The sweet smell of cherry blossoms wafted in eddies as I was drawn past the Lincoln Memorial, towards the Wall on that Easter morning. There, I located panel 23E, line 36, where my name stared back at me from the glossy black granite. With each trace of a letter, R-O-N, my heart raced faster, until I came to the end of Ronald E Johnson. I gazed down the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, where the Washington Monument stood sentry in the distance, bookending a rough time in American history. I tried to rationalize what I saw, my name, against what I felt. There I stood. Ronald E Johnson. Feeling like I was sucked into the black hole of eternity with my name staring back at me. Nothing prepared me for seeing my name among the 58,000 veterans who died in that war, each a hero with a unique story and grieving family.
My arms felt like anchors, my head hurt, my heart raced. My knees were ready to buckle under the weight of this when I felt a hand on my shoulder and heard a slow, soothing voice ask, “Was he a friend or a relative?”
My name glared back at me. A shared name, found earlier in the “Book of Names.” He, a Marine from Iowa, was one year older with a casualty date of July 8, 1967. And I, a Navy Veteran from Minnesota, am alive in the late 1980s.
With the hand still on my shoulder, I drifted back to the 1,353 days of my Navy enlistment. How I naively volunteered for a Vietnam tour to find rare pheasants and for Operation Deep Freeze in Antarctica to see penguins. But instead, I served from Florida, never going to war, never leaving stateside, and never venturing out to sea.
In the years since my service, when I am with Veterans who gather to swap stories, or at a holiday event honoring Vets, there’s a slight hitch to my breathing, my body tenses, and sometimes nausea sours my stomach. All involuntary. At the same time, I am happy and elated for the recognition Veterans deserve. But I questioned then, and still today, if I’m unworthy of that same recognition because my service was stateside, or because I didn’t die in war.
That morning, I had paged through “The Book of Names,” which lists the location on the Wall of each fallen service member, in alphabetical order in the book, but by death date on the Wall. I first found the name of my friend, Lance Corporal Michael J Romanko, who enlisted as a Marine right after high school. His laughter and bravado antics came flowing back, as did the guilt. I took a rubbing of his name with paper and pencil provided by volunteers, the graphite boldly outlining my friend’s short life. Then an unknown force propelled me to look up my name. Finding the death date and Wall location, I traced our shared name, Ronald E Johnson, with my fingers.
“Was he a friend or a relative?” the voice repeated. He continued, “It’s ok to grieve and let your sorrows flow.”
“No. It’s me. It’s my name on the Wall.”
He waited.
I finally said, “Why am I alive but etched in this granite?”
He reached out and hugged me. I felt my body release feelings of unworthiness, tears, and exhaustion. Between my gasps of breath, I heard him say words like purpose, striving, and honoring those fallen. As he continued to speak, my internal monologue of self-deprecation and shame lessened. Gaining my composure, I thanked him for helping me begin to understand those hidden feelings and for giving me the purpose to move ahead.
As I walked back toward the Lincoln Memorial, the sweet smell of cherry blossoms drifted over me, amplifying my senses. Conflicting images emerged with craggy walls of blame falling, while the shudder of seeing my etched mortality remained vivid. A wave of calm washed over me after decades of carrying guilt and shame, and my muscles started to relax
After leaving the Washington Mall, I wanted to feel better about myself and to live for those who could no longer do so. Each step brought me a little closer to embracing a salute when our flag passes, standing when “Anchors Away” is played, and nodding with pride when people say, “Thank you for your service,” knowing that when I do, I honor all veterans, especially those etched on the Wall.
