“History is written by the victors” – Winston Churchill (or somebody like him)

I attended high school in New England in the late 1960’s through the early 70’s. The period was a time of radical change and represented the 20th century’s most significant quantum shift in terms of social and political thought. Three subjects formed the framework, establishing the divides that eventually became known as the Generation Gap. They were the civil rights movement, the environment, and the Vietnam War. My school, as did every other educational institution, addressed those three issues in pragmatic fashion. Civil Rights matters were dealt with by inviting well known black authors to speak on their recent writings. As students on campus, it was also radical-chic to befriend any of the Afro-Americans who represented 11.2% of the student body (the percentage required to qualify for government education grants) and offer up subliminal apologies for all the evil bestowed on their generations since their importation in the 1600’s.
Ecology required physical activities such as cleaning up the infirmary pond, removing old tires, rubber boots and assorted other detritus from its banks. Articles found their way into the student newspaper describing the needs of the day – reduce, reuse and recycle.
Vietnam brought forth a stronger, visceral reaction. Most students had posters on their walls, espousing the peace movement ‘Suppose they gave a War and Nobody Came?’ was a popular model. The views of the fathers of most students was summed up by ‘My country, right or wrong’. Unquestionably the greatest inter-generational galvanizing force, the biggest difference between Vietnam and the other two foci , was felt in three services held in chapel during my years at school. The first one, held during my sophomore year, was for the brother of a student who had been drafted and had been killed in action earlier that week. The second service was for a popular student who had graduated a few years earlier. He was remembered as a great baseball player, one with a curve ball that struck out half his opponents. This erstwhile high school pitcher, just a few years removed from his halcyon glory days was having what was left of his remains shipped home in a body bag, forever devastating his family and all those who knew him well.
Vietnam was all around me at school. In those days there was a draft by lottery. Each day of the year was assigned a number and if your birthday was one of the lower numbers, chances were that you’d be called up for a tour of duty. I remember seeing fellow students white and shaking as they perused the list and found themselves in double digit territory. My birthday August 13th was number 173. There was also an invisible red maple leaf-shaped asterisk next to it. As a Canadian, I was exempt from the stress and was fortunate to view the battleground from the sidelines.

I listened to the multitude of lies foisted on the Americans. Whether it was the exaggerated body counts spewed forth by General Westmoreland or the hollow claims of impending victory as promulgated by Nixon; we all knew that things were not going well. When the Americans ignominiously scrambled for their lives snatching a ride from the last choppers leaving the embassy rooftop in Saigon, another nail was driven into the coffin of American global supremacy. The Americans had never lost a war (technically Korea was a tie and in 1812 the Brits and Canadians whooped them but who’s counting?) The Vietnam folly was America’s second major downward plunge following Kennedy’s brains being left all over the sidewalks of Dallas.

Forward to 2010. Lori and I, coming off of a spiritually and emotionally rewarding experience building a school and teaching English to orphans and underprivileged children in southern India decided to renew our passion and desire to give back something to the world again. We opted for Vietnam this time and found an animal reserve just north of Saigon (or Ho Chi Minh City as it is known in post war parlance). It was a haven for animals that had been targeted to be smuggled out for body parts or exotic pets. Here the animals were nurtured back to health and where possible, returned to their natural habitat. “It sounds like fun, and certainly rewarding”, I said to Lori, “But are you sure that we can teach them English?”

3 Comments
  • rosa2nite
    Posted at 04:08h, 01 January Reply

    its an awesome boss/madame we enjoyed watching it with madame bobo

  • rosa2nite
    Posted at 04:13h, 01 January Reply

    unbelievable ..boss u write like a professsional writer…deep and concentration reading ur blog were very impress with ur commentary. welldone!!!!!!!!!its must be an amazing experience …i could imagine madame bun was so excitng riding on that motorcycle..

  • rosa2nite
    Posted at 04:17h, 01 January Reply

    wohhhhhhhh!!! 2011 is coming were waiting psitively and embrace this coming year …and wanting more blessing to come to u both..we love u both…me and trevor had a great time the other day.. i cut his hair again the way he wanted.. i miss u boss ..ur my ideal boss..

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