I loved my father. A decorated Veteran of World War II and Manager of the Veteran's Administration, he was a quiet and compassionate man. When I think of him, I remember how he smelled, his tender hugs, how handsome he was, his gentle smile. My mother said he was never the same after he came back from the War, but that meant nothing to a spirited young girl at the height of Viet Nam. The reality was, I had no idea about the unique parts that made up the man that was my father.
In 1969 I was a typical 16-year-old of the era. Tall, skinny, waist-length straight hair, I wanted to be flamboyant and shocking. My boyfriend was in Viet Nam. His brother Chuck was my best friend. Chuck and I wanted to join in a Viet Nam Memorial Day Protest Rally that was taking place in a neighboring city. I thought I was so clever as I worked diligently making what I knew would be a startling protest sign I would carry that said, "Fighting for Peace is Like F*cking for Virginity."
We lived on "The Pink Streets" in St. Petersburg, FL. A few blocks from Tampa Bay in what, at the time, was an exclusive and secluded area with moss covered trees and tranquil Southern gentility. St. Petersburg had a saying, "People retire to Miami and their parents live in St. Petersburg." So you didn't do war protests in our town because that could produce the onset of heart attacks. And back then, 60 was REALLY old, and I was just beginning to live.
Thrilled with my wit and the shock value of my finished product, I proudly took my sign in to show my father and Chuck. After a moment, my dad stood up and removed it from my hand.
Without a word, he walked out the back door and headed purposefully down the street toward the water with my clever work of art. At first angry, then stunned, in quiet amazement I watched as this gentle man threw my masterpiece into Tampa Bay. After standing silently for several minutes, he walked calmly home. Never having previously exchanged a cross word with him, I was blindsided but duly chastised with his silent fury.
Chuck and I didn't attend the Protest Rally that day. Without a word, my father had spoken volumes about the subtleties of perception. With maturity I've learned that you don't need words to teach a lesson, and the realities of war and youthful idealism cannot always be bound together to make truth.
Memorial Day 1969 was written by Mimi Foster
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