A
modifed version of this letter was read by actress Teri
Garr at
the televised National Memorial Day Concert, May 28, 2000
We encourage you to visit Teri Garr's
unofficial fan page
My first trip was in the spring of '84. At the
time I was teaching high school English, divorced, raising my 6
year old son, and struggling pretty much alone as we all have
with so many conflicts. My principal sent me to DC with a group
of students on a Close-Up trip. These very well-organized
sojourns allow the teachers some time to themselves, and I knew
my day would be spent at The Wall--sans kiddies. In fact, I
didn't want to be with anyone that day.
I took the Metro down to the Mall, and slowly, slowly wound my
way toward that monolith, what one of my friends in a poem calls
'wet, black wings.' As its long, black V appeared and grew
larger, my heart was pounding, my feet so heavy I had to force
them in front of one another. Everything in my body and being was
cringing and pulling back. I was, simply, scared to death.
Terrified. And it kept getting closer. When I finally arrived,
and it loomed before me, I didn't know what to do, just stood
there, not wanting to look at it, looking anywhere else, eyes
filled with tears.
At that time, the vigil was in effect year 'round, and a Vet
walked up to me, asked if he could help. I was numb and brusque
and unsure. Undaunted, he led me to the book of names, asked me
who I wanted to find, showed me Michael's name in the book, what
the numbers meant, how to find him. Then he volunteered to go
down into that waiting memorial with me. I refused--I wanted to
be alone. Still undaunted, he said he'd just follow behind, make
sure I could find the name if I needed him. I moved down, down,
down that sidewalk, the wings of the V pulling me in, the names
increasing, my reflection unnerving me, and the tears flowing. As
I arrived at the apex and panel 18W, I again just stood there: in
complete shock I realize now. The Vet appeared at my side again,
gently guided my eyes up to the 2nd line and over to the right.
Michael A. McAninch. He was there. It was true. He wasn't coming
home. He had been memorialized and immortalized along with all
these names around him. My Michael. I collapsed. Just shot down
to the ground. But my fall was broken by the Vet who had known I
must not be alone. He caught me and held me while I sobbed my
grief, wracked with pain. After I quieted a bit, he said,
"See all these names around Michael's? They are his brothers
and are with him; he is not alone." And he calmly stayed by
my side, talking with me, listening to me, nodding, being quiet
when he needed to be. It was the first time anyone had ever
talked with me about Michael and the War. Fifteen years, and
someone finally cared. His name was Terry.
I have been to The Wall three times since that first painful
trip. I like the statues and understand why they have been added
to the site. But it is The Wall that I come for. I don't see it
as a black gash or a tombstone, though I understand those
feelings as well. I see it as OURS and THEIRS. We insisted on it;
we paid for it; and we experience it in our own ways, some of us
choosing not to--and that is a response to it also. For me, it is
a memorial to our loved ones, a reminder of the cost, and a site
for pilgrimage and gathering and sharing. And it is where a Vet
named Terry gave a damn and volunteered to help a grieving lady
through her first experience of it--still serving his country and
them.
