The Wall

If walls could talk . . . well, that’s my purpose, isn’t it? To express the unexpressable. To make real the unbelievable. I am here to give closure to the old and teach lessons to the young. I’m here to give honor to many who were dishonored in life, and to help everyone rest in peace.

I am the Vietnam War Memorial Wall, 493 feet of shining black granite walls with two acres of names carved into me. I stand at attention, saluting the 58,320 names of Americans who gave their all for their country on 70 panels that reflect visitor faces. I do not rest or fall at ease. I am here to tell their stories and remember their names 24/7 for as long as Fate deems fit.

At first, I was just an idea, just one of 1,422 ideas sent in to be considered. My creator, Maya, was such a gifted young lady, a student at Yale, who wanted me to look like a wound that needed to heal. She wanted me to be long, dark and striking to memorialize a war that was equally long, dark and striking. She didn’t want it to be like any other Memorial because Vietnam wasn’t like any other war. For one, we lost. For another, to a lot of people, it seemed like we were on the wrong side. And then there was the treatment of our soldiers when they came home — disgraceful.

She was attacked when we won the design competition. Many called me ugly and undignified; they questioned why an Asian American should be chosen to honor an Asian war we lost. But she stood by me, even speaking to Congress. I went from a drawing on paper to the beautiful black monument you see.

Now, I am a holy place.

Yesterday, a grey haired man in a wheelchair came up to me, searching for a name. When he found it, he reached out to touch it and began to cry. The name was his son’s. He comes to see me every year on his boy’s birthday.

A middle-aged woman and her young-adult son came up to a different place and found a different name. “See, Toby,” she said softly, “here’s your granddad’s name.” They took out a piece of paper and a pencil, and they made a rubbing of the spot to take home.

A group of high school students were brought here by their teacher. As I watched them exit their bus and climb toward me, they were talking and joking, behaving like young people do. But once they got to the wall, my sacred purpose and imposing design silenced them all. Some took photos with their phones; others just walked in awed silence, trying to take it all in.

A trio of 70-something men, each with silver hair and rounded bellies, came up to me and searched for a name. They found it down low on a panel, then they brought out a bottle of scotch and three small glasses. “Here’s to Jimmy and Red.” “Don’t forget about Scooter.” “Right. And Scooter. One didn’t make it home and the other two didn’t make it at home for long. We miss you, guys.”

Millions have come to see me. They want to know my stories and add their own. Many leave letters and objects at my base, one more way to connect with me and their loved ones. When I was being built, someone threw a Purple Heart medal into the concrete: I am the war injury that a nation experienced. I don’t glorify the politics of what happened. No, I am here to honor the men and women who fought over there, to tell their stories, and to help a nation heal.