right in front of you, blood and agony at arm’s reach.

           

Learning about this war not only prepares me for the content in the book The Things They Carried but it just makes me a new member of the empathy group. What I mean by this is that, there are so many things we (as humans) don’t know about, and even if we think we do, we just don’t. In fact, I believe all of us are somehow members of this group. Why? Because we are oblivious to what war signifies, we know nothing about killing, or fighting, or being brave for your own country. Learning about a war won’t make us stronger, learning about a war won’t ever be the same as standing in front of the enemy and having the courage to throw a grenade and see him blow up, dissipate into the air. It won’t ever compare to what every single soldier went through, what they are still going through. It won’t ever be the same to read about the deaths of “many”, than to remember the expression of the man you killed, the child that might have died in your arms, the filthiness of death that forever remains within you. Learning only means learning; it will never mean knowing, let alone understanding.