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Vietnam Journal: Willimantic - 11.10.00By Marc LevyThe bus ride from New York's frenetic Port Authority to sleepy Willimantic took four sleepless hours and cost twenty-nine dollars. The next day a small college would host a conference on Vietnam, known elsewhere as the war against the Americans.
Outside, beneath an autumn moon, two American combat writers swayed and chatted. I waved hello, walked forward to great Kodiak hugs and breathy greetings. "Let's go inside," one man said. We stagger-stepped into the grungy, low ceilinged, ramshackle house, musty with grime and love. Under the cold glare of fluorescent lights, a dozen greying men cheerfully conversed while scooping large portions of glutinous moussaka or starchy quiche onto thick paper plates. Two cannonball-shaped chocolate fudge pies sat curiously untouched. "Another beer?" A corpulent ex-Marine heavy-combat vet asked. "More wine? Hi, and how are ya?" The boisterous Americans spoke diligently of baseball, real estate, current events. "Can you believe that son of a bitch almost tossed a no hitter? Son of a fuckin' bitch." Two ARVN officers, when asked, hinted at harrowing escapes, then changed the subject. For no apparent reason that I could see, one man, then the next, dragged heavy steel chairs across a threadbare rug; spreading out evenly, they formed a loose-knit circle. Three wives joined in; two others stood back. How it began I do not recall: round and round, taking turns, each man brought forth the most hilarious, obscene, tasteless jokes I had ever heard. And with each foul, accelerant punchline, the men wildly slapped their thighs, punched violent air, pounded their chests, butchered the room with riotous laughter. Even the women shrieked and cackled. Best was the "ta ta" joke. Two men in on the gag reeled off the wondrous lines in perfect measure, the phrase spoken in soft, innocent tones, almost childlike, with eyebrows arched slightly, the voice inclined outward at the second syllable. Q. How do you say idiot in Vietnamese? Q. How do you say two idiots in Vietnamese? Q. How do you say two hundred million idiots in Vietnamese? With each new guest, the obscene beck and call was duly repeated. The Americans, hands smacked red, cheeks gone crimson, roared with ominous pleasure. A distinguished Vietnamese writer laughed loudest that night. His jollity recalled Mr. Mau, met years past in Michigan. Surviving escape by sea, he poured forth horrid tales of women raped, men bayoneted, children thrown headlong to chill, watery graves. All the while an inflexible grin commanded his shrieking face. The next day, in a pleasant auditorium, the conference went well. Each guest read from his work; there were several informative panels. An elder female journalist, tall and handsome and impeccably well-spoken, presented anecdotes from her war experience; some were not pleasant. Upon completion, shifting in her seat as might a four-star general, she boldly pronounced, "I'm done, now. Are there questions?" A portly, cantankerous vet, wearing blue denim overalls, his head freighted with a Vietnam baseball cap dotted with cloisonné pins, stood up and shuffled forward. "I was in the Seabees in '66," he said. "Up near the DMZ. We fought the Communists cause we was sent there. The way you was talking, you sounded just like Hanoi Jane. She was anti-American, she was. And that bitch talked to us GIs every night on the radio. Talking that communist propaganda shit." He paused, hands pressed to hips. "You ... you sound just like her, just like that Hanoi Jane." Folding his arms across his chest, he sniveled, "Ain't you got no regard for disabled vets? Ain't you proud for what America stands for?"
* * * "You think that's funny?" he said. "Am supposed to laugh? I find it highly offensive and disrespectful. You should be ashamed of yourself. You and your funny friends." "I didn't laugh," I told him. "It hurt too much. But look how they mock us: their language, our music ...""Oh, bullshit," he said, cutting me off before I could finish. We argued. I walked out. Dr. Foster didn't get it. Civilians, combatants, everyone caught up in war's chaos and caterwaul comprise one great harmonic slaughter. Over time, its winners and losers, gunned and ground down, scattered to dust or windblown leaves, become a suckling infants cry, a peaceable sleep; until it starts all over again.
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Arriving early, I attended a small gathering at Curbstone Press, the name a perfect eponym, the squat building's wood plank facade smooth as bone.
His shrill words made for knee-deep tension in sleepy Willimantic, once, they say, thread capitol of the world, until thread went South and the town went quiet. Several American combat writers seated in the audience turned around and glared. The war correspondent said, "I recognize you. We've spoken before. Every soldier has stories. And there are thousands. Aren't there, sir? Hundreds of thousands." She paused, majestic in equanimity. "I never carried a weapon. I hated war. Apparently, Sir, you didn't."