Saturday, May 28, 2011

Paying respects long overdue






To his hometown, he is the name on a sign that overlooks the high school football field. To the world, he is a name on a famous wall. To our country, he is a hero. If you try to find out why, you will be surprised to learn that there is very little information available to tell the story of John Thomas DeBarber.
I know this because last week I tried to hunt down the details of what happened to DeBarber on Oct. 17, 1966. That was the day he died serving his country in the war-torn jungles of Vietnam. 
You would think you could simply “Google” him and find a host of links containing news stories about him, or other mentions from the past 45 years that would offer a glimpse of this brave young soldier’s life.
Sadly, shockingly, this is not the case. Perhaps this is not uncommon for many of our soldiers over the years. Considering the conversations I had this week in pursuit of DeBarber’s story, I will suggest that it seems to be the case for many soldiers who served in the Vietnam War. 
DeBarber was 21 years old when he was killed in action in the Long An Province of South Vietnam. For the past nearly 45 years, he had been an unsung hero of his hometown of Seymour, Connecticut. 
Anyone who has ever been to watch a home game of the Seymour High School Wildcats will have seen his name on the sign that stands tall overlooking the field. For all the “familiarity” of the name, there may not be as many who know that DeBarber was the first Seymour soldier to die in the Vietnam War. 
For that matter, there were only two Seymour boys to be killed in action in that war -- the second, Ronald M. Randall, 19, died May 21, 1968 serving in the United States Marine Corps. I might never have known that either, had I not started asking around about John  DeBarber. 
His friends called him “Ace,” and he wore #43 as a runningback for then-coach Joe Gesek’s Wildcats. DeBarber loved football, and even noted it as one of two “ambitions” in his high school yearbook listing (the other was to be a test pilot). He was a bit of a free spirit, preferring hanging out with his friends to hitting the books, and he talked about traveling. 
He helped out at his family’s gas station, “Duke’s,” and worked at the defunct Klarides supermarket -- each a stone’s throw from the family home on West Street. A smalltown boy with big dreams. You might say that DeBarber had that “fire” of youth: the desire to see the world, have adventures. He wanted to really live
So it was just after graduation in June 1963 that DeBarber took that step, signing up with the U.S. Army at a time when the Vietnam War was heating up thousands of miles away from his little hometown.
He was assigned to Charlie Company, 4th Battalion, 9th Infantry, 25th Infantry Division. Known as the “Lightning division,” these are the soldiers portrayed in the 1986 film, “Platoon.” 
Their mission was search and destroy, DeBarber’s younger brother Louis said. “They would look for rice paddies, water buffalo, destroy whatever they found. He wrote letters back, there were many missions with his guys, and many of them got killed. It was fierce fighting going on.”
This was a war in which the guerilla battle tactics of the Viet Cong included replacing land mines with artillery, according to Wikipedia. John DeBarber was the victim of this battle tactic, according to accounts of his family and a posting on www.VirtualWall.org from a soldier who served with him.
“John was a good Sgt. [acting] He liked to walk point. He worked with you in details. He watched over you in combat. He was a good manchu. He has been in my memory for all this time. The night he became a KIA was sad. The platoon walked into an ambush...”
DeBarber’s sister, Kathy Gabianelli, said her brother had two weeks to go on his tour of duty. “He was looking forward to getting out,” she said.
He came home in a glass coffin. The line of mourners who came to pay respects at the Upson-Ward Funeral Home (now Miller-Ward) was never ending. “It was two days for the wake and funeral, and it was nonstop people from the time it started to the end,” Gabianelli recalled.
With Memorial Day approaching and his life story on my mind, I visited DeBarber’s grave site this week. As an American soldier killed in action, he could have been buried in Arlington National Cemetery, but his family chose to keep him close.
Arthur Paquette, caretaker for St. Augustine’s Cemetery, observed the grave marker, noting that DeBarber was a foot soldier. “He was right in it,” he noted. Then he paused. 
“Those boys from Vietnam really took it on the chin,” Paquette said. “They took it from the Viet Cong over there, and when they came home, they got it from the American people.”
There are many who agree with him. The Vietnam War was unpopular with many Americans who felt the U.S. should not have been there. 
Maybe that’s why I couldn’t find any stories in the local newspaper about DeBarber’s death. What little there is, gave too little detail to respect a young man who made the ultimate sacrifice. 
For DeBarber’s family, their memories are of a young man who took them fishing at Hoadley’s Pond, or was caught skipping school to play golf at the old Great Hill Golf Country Club. “He was kindof a renegade,” Louis DeBarber said. That renegade was awarded three Purple Hearts, a Bronze Star and several other medals in recognition of his service to his country.
“There are certain times you remember,” Louis DeBarber said. “Every so often, I think of how old he would be. The rest of my life, it’ll be there. It’s never gonna disappear.”
DeBarber’s name is on Line 081, Panel 11E of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall in Washington, D.C. It is also on a memorial in Seymour’s French Memorial Park, and the simple military grave marker in St. Augustine Cemetery where he was laid to rest. To those who knew and loved him, he was much more than a name on a wall. To the rest of us, he is an American hero.

**Look for John DeBarber's story in Sunday's Waterbury-Republican American newspaper.

Copyright 2011 by Marianne V. Heffernan


Copyright 2011 By Marianne V. Heffernan

Sunday, May 22, 2011

Memorializing as one


"What we feel in our hearts, we need to express."









Cemeteries have always been a dreaded place for me. The reason is probably obvious and not uncommon: on the rare occasions that I visit them (usually during a funeral service), I am there to acknowledge the loss of someone I knew. 
If I am visiting a grave site of a loved one to whom I was particularly close, I am there to mourn their absence in my life, or perhaps if I spin that around, I am there to recognize the value of their presence in my life as it was “then” and as it is “now.” Either way, that can be a painful thing, no matter how much time has passed.

So it is a bit odd for me to consider that on a recent visit to the Washington, D.C. area, the place that I spent the most time visiting was a cemetery.
I was in the area on business, but my husband had joined me so we could spend the weekend sightseeing and visiting family. Once my work obligations were completed, we set out to see what we could see. 
The first place on our list was Arlington National Cemetery. Both of us had been there before, many years ago when we were younger and had little life experience through which to filter our understanding. This time, we came wearing the lens of adulthood. 
Arlington National Cemetery draws some four million visitors each year, many of whom are there to say a final farewell to their loved ones. Others go to pay respects as American citizens (or visitors to the U.S.) with an appreciation for the history and sacrifice that saturates the green rolling landscape.
For me, perhaps it was because I have been researching memorialization and the ways we express our grief individually and collectively that I was more aware of my reactions to the monuments and other sacred spaces.
A trip to D.C. is bound to expose you to any number of “memorial” sites. In just a couple of days, we visited Memorials dedicated to President Lincoln, the Vietnam War, and World War II. We also walked the grounds of Mount Vernon, the estate of the first American President. It is here that George Washington died and is buried, and visitors can get a glimpse into the lifestyle of the day, right down to the stable where his horses were kept and the bed he allegedly died in.
I have to wonder about the scores of tourists that are drawn to these sites and so many others there, each year. Students on their class trips, honeymooners (like my parents some 52 years ago), business travelers squeezing in a few sites while in town. We all want to see these places. We bring our cameras and capture the sites so we can remember them and revisit them in photo albums later. 
What is our fascination? 
As I reflect on my own recent exposure to these monuments to our dead, I am stunned that I never noticed the fascination before. So many of us are drawn to these sites, and our individual experiences, of course, are personal and unique, but also are very similar. 
It speaks to a commonality in people that we want to have that direct experience in seeing with our own eyes these monuments we have erected. What we feel in our hearts, we need to express. With national memorials, we can mourn, reflect and respect as a country. The individual stands tall, but stands stronger when standing together. This is one of the things that these memorials give us the opportunity to do -- to stand together in our collective respect and grief.
With the American holiday of Memorial Day approaching, I hope the fascination in our memorials is generated by a deep respect and admiration for our country’s leaders and heroes -- the soldiers who protect all that we have by serving in our armed forces. World events continue to remind us of the dangerous job our soldiers do. We should never take them -- or our freedom -- for granted.
For more information on Arlington National Cemetery, visit:
Next post: A Hometown Name on the Wall
Copyright 2011 by Marianne V. Heffernan


Copyright 2011 By Marianne V. Heffernan

Friday, May 20, 2011

Let the music play

Driving home from work the other day, a song came on the radio that I hadn’t heard in probably ten years. It was Phil Collins’ “You’ll be in my heart,” a song from the Tarzan soundtrack that I would play for my nephew, Lucas, when he was a little boy. 
He would be strapped into his car seat in the back of my Jeep Wrangler. I would pop the CD into the dashboard, and the two of us would connect, making eye contact through the rearview mirror as we sang along to the songs. If you’ve never heard the song, you probably have not had young children in your life or perhaps you simply missed this particular Disney film. So courtesy of YouTube, I'm sharing a link here, because it may be the best way to emphasize the point of this blog post. Take a listen to the words.
The song caused a heartwarming flashback for me because it brought me back to a time in my life when Lucas and I would spend a considerable amount of time together. Now that he is a teenager, we don’t have the opportunity to hang out as much as we used to, so the memories we created back then are that much more precious.
We all get nostalgic now and then, but it occurs to me that without realizing it, often the catalyst for our reminiscing is music.

Music connects us to our memories. Depending on whether the memory is a good or bad one, music can return us to another time in our lives, and with it, return us to the people who were “there when.” It is powerful stuff.
For me, any Bob Seger song is an instant reminder of my sister Joyce. As teenagers, we loved his music and would blast it from the car radio. We had so much fun at a Seger concert one night, going with two other girlfriends, that we immediately decided to return to the concert venue the next night to buy tickets on the street, so that we could hear it again, live. We had to split up to do so, since the tickets we scored were not all in the same section, but we were all about the music that night so it really didn’t matter.
That may have been the night that sealed the Bob Seger-Joyce connection for me. There are plenty of others, too. My brother John was a big Tom Petty fan. Hence, Petty for me equals John. It is automatic and it is usually instantaneous, this recognition of the personal connection.
Let me try to put this in the broader perspective, because obviously everyone has a different experience. When it comes to the power of music, we have had some tremendous examples to send us back in time to a particular memory. I bet any of the “rock anthems” of the Baby Boomer and Gen X generations can catapult you to a moment in your life that you cherish -- or maybe wish you could forget. See if any of the following does anything for you:
Aerosmith’s Dream On.
Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Freebird.
Michael Jackson’s We are the World.
Sly and the Family Stone’s We are Family.
Kool and the Gang’s Celebration.
Queen’s We are the Champions.
What comes to mind when you hear one of those golden tunes, or any other that is a particular favorite of yours?
Maybe it is your wedding song. Or the song from your junior prom. Anyone who has ever gone to a game at Yankee Stadium (past or present) can probably relate to Frank Sinatra’s New York, New York, since they play it at the conclusion of every Yankee home game (or if you grew up where I came from, that song may have been the last song you heard before you were tossed out of the local dance club as they turned on the lights at 2 a.m.)
Whatever the memory, the music brings it all to life so you can relive the moment and reconnect with the people who made that moment one to cherish. 
So I guess this week it was Phil Collins that reminded me of this cool function of the technology of memory. It’s the music that we love that writes a soundtrack to our lives. Let it play.
You’ll be in my heart. Yes, you’ll be in my heart. From this day on, now and forevermore. You’ll be in my heart, no matter what they say. You’ll be here in my heart always.
Always.
Copyright 2011 by Marianne V. Heffernan

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Back on track

It’s done.
I’ve been stressing out over my dissertation quagmire long enough. I have been considering whether to continue on the path I have been on, with the Committee I assembled and the question that has developed as my “topic” these last several months. My decision has weighed heavily all this time: Do I want it that badly to continue to feel inadequate or unworthy on a regular basis, or at all?
I had to decide if I truly want this degree. I also had to decide whether a possible mismatch on my Committee held the key to freeing me to pursue an exploration of the “real” questions inside me.
Tonight I pulled the trigger. I composed a note to Professor Three respectfully thanking her for her insight, guidance, and expertise. Then I told her I was moving on without her.
I take no pleasure in doing so, because no matter how professional or respectful or logical my note was, I am sure that on some level, Professor Three’s reaction will not be a positive one. I cannot concern myself with that. This journey is very difficult, and I will have many moments where I will feel frustrated and discouraged. I may even wonder if I made the right decision in dismissing the insights of such an expert in the grief field. 
I cannot look back. Tonight, I need to move on. I have a new Professor to begin introducing to my proposal, and I have renewed optimism that this combination of expertise and experience will be the one that leads to a successful conclusion of this research project. The goal is still far off, but I believe I can see it again and it still appeals to me.
For now, that is enough to get me back on track.
Copyright 2011 by Marianne V. Heffernan

Sunday, May 1, 2011

Follow the current where it leads

There may come a time when you feel lost or out of sorts. Life gets complicated and intense, and it can feel like there is no way to set things back on course. Those of you who have been walking my dissertation journey here with me know what I am talking about, because you have borne witness to my prolonged malaise in this rigorous course of study.
It is certain that I have been wrestling with this process. I hate to belabor the point but the experience has been such that it is taking me much longer than I expected to snap out of it. That’s because, instead of trying to “force” a resolution, I have been letting the malaise simmer. I’ve got a regular malaise stew a-cooking these days. 
My logic? The conflict within me needs to work its way out. I have a tendency to be impulsive, making snap decisions in the heat of the moment without thinking things through and later wishing I had taken time to let my subconscious contribute to the conversation. In this situation, I am trying to take a mature view of my situation and make a decision on “next steps” based on truth. My truth. 
Sometimes, it means having a conversation with a good friend. Not a conversation that is intended to examine the problem directly, and then come to a conclusion through the give-and-take of the discussion. I mean a conversation that evolves while you are catching up on each other’s lives, and the flow of the chat is just that kind of easy discourse that opens up the ideas being exchanged while you are connecting -- or reconnecting -- with a good friend. 
I am thankful that I have these kind of friends in my life. They are steady as a drumbeat. They are there when I need them, whether I reach out or not. 
Lately, in all the madness that my daily life has become, I have been taking the path of least resistance. Part of me wants to call it “succumbing to the easy way out.” By that I mean, I have been making decisions based on what pulls at me from the most basic level. Sometimes that means my dedication to my schoolwork takes a back seat to my devotion to my family. Or to my own human side. 
For example, when I return home from a full day of work, after navigating the 40-plus-minute commute, and having somehow managed to pull together a reasonably decent dinner, I face the choice that I am sure every graduate student faces: at this hour of the evening, do I have it in me to sit down at my computer or with a research book, to reengage my already weary mind for a few more hours? 
I wish I could say emphatically, “Yes! I can and I do have it in me!” The truth is, I often do not. I will not force myself these days to continue to sacrifice rest, sleep, or precious time with a loved one, for the sake of this coveted degree that I do -- let me remind you -- I do want to achieve.
You can question my commitment if you wish. I don’t care. I prefer to look at it as being true to my personal philosophy, which has two parts. Part one: Don’t miss the opportunity to spend time with those you love. Part two: When the body says “rest,” listen to it.
In a way, my combo of a personal philosophy is another way of saying I am all about living my own authentic life. I keep running into this idea in the things I read -- somehow, it seems to be an undercurrent of my dissertation topic, if I think about it. Just this morning, I picked up a book that was offered as a freebie at church, and my curiosity got the better of me so I began to read it. (Because, you know, I had nothing else to do.)
Rediscover Catholicism, A Spiritual Guide to Living with Passion and Purpose by Matthew Kelly (Ohio: Beacon Publishing, 2010) may be just a momentary diversion from my required scholarly reading, but it is in line with my current practice of doing what appeals to me at the moment, regardless of what my “To Do” List demands of me. 
What happens when I give in to my whims is this: inevitably, I am offered some crumb of wisdom or insight or support or encouragement. I don’t have to scrutinize the evidence to gain this blessing of a revelation. I only have to follow the current where it leads me. 
Today, the reading led me to this, right there on page 33: “We have a universal hunger for the authentic, a longing to be and become and experience all we are capable of and created for. Everything good in the future (for ourselves, our marriages, our families, our communities, our Church, our nation, and humanity) depends on whether or not we will follow this longing.”
Well, there it is. 
My interpretation was rather immediate. I took this as personal validation that I am right where I need to be, in my pursuit of a doctorate. I am striking a balance that at times is frustrating because I am used to being out of balance most of the time. I have lived most of my adult life burning the candle at both ends. I have lived with the daily mantra of “Suck it up.” I have put off relaxation and declined social events for the sake of work or school. 
Now, I am taking a stand. I am saying, “No more.” All the things that I want to do, I will do. I will do them in my time, on my schedule, and in my way. And you know what? I will get them done. The things that mean the most will fill my days. I trust that those “things” will be the right things for me. None of these lofty goals in life is worth feeling stressed about when you can step back and say, “I already have the most important things. I have family. I have friends. I have love in my life.” 
Everything else is a bonus. 
Copyright 2011 By Marianne V. Heffernan