The Vietnam war took place in our living room- just as it had in all living rooms across the America. It was the backdrop to our everyday life. Dad would come home from work around 6:10 PM and we’d eat dinner right away, usually because we legitimately believed we were starving. We ate later than most families in the neighborhood and consequently, we ate fast. By 6:30, Dad would retreat to the living room to watch the CBS evening news with Walter Cronkite. Invariably, the broadcast began with the day’s developments in the Vietnam war. I don’t remember specifics, but I do remember hearing about, but not ever quite understanding, the Tet offensive, the bombing of Cambodia, the Democratic National Convention, the Kent State shootings and the various protests. The coverage was relentless and it crept into the music and television programs of the day. Everyone had an opinion of the war and usually it wasn’t a good one.
My dad, who was a WWII veteran having flown 30 missions in a B-24 Liberator bomber including two on D-Day, grappled with his feelings on the war. His “Greatest Generation” values and beliefs were challenged by a war that was difficult to justify under almost any circumstance. Unlike the second World War, this war seemed devoid of patriotism and love of country. It was far away, posing no immediate or direct threat to the existence of most everyday Americans. In my family, that included everyone except for my oldest brother.
My brother turned 19 in 1971. That was the year that I turned 9. The third of a series of draft lotteries was conducted on July 1. This was the first one that included men born in 1952. My brother was born on March 8, 1952 and his birthdate was the 79th number drawn that day. It was a tense time for our entire family as we held our collective breath praying his number would not be called up. As for my brother, he made no bones about his disdain for the war and the administration that escalated and prolonged our involvement in it. He grew his hair long, wore a khaki green hat he bought at the army surplus store, sang “Give Peace a Chance” and argued with our dad who frankly didn’t know what to make of the war.
I idolized my big brother. I followed his lead on almost everything. As a result, I was quite possibly the most politically aware 4th grader in my entire school district. I entered 5th grade in the fall of 1972 – just a few months after the Watergate break-in. My brother’s hair was still long. He still wore that army hat and he still sang “Give Peace a Chance.”
I was quite possibly the most politically aware 4th grader in my entire school district.
My 5th grade music teacher, Miss Valenti, was probably no more than two or three years older than my brother. Two days a week, she would wheel into the classroom her music cart loaded with albums, 45’s and a cheap, institutional record player. This was no ordinary music teacher. Within a few short weeks, under Miss Valenti’s instruction, my classmates and I had perfected “Peace Train”(Cat Stevens), “Chicago” (CSNY), “For What It’s Worth” (Buffalo Springfield) and “Ohio” (CSNY). For the holidays, we learned “Happy Xmas (War Is Over)” (John Lennon). We were 5th grade radicals singing protest songs about a war that we understood very little about. But, Miss Valenti understood. The Vietnam war certainly wasn’t part of the approved 5th grade curriculum and most of our understanding about war came from studying the American Revolution.
When President Nixon finally declared an end to US involvement the Vietnam war, my brother hung a banner on the army recruitment center in State College declaring that it was, “Closed for Peace.” He sang “Peace Train” with his guitar and amplifier on the balcony of his college apartment and others on the street below joined in. Soon after, Miss Valenti vanished from our school. Chances are that someone in the school administration overheard a choir of cherub-faced children singing, “Tin soldiers and Nixon coming…Four dead in O-hi-o” and although impressive, it would not have been viewed as “appropriate.” I prefer to think that Miss Valenti believed her job was done. We would soon have peace and American soldiers would be coming home.
But, the war did not go as quietly as Miss Valenti. Its aftermath would linger for years- decades- to come. It was 1975 when Saigon fell to the Communist North Vietnamese; President Nixon went on to suffer humiliation that he justly deserved from his involvement in the Watergate cover-up and resigned in August; I was anxiously preparing to enter junior high; and my brother graduated from college.
Several years later, my brother- the sibling I idolized since early childhood, finally cut his hair and packed away the worn-out army hat. But even today, when the mood catches him, he’ll pick up his guitar and sing “Peace Train.” And somewhere is the cosmos, Miss Valenti is smiling.