The Beginning of the Journey

Today is September 12, 2008. In 10 weeks, my father and I will be en route to Vietnam.

My father is a Vietnam veteran. I understood this from the time I was small. I don't remember the first conversation my dad ever had with me about his time in the war, but I always understood that it was a big part of Who He Was. And today, it is still Who He Is. He is my father, yes. He is the father, a good father, to two grown adults - me, his 32-year-old daughter, and my brother, his 29-year-old son. My father has a 7-year-grandson. He is a good grandpa. He has one living parent, his mom. He is my grandma's full-time caretaker. He volunteers at the local homeless shelter.

He is a Vietnam War Veteran.

My father lives a quiet, retired life in Ontario, CA. But I know that he thinks about the war every day. I know he does.

About two years ago, I told my dad that I thought he should return to Vietnam to come full circle, to heal. He thought I was out of my fucking mind, and told me as such. "Uh, I don't need to 'heal,' and anyways, there IS no healing. There's NOT gonna be any 'full circle," he said with some disgust.

What began as me trying to get my father to go to Vietnam became something even more personal. I wanted to go back to Vietnam, I realized. I wanted to "go back" to back to the country where the person who would become my dad was formed. A country I had heard about for so many years. I wanted to see the jungles where my father went on patrols. I wanted to visit Saigon. I wanted to see Cam Ranh Bay, where my father was stationed.

So, I told my father I was going to Vietnam with or without him.

Within a few weeks, "You are NOT going to Vietnam" became "I can't let you go to Vietnam alone" (this, even though I have traveled alone for more than 10 years).

My father and I got our visas and plane tickets and we are booked for the first three nights of our 12-day trip at a budget hotel in the backpacking district of Saigon (or Ho Chih Minh City as it is now known).

I have known for a long time that I wanted to write this all down. I have memories of memories of my father. I remember him looking up at the sky whenever police or news helicopters (he insists on calling them "choppers") hover over the neighborhood... and this was just last year.

I remember him talking about his fear, being petrified while being led into an ambush that forced him to do something that most of us would never believe we could do to another human being.

I remember him talking about Kim, his fellow soldier in the Korean Army. The Koreans fought along side the Americans during the war. Most people don't know that.

I remember him talking about his racist captain. I remember him telling me that in basic training, he was not able to visit the local bar because of the signs that read "No dogs or Mexicans allowed." It was 1966. It was Texas.

Most of all, I want to write the story because as my dad says, we're not getting any younger.

Tomorrow, I am going to bring a tape recorder and my dad and I are going to sit down and we're going to talk. My dad loves to talk, especially after a few beers. I asked him if we could start with the day he came home, and got his draft notice in the mail.

"Sure," he said. "I've still got my draft notice. I'll always have it."