Let Their Spirits Dance

  “Lie down, Chris.” I lead him by the hand, like a drowsy child, gently, slowly to bed. His teeth start chattering. I cover him over with a blanket. His body twitches. He groans. I take off my shoes, thinking of El Santo Niño’s sandals and how worn out they would be if He walked all the way to Vietnam. I lie next to Chris, encircling him in my arms, resting his head in the middle of my chest where the match ignited an ache in me. I stroke his hair.

  “Jesse told me he wasn’t coming back, Chris.” I whisper the words and swallow back the sound that wants to erupt from my throat.

  “He knew more than I did. Jesse was like that. His mind moved through space, like he could figure out things we didn’t know anything about. Me? I thought I would die, and Jesse would come back.”

  “Is that why you went back…to see if you would die?”

  “Maybe. There were so many Chicanos over there, and even more when troops were being pulled out and only certain companies were left. We had front row seats. You know no Chicano is gonna do the rear when his buddies are up front. Maybe I wanted to join them. It was worse staying alive—all the nightmares, the whole mess here. People accusing us of killing babies. I let my hair grow long, I hated anything that made me remember the war. I didn’t even tell people I had been there, it got so bad. I started to march with the protesters for a while, then I couldn’t stand it, because I thought they were a bunch of cowards, going the gabacho way and burning their draft cards. Sorry m’fer’s, I thought. Then I’d feel bad cause I really didn’t want them to go to Nam. I knew the war was sick—so sick, and we still kept fighting. Your nana gave me that little prayer, remember? I kept it with me next to my mom’s picture, and it was the only thing I didn’t lose. We were like that, los Chicanos, holding on to crucifixes and prayers, pictures of La Virgen de Guadalupe, and our moms. We were in a man’s world, but we hung on to our women. I never told Margie any of this. I came back to Albuquerque and married her, and I didn’t know why.”

  “Ray never told me anything about Vietnam either, and he wasn’t even fighting in the front. He was a mechanic.”

  “It’s like we were chained up together, Teresa, like all of us went to Hell and nobody else would understand. I had my two daughters with Margie. She finally divorced me, and I don’t blame her. I still love her. Margie could have had anybody she wanted. I don’t know why she waited for me. After Margie, I went two more rounds with other women, and they did the same thing. I didn’t really care, because I didn’t love them. I looked at myself in the mirror one day, and I couldn’t stand what I saw. I was disgusted with myself, because I couldn’t get Nam out of my system. That was the day I almost turned a gun on myself. If it hadn’t been for thinking about my two daughters, I probably would have done it, but I remembered all the kids I saw in the war with no parents, crying, sleeping on the streets, some of them raped, or made into prostitutes and drug dealers. I saw their faces in my head, so small. They were these tiny people and I was a giant, ‘number ten GI’ they used to call me cause they knew I wasn’t into torture and all that shit. I was ashamed of myself, watching what other guys did to them. And they still called me ‘number ten GI’!”

  I hold Chris tight until the pain is a pinpoint in my chest. Chris is still mumbling about the kids in Vietnam, a baby who was paralyzed by a bullet in his spine, a young girl raped by one of the ARVNs, an old woman beaten by an American with the butt of his gun, running—wanting to find Salt and Pepper, the fabled Black and White soldiers who deserted the American forces and joined up with the VC.

  My throat is aching. There are questions I want to ask Chris. What did Jesse say before he died? And the woman he wrote to me about, the one who taught him Vietnamese—who was she? It won’t make any sense to Chris, not now. He finally falls asleep, and I sleep, too.

  I wake up with a jump. Chris is bundled in a blanket next to me. We’re curled up in the middle of the bed. The room is ice cold from the air conditioner running all night. It makes me wonder if there’s winter in Vietnam. I want to get up before everybody else does.

  I slide quietly to the edge of the bed. Chris rolls over and puts his hand on my thigh. It’s warm. Deep in my pelvis, I sense an ache. I want to rush back to the middle of the bed and let his hands find the rest of me, but the room is already bathed in early morning light. The light illuminates the truth. I’m not the high school girl Chris said good-bye to at Sky Harbor Airport, and he’s not the young soldier who walked backwards alongside my brother to get to the plane that would fly them away to Vietnam and change them forever.

  He strokes my hair gently, and lets his hand run smoothly over my shoulder. “Don’t leave, Teresa.”

  “I have to.” I put my sandals back on. “You don’t have to help me with my shoes. I’ll be all right.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “For what?” I ask him. I lean over him, arrange the blanket under his chin, and kiss his forehead.

  March 6, 1968

  Dear Sis,

  Most of the houses over here have blue doors and shutters. They say blue stands for hope. I don’t know what there is to hope for. President Johnson came over here and left, promising more troops. What is he thinking? Can’t he see the handwriting on the wall? These people have been fighting for years. Yesterday, Chato, this guy from Texas, said he was gonna do whatever it takes to get home. I don’t think he’ll succeed, outside of having himself killed. Two White guys got shipped out the other day, one because his mom knew a senator back home and another because he was sent to keep accounts at the base. Los Chicanos don’t have mommys who know senators and none of them I know of have more than high school, if even that.

  Mostly the races keep to themselves over here. When we’re fighting, well, that’s the time to kick ass and not care who’s next to you, but when we’re back at base camp or on R & R, it’s back to who you belong to. I tried shooting dice with los negros. They reminded me of Gates. It was cool until a couple of them accused me of cheating and playing like a Mexican. They called me a taco. I told them I was from the States but they wouldn’t buy it. It’s hard around here. I don’t want to be too Mexican, cause the Chicanos get mad, and I don’t want to be too Chicano cause then the Mexicans say I’m going white. It’s as bad as north and south Vietnam. The people are so mixed up over here, we can’t tell who’s from the north and who’s from the south. The ARVNs we got with us are supposed to be from the south and they’re more trouble than they’re worth. Sometimes the VC shoot at them and pass us by. I already saw that when it comes to saving somebody, we’ll save each other before we get to them. That’s a double-cross if you ask me. Some of the guys say the ARVNs are a bunch of queers. They pat each other all the time, sleep together, stuff like that. I told them that’s the way it is around here. Father John told me that. He studies up on all the customs. The other day Father said a mass out here with a box for an altar. The gospel was about the man who lived out in the tombs and was full of demons. Jesus took out all the demons and sent them into swine. There were so many, they called themselves Legion. It was weird because later that day I saw a farmer herding a bunch of pigs to the city. It was the first time I’ve seen that. I’ve seen water buffalo but not pigs. I’m surprised somebody hadn’t killed the pigs for meat. I wonder why Christ sent the demons into the swine. What do you think, sis? To me, we’re acting like devils and the pigs are only being who they are. Maybe demons need to destroy something on their way out. Is that what we’re doing?

  I think I know what this war is all about. It’s about body count. Everytime there’s a firefight we have to go out and check to see how many VC we killed. Lieutenant McCoy, this guy I’ve learned to hate, asked me the other day for the body count. Well I had none to give him, but he called in 21 anyway. He told me to always give an odd number as that sounded more like the truth. All this goes to base camp and nobody ever checks up on the numbers. Some guys get carried away and start cutting off ears and fingers when they find bodies. One guy said he saw an American Specia
l Forces squad that had been ambushed by the VC. The VC had cut off the guys’ you know what and shoved them into their mouths. Sorry if this makes you sick, sis, but this is what is called war. Some of our guys hack away because they know that’s one of the worse things you can do to a Vietnamese. They have this thing about burying the bodies right away. Some of them get killed trying to get one of their dead buddies back to their camp. Father John told me they house the dead souls in tombs. I’ve seen the graves, here and there. I told you about them. Remember? The tombs aren’t in straight lines like in our cemeteries. They stick up wherever the person was buried. Some of the families have taken down their tombs for now because they don’t want their ancestors disturbed by foreigners. They believe the ghosts of the dead will haunt them if they don’t build a house for them, even prostitutes and the homeless get something.

  There’s a kid who hangs around with us. Chris has buddied up with him. I saw him sharing his poncho with him yesterday when it was raining.

  The Vietnamese word for rain is mua and for rainy it’s co mua. We got plenty of that over here. I’ve been thinking, sis, how the U.S. prays for peace, then turns around and arms itself to the teeth for war. Are we Legion?

  Write to me as quick as you can. There’s nothing worse than not getting mail out here. Tell Paul and Priscilla to do all their homework. I’m not there to check it for them, so do it for me. Give Mom and Nana a kiss and check up on Dad.

  SWAK

  Jesse

  I go over Jesse’s letter in my room before the girls get up. I didn’t know blue was the color of hope in Vietnam. I make a plan to paint our front door blue when we get back to Phoenix.

  Little Saigon ·

  We gather at the Denny’s for breakfast on Tuesday morning, June 3. Chris isn’t with us.

  “What did you do to him, Teresa?” Priscilla asks.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  “I knew it! All these years talking about me…making it sound like I’m—”

  Mom stops her. “Priscilla, don’t let the boys order food they won’t eat, mija. They waste everything.”

  “Are you listening to me, Mom? Your little angel isn’t so holy after all!”

  “They’re fighting again,” Lisa says.

  “We’re not fighting,” I tell her.

  “Look, all the people are staring at us again,” Irene says. “You two girls stop all this, y ustedes, you boys,” she says, pointing to Michael and Angelo, “stop arguing about what you want to eat. If you were at my house, you’d eat chorizo and beans, y ya, cree lo!”

  A waitress comes over. “You’ve got to be the Ramirezes. Are you?”

  “Yes, that we are,” I tell her.

  “Is that your mother?” She looks at Mom. I nod. “Señora, you are a hero,” she says. “Would you give me your autograph?” The girl pulls out her order pad and cuts out a page. “I’ll keep this as a memory of you.”

  My mother looks at her. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Sign your name, please,” says the girl. I look at Mom to see if she’s really gonna do it.

  “Teresa, do you have a pen?” I fumble through my purse and find a pen. Mom takes it and signs her name with a flourish. “There,” she says, “pobrecita, what a beautiful girl!” A second waitress comes over, and Mom signs a page of her order pad, too. People from all over the restaurant are watching.

  “Oh, man,” Priscilla says. “I hope there’s no media in here.”

  I notice a woman walking toward us. “You must be Teresa.”

  “Yes. And this is my mother, Alicia Ramirez.”

  “Of course, we’ve been hearing all about you. I’m Corina Ybarra. My husband served in Vietnam.” She sighs as she says the words. “I’m proud of it, no matter what people said about the war. He’s gone now. He died of skin cancer. There were tumors that showed up on his skin. The doctors would remove them, then others would show up. I know it had something to do with Agent Orange. You know, the chemical they used during the war. We tried to sue the government, but nothing ever came of it…nothing. He was young, only fifty-three, and over there is our son and his wife. See that baby?” She points to a child sitting with the couple. “My husband won’t ever see him grow up. There are so many casualties of the Vietnam War, and lots of them aren’t on the Wall.” She turns to Mom. “Te acompaño en tu sentimiento,” she says, I accompany you in your grief. She says the same thing to Irene. Mom and Irene respond with the same words, ancient words used to comfort the bereaved. She walks back to her family, and they all wave at us.

  “I had never thought about guys who died here in the States from what they went through in Vietnam,” I tell Priscilla.

  “It never occurred to me either.”

  “What about those who died of alcoholism and drugs?” Manuel says. “There must be plenty.”

  The two waitresses are back again, taking our orders, smiling, telling us what the best deals on the menu are. I sense new energy in the air. The sun is shining, the light is white, warm. My mother just gave someone her autograph. She’s a hero, for God’s sake. Two men have joined Willy, Gates, and Yellowhair at their table. They may be Vietnam veterans, or the brothers, cousins, and friends of somebody who served there. Willy told me the Vietnam War was the longest war in the history of America. Thirty years long, he said, and $500 billion spent. I reach for my coffee cup and tell the kids they shouldn’t order more than they can eat. My voice is too loud. “I heard you,” Lilly says, “you don’t have to shout.” She edges close to Priscilla and whispers something in her ear. Priscilla smiles. Are they talking about me and Chris?

  Another thing is happening. Priscilla and Manuel are suddenly close friends. I’ve never seen them talk so much in all my life. I don’t know if they’re talking to avoid me or if they’re really interested in what they have to say to each other. Manuel is teaching Michael how to keep accounts on the computer. People stare at Michael when they see him pounding away on the computer. They think he’s a poor Mexican kid who doesn’t speak English and wonder what he’s doing on a computer.

  Donna is sitting next to the Guadalupanas. Paul’s outside in the van, chain-smoking. My mother tells Donna to ignore him. He’s mad about Manuel handling all the money and says he’s being treated like a child. He’s sick of Donna preaching to him and is ready to hitchhike back to Phoenix, except I know he won’t because he’d never forgive himself if something happened to Mom. He’s like Jesse that way. There’s a part of Paul that wants nothing to do with Jesse, and another part that still has Jesse on a pedestal. It must be crazy to be the kid brother of a man who’s perfect in the eyes of his mother.

  My mother is coughing this morning. None of her prescribed medications are for cough, and I’m wondering if I should stop at a local fire station to have her blood pressure checked and her lungs listened to. Paramedics will tell us if she needs to be hospitalized. She’s stubborn, just as Irene says. Palmira gave me the cure, she says. She cleaned out my system, starting with my soul. I’ll be all right. And why bother the firemen anyway with another old lady’s problems? Irene wants to go to the fire station because all the firemen are handsome, she says, and she needs somebody to help her with her legs.

  “They’re not sobadores,” I tell her, “all they’ll do is tell you to go see your doctor.” She’s disappointed and still wants to go.

  I listen to snatches of the men’s conversation talking about their war days, R&R, the food in Vietnam, the flight over and back, the marijuano officers who got stoned, the kids who swarmed them on the streets. Nothing about battles, blood. They’re keeping everybody at bay. Willy says the Vietnamese kept speaking their language to him, they figured he understood. He had to keep reminding them he was Chinese American. Gates tells them there was a whole street in one of the cities where Black men lived with Vietnamese women, and they were treated like gods. The people were good, he says. What were we doing there anyway? Yellowhair remembers that his brother left for Vietnam when he got shipped b
ack to the States. They didn’t want two brothers from the same family serving at the same time. “It should have been the other way around,” he says. “I should have gone, and he should have come back.”

  My mother’s listening to the men talk, tilting her head this way and that like a bird listening to flight instructions. She’d wear wings if that would get her to the Wall faster, feathered wings she could flap and not annoy God by defying gravity on a Boeing 747.

  I see Chris motioning to me through one of the windows. He’s pretending he’s holding on to a car wheel, spinning around in the air, showing me he’s ready to move on. I smile and wave back. It feels so good to see him clowning around. I didn’t know what to expect from him this morning.

  “There’s Chris,” I tell Priscilla. She doesn’t say anything.

  By the time we’re ready to leave, we have attracted more attention. People are watching us board our vehicles. “The Vietnam Wall or bust!” one man shouts. My mother’s walking, swaying on her cane. I hold on to her elbow. Priscilla walks close behind us. People are wishing us well. The two waitresses and the men who joined Willy, Gates, and Yellowhair all join us in the parking lot.

  Michael catches up to me and tells me he’s got a Vietnamese man who got on the web site this morning. “He’s from Little Saigon in Orange County, Ca—lifornia,” Michael says. Michael holds the first syllable in the word California, and it sounds like he’s announcing the word over a loudspeaker.

  “I didn’t know we had a Saigon in the U.S.,” I tell him.

  “Little Saigon,” he says, “the biggest Saigon besides the one in Vietnam.”