The Healing Wound :: Vietnam Veterans War Memorial Essays

The Healing Wound It’s a beautiful morning at our nation’s capital. Constitution Gardens is blooming with life. Flowers of red, yellow, and pink bob their heads in the gentle summer breeze. Wise old trees proudly oversee the grassy lawns, while twittering birds scamper about on their strong, sturdy limbs. People talk animatedly as they stroll in small groups along the brown, dusty paths. Children run and jump, stopping occasionally to make quick poses for parents’ snapping cameras. As we walk ahead, we notice a shape taking form on the horizon. It looks like a large gray splinter embedded into the green landscape. As we come closer, we realize how truly large this object is, yet it does not rise up from the earth like other structures in the park. Rather, it sinks down into the lawn, as if its very size were a giant weight upon the land. Now that we are upon it, it looks far more like a gaping black wound than a silver sliver. Its opening begins narrowly and then widens in the middle, tapering off again at the other end. It is very dark, and now that we are close enough to touch it, we see that it is solid and black and hard and dense. The park breezes die here. Adults cease their prattle. Children stop their play. Eerily, even the chatter of birds doesn’t reach this solemn place. All senses tell us that we have entered a sacred site--a place meant for reflection and contemplation. We are at the Vietnam War Memorial. The tip of the gash points to President Lincoln sitting high above and looking out upon us all. In contrast to the giant statue of pristine white, the wall that rises by my foot is so dark that it reflects the ground in which it is burrowed. There are letters inscribed on the wall. They form names. I read: FLOYD LEE WILLIAMS JR. I wonder about Floyd. To most people who come here, his is merely one out of a myriad of names scratched into this cool granite wall. Does anyone know that Floyd was from Northglenn, Colorado, or that he was only 20 years old when he died? How can the thousands of people who see his name here know that he was in Vietnam for only 12 short days? His helicopter was shot down. His life was important, yet his death is only the tip of a great iceberg that chills the hearts of Americans everywhere. There are over 58,000 more names like his listed on these cold slabs. The sleek and stark feel of the memorial is enhanced by the The Healing Wound :: Vietnam Veterans War Memorial Essays The Healing Wound It’s a beautiful morning at our nation’s capital. Constitution Gardens is blooming with life. Flowers of red, yellow, and pink bob their heads in the gentle summer breeze. Wise old trees proudly oversee the grassy lawns, while twittering birds scamper about on their strong, sturdy limbs. People talk animatedly as they stroll in small groups along the brown, dusty paths. Children run and jump, stopping occasionally to make quick poses for parents’ snapping cameras. As we walk ahead, we notice a shape taking form on the horizon. It looks like a large gray splinter embedded into the green landscape. As we come closer, we realize how truly large this object is, yet it does not rise up from the earth like other structures in the park. Rather, it sinks down into the lawn, as if its very size were a giant weight upon the land. Now that we are upon it, it looks far more like a gaping black wound than a silver sliver. Its opening begins narrowly and then widens in the middle, tapering off again at the other end. It is very dark, and now that we are close enough to touch it, we see that it is solid and black and hard and dense. The park breezes die here. Adults cease their prattle. Children stop their play. Eerily, even the chatter of birds doesn’t reach this solemn place. All senses tell us that we have entered a sacred site--a place meant for reflection and contemplation. We are at the Vietnam War Memorial. The tip of the gash points to President Lincoln sitting high above and looking out upon us all. In contrast to the giant statue of pristine white, the wall that rises by my foot is so dark that it reflects the ground in which it is burrowed. There are letters inscribed on the wall. They form names. I read: FLOYD LEE WILLIAMS JR. I wonder about Floyd. To most people who come here, his is merely one out of a myriad of names scratched into this cool granite wall. Does anyone know that Floyd was from Northglenn, Colorado, or that he was only 20 years old when he died? How can the thousands of people who see his name here know that he was in Vietnam for only 12 short days? His helicopter was shot down. His life was important, yet his death is only the tip of a great iceberg that chills the hearts of Americans everywhere. There are over 58,000 more names like his listed on these cold slabs. The sleek and stark feel of the memorial is enhanced by the