After fifty-five years, a Marine wrote an interesting poem during a writing workshop with a group of vets in Boulder, Colorado. The group was a mixed-gender/mixed-war (Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan) group. The group found the Vietnam Vet’s piece extraordinary, and Rachel Amaru sent it to me. Check this out!

When I think back to what I missed by spending the entire year of 1969 in Vietnam, it may not be what you think. Nothing back in the U.S. really existed for me. As far as I was concerned, nothing else concerned me other than what I saw in front of me. But later, I got curious.

In the early 1980s, I looked back to see what had happened and asked myself if the event meant anything to me.

In January, Richard Nixon became my Commander-in-Chief. 

            As for me, I didn’t care.

In February of that year, the Saturday Evening Post ended publication after over 140 years. 

            I didn’t care.

In March, I had my 20th birthday.  We celebrated it by dodging nineteen 122mm rockets into our position.

            I had already accepted my own death, so I didn’t care.

In April, Charles De Gaulle stepped down as the President of France.

            At that point, I really didn’t care.

In May, John Lennon and Yoko Ono did their “Bed In” to protest the war.

            Yes.  You got it.  I didn’t care.

In June, Judy Garland overdosed on drugs.

            Nope.  I didn’t care.

On July 20th, while taking a break outside of a small Vietnamese village, one of my guys turned on his handy dandy transistor radio to Armed Forces Radio, and we heard the announcer say that Neil Armstrong had just set his feet on the Moon.

            I kind of cared.

In August, something happened in someplace called Woodstock, New York. I didn’t even know what had happened. About three years later, I decided to look up what had happened at Woodstock. 

            When I found out, I certainly didn’t care about that.

In September, I lost two of my good friends in a battle that we took part in on Que Son Mountain.

            Nobody else cared, but I did.

In October, we got back to our home base. Twenty-six guys from our company didn’t make it back with us.

            Hell, yes, I cared about that!

In November, I started thinking, “I just might survive this war.”

            I finally started to care.

At the end of December, I boarded what we called a “Freedom Bird,” and we all applauded as the wheels left the ground. Then, we all became quiet and spent the rest of the journey in silence, trying to fathom what had happened over the last thirteen months.

            We didn’t know how to care.

Fifty-five years later, in a small town in Colorado, I looked at my wife, my children, and my three grandchildren.

            And I finally realized how much I care.

After all I missed way back then, I finally came to see how much I had gained. I have been taught how to care again. I learned how desperately I needed to feel compassion again and rediscover what true hope is. There was an old poem I remember reading some years ago. I don’t know the exact words, but it went something like this:

“Let me live in such a way, In some self-forgetful way,
Even when the world says ‘nay,’ I might live for others.
Though scarred, battered, and suffering filled my past.
May I live with love and hope, to humbly live for others.”

Steve Sisson, USMC
Vietnam 1968-1969

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