Anthony Wagner

The Silence

For 25 years, nobody asked and I never talked. Maybe I never will.

It wasn’t a big deal at the time -- this silence, nor was it really a conscious act. But being full of things to say, experiences to share, and hurts to express, I knew I wanted to speak, but couldn’t, wouldn’t.

The silence seemed to creep up on me like the fog in an old B movie, slowly inching its way into the core of my behavior.

It began with Marie. She wanted to hear but somehow the words never came.

How do you talk about terror, fear so strong that you lose control of your body? Ugly things, boredom so profound that you’re numb and drunk for days. Evil things -- and death -- talk to someone so good and beautiful, and pure?

Then came the family and friends -- the antiwar advocates, just like the ones who harassed us at the airport, at the U in the spring of 1970, the riot, the moratorium -- all about me and the nation’s shame -- my shame.

My father-in-law once told me that when he returned home from World War II, he frequently wore his uniform for a couple of years after. Whenever he did, people spontaneously shook his hand; bought him a free drink at whatever bar he was in. For two years!

The night I came home from Vietnam, I hid my uniform in a box, stored it away and became silent. An awful silence that bellowed in my head; silence that has lasted for 25 years.

For 25 years, nobody asked and I never talked. Maybe I never will.