A Vietnam veteran comes home

I grew up listening to the blues of Bessie Smith, Billie Holliday, BBKing, Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, and Ma Rainey. Some unfamiliar with the black experience and blues might look and listen to these songs and see pain and suffering, or a constant complaint. BUt those from within the black experience see -not a complaint but a critique, not pain but endurance, and not suffering but deliverance. As BBKing once remarked -Blues is like a liniment, good for whatever ails you. So, in recognition of this deeper meaning of the blues, I offer this Veterans day some Blues for the Veteran, particularly those form Vietnam.

As a black Vietnam Veteran, entering the military in 1968 in the midst of the student protests, the overwhelming death toll of the black veteran, and the continual frustration with a war that was never declared, and one that we should never have entered. The Vietnam veteran, the only veteran who came home not to parades but protests, not to honor but shame, and not to peace but a more subtle continuation of the war. And this is where my blues begins.

The photo above was taken as I was leaving the military, after 3.5 years of active duty, honorable service with medals from Vietnam, and eager to get back to my college education. One of the reasons I was in the military in the first place was my inability to pay for school, and the promise (if I survived) of VA benefits that would pay for college.It was therefore with anticipation that I re-enrolled in college -only to find that the war had not ended. For as I entered the college, I was immediately confronted by those who had not served, those valiant students who hid behind their deferments to cast derision on those of us that had no choice. It was with shame that I hid my veteran status, often self-medicating with any drug that was available to hide from my attackers. This was, much like that in Vietnam also had no clear direction or purpose save to punish those of us that served. I was too dysfunctional to enter into the world of work, I could not go 3 hours, much less 8 hours without deep depression, anxiety attacks, and a whole slew of other thoughts -like mangled bodies, bombs going off, and the cries of the wounded and dying. And there was no one to talk to about these things -we as a nation had sent the Vietnam veteran to the closet, and PTSD was not discovered yet. So it was 12 year later, that finally I was forced into counseling as a graduate student at the University of Chicago -not the VA, but the University recognized that I was deeply troubled. The strange thing about my particular form of mental illness was that while I could do my classes, write papers and pass tests I maintained balance by staying high on an assortment of drugs. The fact that I obtained a BA, 2 masters, and ultimately a Ph.D. is remarkable, or is it a blessing. I would think that it was both a miracle and a testament to how life has a way of balancing things out.  

My celebration, upon finally completing and defending my dissertation, was to go to the local drug house. Actually, it was a series of apartment buildings located around 47th and Wabash on the Southside of Chicago. The apartment building of choice for me, had drug sales taking place in every apartment on all three floors. Around 3 oclock in the morning, I was on the 3rd floor in the extreme left apartment -I was in a room of fellow junkies, saturated with drugs listening to some fantastic soul as all hell began to take place. Suddenly and fanatically people began to flush drugs down the toilet, shouting that cops were busting down doors in a massive sweep of the street for drugs, dealers and their users. We were trapped, there was no way we could get out, nor any way we could get rid of all the evidence ..Hell we were the evidence, in our blood streams, on the floors, and everywhere. And so we sat -listening to the moans and cries of help and frustration, as doors were battered down, and as people were dragged out to the waiting paddy wagon. We waited our turn, as the roar of war came to our floor..then silence. Silence, as we heard from the street below -Hey Mack, we gotta go. Mack, apparently the lead policeman on our floor, yelled down...Leave, we got 2 more doors to knock down. From the street -hey we got no more room. From Mack -What shall we do with these..from the ground --no worries , we will get them next time....Mack -damn, ok.

There we sat in the room, listening to the wagons filled with those who had not been so blessed, and some of us looked around in wonder. Some lit up new pipes, a blend of marijuana, crack, and hemp -we called the suicide bomb. Me, I slowly got up, walked slowly and warily down the steps and to my car. Always looking around expecting to see the cops return. I got into my car and drove to the nearest all night diner. Drank coffee until the morning sun came, my hands constantly shaking as I looked with wonder at how my life had almost taken a full turn to the left -prison, and the failure that that would presage.   

After a couple of weeks, and another check from the VA, I took the money that I would have in the past spent on drugs. I bought a $20 gold piece and chain.  

 

 Over the days, months, and years when I was tempted to go back to that life, get another taste of the good shit - I would finger my gold coin, look at the image of liberty -and say naw..I am free of that shit...I have a life, I have a world, I have a future. And to those who then and now would condemn me for my choices -Vietnam, drugs, or careers - i give you the Vietnam veteran 1 finger salute and shout..hooah. .and to my fellow Vietnam veterans I say, welcome home...and keep on singing those blues..

rodney coates

USArmy, honorably discharged Vietnam war veteran..