I held out against seeing the boots of the Eyes Wide Open exhibit again because I was struggling with my memories of another war. I’m exhausted from lack of sleep. I wake from the little sleep I do get in great pain from three degenerative discs in my lumbar region causing sciatica running down my leg. It started during the march from Mobile to New Orleans back in March of this year.
I’m old and seeing the boots representing the deaths of the young dying in Iraq is another trauma I really didn’t want to see again. I saw the boots in D.C. in 2005. I saw them again in Mobile in 2006. I’ve looked at photos of this war time and again in researching for presentations I prepare on PTSD and militarism. I didn’t want to see the boots again.
Really, I didn’t want to see them again but yesterday morning after getting my coffee as usual at my local 7-Eleven I felt compelled to go to Civic Center Park here in Denver to see the damn boots. And the shoes representing what is now estimated to be 650,000 Iraqis killed since the beginning of the preemptive war of George W. Bush.
It was a bright and glorious fall day in Denver. The skies were blue as possible. The temperature was cool but comfortable. It was a day meant for walking in the forest shuffling in the leaves carpeting the ground. Not a day to look at memorials to the war dead. Still, I drove to Civic Center and parked at a two hour meter a block from the boots.
Crossing 14th on Bannock I saw the rows of boots in the morning sun running from the Bannock sidewalk to almost the center walkway of the park. Rows of boots four feet apart, aligned in straight military lines captured my sight line.
The number of boots had dramatically changed since my last visit. The sunshine couldn’t hide the sadness of the view. The dark boots symbolized the mood that crept into my mind.
I started at the site of the shoes representing the dead Iraqis. I took mental notes of ages of the dead listed. The ages ran the gamut from infant to ages in the eighties.
The photos of the beautiful Iraqi children were familiar and haunting. The photos of adults in grief and pain were some I had used in my own presentations.
I looked at the eyes of those photos and felt their sadness. I looked at the beauty of faces and felt the loss and tragedy.
The complete insanity of war is that we can see such wonderful faces as evil and dangerous because we’re told they are by politicians and spin masters of the media.
I no longer see what they want me to see. I see brothers and sisters of the human family that have become victims of our insanity.
I wondered how much of the park the shoes of 650,000 dead Iraqis would take up. I could only imagine a sea of shoes going for blocks.
Shoes that could be worn by people like those in the photos in the exhibit. Baby shoes, shoes of the elderly, shoes of teens, shoes of the young woman, shoes of a poet, shoes of a bride and groom, shoes of a teacher……putting a face to tragedy makes it real and even more tragic.
Denying the death toll and the individuals killed is as mean spirited and callous as we humans can be.
As hard as I tried I couldn’t grasp the numbers represented by the shoes at the memorial for the dead Iraqis.
I had visions of dead Vietnamese children I’d seen in villages after our bombs were dropped. I remembered the lifeless bodies of the dead we stacked together during the Tet Offensive of 1968. It was surreal and my mind had to defend itself by detaching from the truth of what we did.
I felt my mind starting to detach, dissociate and depersonalize the truth of what we continue to do yesterday as I walked through the shoes of the memorial.
I turned and walked back to the military boots representing 2754 dead troops of the American armed forces. The numbers paled in comparison to the 650,000 represented by only a small fraction of shoes.
Still, I had met mothers and fathers of some of the dead American troops in the last three years. I knew of their grief. I understand as a parent the implication of losing my children but can’t fathom the reality of actually losing a child. The boots represented that reality.
I started at one end of the field of precisely aligned boots. Each pair of boots had a name, a rank, an age and the home state of the dead. I didn’t know exactly what I planned as I started through the rows.
Maybe I’d find the names of those whose parents I’d met. Like Liz Sweet’s son. Or Casey Sheehan, son of Cindy. Or Ferdinand Suarez Del Solar’s son, Jesus.
After the first two rows I knew I had to see each name. I wanted to have the names of the lives wasted by this insanity. I wanted to know the ages of the men and women we Americans have allowed to be killed for an ignoble reason. I needed to understand how much potential my country was willing to lose.
The ages of 18, 19 and the twenties kept jolting me as I passed the individual pair of boots. I kept finding the rank of LCPL and ages less than 25 for the many Marines represented.
I have a hard time believing I was 18 when I entered combat in Vietnam. I think of the 18 year old men and women I’ve met and can’t imagine them in combat. I look at my own sons now both in their early thirties and can’t imagine them in combat.
Row after row I slowly walked past the boots with names of the dead. Leaves from the trees of the park littered the ground. They seemed symbolic of the place and situation I was in. Fall is a time of struggle and loss for me as the sunshine diminishes and trees go bare.
Teddy bears, flowers, photos and personal mementoes were scattered among the pairs of boots. Poems and letters from family and lovers were with some. Each pair of boots represented a life ended and a future unfulfilled.
Family members now hold on to the memories of the lost son or daughter, brother or sister, father or mother, husband or wife. Each day becomes a struggle to remember and not lose the memories. And each day the memories fade just a little more because life continues and the human mind attempts to cope.
I remember my first journey to the Vietnam memorial. I found each name of my dead friends and I remembered them as they were….young, in their teens and twenties. My mind took me back to being 18 and 19 as I remembered. Tears came to my eyes. I remembered the loss of them and the loss of my own youth. But I couldn’t stay in that place in time there at the Wall. I eventually had to return to the here and now.
We create symbols to remember. I carried Tony Hernandez’ dog tags for years. I didn’t want to forget him. He was my brother and friend in 1968. And as I walked among the boots in the Texas section I came upon a pair of boots with the name Anthony Hernandez. Same name and same state as my friend…..different war.
How many Tony’s have we killed I wondered. My mind naturally went back to the times in 1968 when the Tony of my war shared a foxhole with me, smoked with me and talked about buying his grandmother a house and listened to my dreams.
The boots are symbols meaning different things to each individual. Each American should see them to understand the numbers 2754 ….or possibly more today….are individual members of our human family.
Each American should understand the impact of each life lost is a terrible ripple of darkness to families and friends. Each pair of boots I saw yesterday represented a face and life of someone important.
I’ve struggled with being an activist for some time. Too often there is conflict and disappointment in the attempt to make a difference. The path of the heart doesn’t always lead me to paths others share with me.
Somehow, though, the path of the heart does lead me to places like the Eyes Wide Open exhibit at a time when a reminder is needed. The sense of loss and grief can overwhelm but is a necessary reminder of important need to carry on the struggle.
I didn’t want to see the boots again but my heart led me back to them. I needed to be reminded as long as I breathe I have to care.
I have to care young men and women die in vain. I have to remember they’re being asked to take part in killing babies, innocent men and women and a part of their very soul. I have to remember families and friends grieving.
That’s why I ended up walking each row of boots, trying to absorb each name and age yesterday.
Wm. Terry Leichner, RN
http://combatvetsvisionsofpeace.com
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