Talking to Her
"Most people are lucky enough to crawl away from their wounds,
but some of us drag them along, as though there is no escape from
ourselves, nor from events."
anonymous
Her resentful posture, her accusing eyes, and her verbal
hostility combined as a challenge against my unenlightened
values. Her inferiority was finally reduced to a single
confrontation: "Why do you want to remember what everyone
else is trying so hard to forget?" ... and the answer was
too simple for her comprehension. I could've told her about the
palliative effects of implicit catharsis, about the prophylactic
potential of hortatory education, or about the prospective
actualization of exhibited truth, but that would be neither the
complete nor the primary reason. An appeal for sympathetic
revelations, for enhanced methodologies, or for unprejudiced
exposures would only complicate the matter. After all, suffering
has never stopped war, technique has only facilitated war, and
truth has always collaborated with war. Remembering will not
change the past, nor improve the future. Remembering neither
denies nor celebrates any aspect of war. We remember these
horrific events, which are collectively called war,
because they comprise an essential part of our identity. Our
persons are inextricably bound to the experience of war, and all
that it entails. The irrefutable paradox is that war is
both the best and the worst thing that men can do to each
other. If we forget the bad, then we must also forget
the good; and if we remember the good, then we must also recall
the bad. Such knowledge is elusively bittersweet, with an
expectation of both, and a promise of neither.
When the partisan interlocutor confronted me with arrogant
rectitude about a polemical exposition, I knew that she was
futilely seeking a conversion. I've interrogated enough true
believers, whether wounded captives or betrayed agents, to
know that there is no middle ground of pacific
concessions. The logic behind their vaunted tolerance is
that the decisive end, whether truth or justice, derives from an
accommodation between extreme oppositions. Their supposition is
that nothing is purely black or white, so reality must subsist
somewhere amongst the intermediate gray regions. They cite the
Aristotelian golden mean and Hegelian dialectic
synthesis as postulated proofs, while ignoring the wisdom of
Solomonic compromise and Vedantic zetetics. Because they perceive
absolute convictions as aberrations, which cannot negotiate
situation ethics, such a discredited orientation is not only
obstructive to settlement, but is simply wrong.
Ironically, it is the very idealist who will resist the ideologue
so the quibbler can persist in splendid isolation, absurdly
cloistered in a remote Ivory Tower, and protected from the sharp
reality of his pampered conclusions. One faction claims that
monuments produce graves, another faction declares that graves
inspire monuments, and others proclaim that they're either
coincidental or unrelated. Reality is seemingly impossible to
apprehend, which is possibly due to our concomitant dualism; but
things are what they are, when they are what they are, unless and
until they are not. Love is not intellectual, but it can be
intellectualized. Birth is not logical, but it can be placed in
perspective. Death is not mechanical, but it has a mechanistic
context. Weapons are not spiritual, but their employment affects
the soul. Strategy is not emotional, but its implementation can
wrack the psyche. The intellectual disrespect that passes for
analysis during conflict resolutions is the crux of the problem
... for as long as the solution depends upon abrogated
rights and repudiated principles, the present resolution is only
a temporary hiatus to a later resumption for an eventual
conclusion, for a just completion, for a final termination.
She proclaimed that interpretive bias could be eliminated by
comparing the subjective accounts and contrasting the roorback
reports of several different sources, and would not believe that
multiple interpretations from a single original source
invalidated any potential for a diverse spectrum. She declared
that the truth could be distilled from a survey of
interviews, assuming the proper questions were asked and the
answers were understood, with actual survivors by skilled
professionals. She would not believe that a participant was even
less reliable and more uninformed than an ostensible objective
observer. The issue of witness or participant verification
becomes moot when the directives are unknown and the context is
unsuspected. She tried the analogical hypothetical
accident as a philosophical lever, so as to impose her
values upon what she did not know; but the mosaic could only be
made into an image if the pieces were rearranged. None of the
unofficial manipulations or secret operations which had failed
would ever be revealed in static records because they did not
support the preferred conclusion nor reinforce the systematic
process. They hadn't deliberately broken it so it could be fixed,
and they weren't trying to fix something that was perfectly
functional, but they wouldn't admit any damage until they had
some workable solutions. The only documented failures would be
orchestrated to massage the result into something noble or
inevitable, something beyond anyone's control, something for
which no one could be blamed. The exceptions were notable for
their very existence, and offered damage-control or exploitation
opportunities for the ambitious. She asserted that legitimate
participants were valid, to which I consented, and she insisted
that accounts could be authenticated if accurately represented;
but that was a devolving debate from a circular proposition, and
was contingent upon every component being either virtuous or
neutral. The fact is that no one is fair, and no one is
unconcerned in anything that's personal; so a veteran has a
vested interest in a result as does a correspondent or publisher,
as a bureaucrat or relative. She was already devoting more time
and energy than the average disinterested reader, than the
non-academic, than the non-professional into a subject that
didn't
affect her life, and investing more would not make the subject
less opaque. She would never understand what she thought she
knew, and becoming more actively involved wouldn't change her
perspective, wouldn't alter her prejudices, wouldn't reorient her
exposure. She should've escaped the combat scenes that were
blasted into her comfortably domestic tranquility, and evaded
into the more entertaining shows ... the ones with better actors
and varied scripts. She thought the war was about facts, but
those are only the incidental details surrounding motivation and
effort. By knowing who, what, when, and where will not tell her
why. The tragedy for this war is that ideology interfered so much
that no one even bothered to get the details right ... seemingly,
no one wanted to record the facts or learn the truth. What she
did not comprehend about the soldier's paradox, which is that we
must fight to halt fighting, is that it cannot be explained to
anyone preoccupied with peace, to anyone fixated on love, to
anyone obsessed with happiness. It's impossible to relate the
vast and complex whole to one-dimensional men.
When she complained that she couldn't understand me, and that
this misunderstanding was both an obstacle and a detour for us, I
resolved to doggedly reconstruct a tableau of carnage from my
past, which would depict some of what was intentionally concealed
... concealed from her, and from anyone else ignorant of battle
conditions. She patiently viewed its unveiling, as if it was
manufactured art or synthetic drama, instead of real life; but
there was no revelation. My baptism of fire could be
neither her afflatus nor epiphany. She possessed no innate
anguish, no inculcated humiliation, no private desecration which
could spawn compassionate empathy or intuitive recognition. She's
as ordinarily decent, respectful, and sophisticated as the
average adult. She would never mock a stranger's funeral, or spit
on an alien icon ... panoramic scenery will quicken her pulse,
and beautiful music can make her cry, but these privately vivid
images left her blank and unmoved. Except as moral precepts, they
had no context for her. She now possessed demonstrable facts and
intellectual data for her perplexity and prejudice, her insight
and curiosity to work upon; but her psychohistory was populated
by bare skeletons and colorless statues. She could now compile
and catalogue this information, like popular accounts and social
analyses, like contest answers and shopping lists, for possible
application during the next suitable event. I wasn't diminished
by her ineptitude, by her inaptitude, because I preserved both
the limited relationship and the sanctity of my past. One can
never be diminished by remembering ultimate faith and reviving
enduring truths; but it can totally disappear when the
uninitiated fail to recognize or discover its shared
significance.
The anointed are supposed to have some special ability, some
unique insight, some particular capacity, but therapists are only
good at talking, testing, and gaming. Even when they acknowledge
that their assessments aren't the only valid ones, and that
society's rules aren't the only correct ones, they reserve the
right to judge another without ever being able to understand what
the other has lived through. She claimed that all pain,
regardless of its source, is comparable; and that this essential
concession gave humanity its commonality. She claimed that
whatever was exclusive was only selfish or misunderstood. Even
after I'd ridiculed her asininity into frustrated tears, she
could not understand that I was 'teaching' her a truth about
herself, instead of refusing her therapeutic intervention. No
experience has ever been shared, and none has ever been
identical, even when similar events were experienced by persons
of relative levels; if, for no other reason, because the
individual gestalt was singular. The soldiers in adjacent
foxholes see different wars. As no two events are the same, and
no two persons are the same, so their comparative perceptions and
conclusions may not be the same either ... regardless of
psychometric doctrine. She told me that all who served were
heroes, because they all shared what everyone else had done.
Without bothering to disparage her false analogy, her flawed
extension, her fantastic straw man, I simply noted that
the logical obverse of her distribution made everyone guilty for
the misdeeds of the few; which reinforced the war's critics,
while contravening the just application of legal liability.
Whether for credit or for responsibility, one can't invent
reality to contrive a result. She said the good news was
that the sharp would become blunt, the clear would become vague,
the acute would become obtuse, and that life would eventually
become normal again. I informed her that the good
news was also the bad news, because it was the
forgetting that made it necessary to create new memories in the
young, so the lessons would be learned all over again. She didn't
want to know that the only way to diminish a solitary nightmare
is to create a multitude of them, so none of them would remain
prominent and profound. Despite her own evidence, she wanted to
believe that these tabulae rasae could be erased and
rewritten.
Everyone accepted the provocative premise of the moderator's
inquisition, so the Good German catechism proceeded without
disruption. She asked, "Why did you go to Vietnam?", and
the litany of responses included: "Why did you send
me?", "I had no choice!", "I wanted the
experience.", "I wanted to help.", "I didn't
know it would be like that.", "Somebody had to
go.", "If not me, then someone just like me.",
"Because there was nothing here to keep me.", "For
the fun of it!". The replies validated her authority, and
granted her a limited license for selective judgement. It was a
litmus test, a morality trial, a personal challenge, and everyone
knew it. No one attempted to elevate the discussion to the
historical, political, or philosophical plane. The responses
eventually devolved into either defense of a bipolar
quasi-religious proposition: that somethings are worth killing
for, or
that somethings are worth dying for. The attribution was
personalized as "I killed for you!" or "He died
instead of you!". This period of emotional ventilation
resolved nothing, altered nothing, and persuaded no one. It
served only to identify the factions, and to enhance the
moderator's status. No alternative conflict resolutions were
presented, and no foreign policy options were proposed. We
resolved that obedience to moral indoctrination or patriotic
platitudes is conventional, that disobedience is commonplace,
that deconstruction is typical, that abstention is uncommon, and
that reconstruction is unconventional. We proved that Vietnam
would probably happen again, and that another generation would
contrive no better arguments. It made education seem futile, war
seem inevitable, and made us feel impotent.
She told me that she didn't mind competing with my mother,
affectionately known as First Sergeant Mom, or
suffering the boorish attentions of my father, informally known
as The Commander, since all in-laws are a test
of the marital bond, if not of one's mettle; but she was tired of
living in a squared-off dressed-right-dress
home! ... without any frills or fripperies, without any clutter
or comfort, without the feeling of home,
whatever that's supposed to be! She said that she wanted to make
some changes, and that I should accommodate, if not exactly
indulge her as a redress of her grievances, as a tender of
reciprocity, if not an expression of affection. She said that
white gloves had uses other than minute
inspections ... such as wearing them ensemble to some place that
didn't resemble a mess hall with plastic
flowers! ... that served something that didn't come out of an
olive drab container graded by the USDA and
approved by the post veterinarian! She said that she wanted to be
pampered, and not caressed by the numbers on
some strategic training schedule! ... that she wanted to be
treated like a girl, and not like my Executive Officer,
not like one of my robotic sergeants, and not like one of my
wise-cracking defenders, better known as flank
security! She said that she was tired of competing with
paratroopers and rangers and dead heroes! She said that she
didn't care if I loved the feel of linseed oil and bowling alley
wax! ... nor the smell of gun lubricant and brass polish! ... nor
the sounds of parades and of shooting! ... nor the sight of
serried ranks and combat assaults! She didn't care if my heart
throbbed at every anthem, nor if my spirit soared whenever the
good guys saved the day. She said that
she wanted a normal life, where dancing didn't resemble
close order drill, and where polite small talk
didn't include spit-shine techniques and
fighting knife characteristics! She was tired of
military maxims, combat metaphors, and crude clichés. She
wanted consideration, expected sympathy, and demanded action ...
so I told her that she was late for the PT
formation, and that she was expected to assess herself for
misconduct regarding protocol and bearing. I gave her permission
to consult the Chaplain and the Inspector General regarding her
complaints, and that after her TS-card had been
duly punched, she could submit a DA-1049 Request for
Change of Assignment upon her return. I mentioned that
these factors would probably influence her rating on her next
OER evaluation. After I dismissed her, she
apparently went AWOL, because she hasn't
reported for duty since. I thought she was almost ready for
promotion, but I guess that I'll have to begin recruiting her
replacement soon.
by Pan Perdu
... who is a former soldier and VA counselor; this work has been
excerpted from Fragmentations, a book in progress.
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