The mind of a poet, the heart of a warrior

I was once asked to write an essay entitled, "Who are you?"  At that time, I could only answer in a way that related to my father.  Who I was – or was not – was dependent upon our rather contentious relationship.  He has since died, but I understand that the answer is still very much the same.  Who am I?  I am the child of a poet who died in the war, then lived to write about it.

I am the minstrel daughter of a troubadour who described his world through poetry and music. From jungles of Vietnam to the mountains of North Carolina, my father soothed the pain of separation, poked fun at his friends, and taunted the foibles of an imperfect government.   His gifts were music and words, and I am blessed to have a portion of his talent. 

I am the warrior child of a Marine who fought battles in the Pacific during World War II.  My father never talked much about the war, except the recitation of assignments he had in theater; Binika, Rendova, Munda: exotic names for desolate, war torn islands.  He told funny stories that glanced over the reality of war.  Midnight requisitioning; flirtation with nurses; getting around the strict system of the military: these were his public memories of battle. Semper Fidelis.

I was born to a visionary blinded by the atrocities of war.  When my father came back from the Pacific, he suffered from a form of hysterical blindness.  While he joked about the war in public, his private memories included horrors so profound that they shattered him.  The military doctors administered shock treatments to help him recover from his illness. The treatments only twisted his memories and created a broken and dysfunctional psyche.  For decades I questioned the story of his reaction to war. Then last spring, in the midst of my own battles, I awoke with blindness in both eyes - a form of optical migraine.  Though my vision returned within minutes, I finally understood the way that the body can cope with too much stress.

I am a restless child of gypsy parents. Even my grand parents and great grand parents were restless wanderers.  The joke in our family was that I started hitchhiking at the age of three. However, the real journey began when my father was sent to Vietnam as part of a rebuilding mission with USAID.  My mother, sister and I went to Thailand, and while I held court in the streets of Bangkok, my father raided the opium parlors of Saigon, excavated VC camps and watched as convoys of trucks got blown up by the enemy. Dad fought his own battles in Vietnam, with alcohol, with malaria, with corruption so vast that his attempts to clean it up only scratched the surface.  My father’s exploits eventually wrecked our family.  But I understand all too well the anticipation of the next adventure.

I am a living legacy to my father's imperfections and to his great gifts.  He was a prodigy who knew the darker side of genius.  He knew the private horror that came with facing demons of his own making, while fighting against those that were bequeathed by another generation.  I struggle with my own moments of insanity, but now understand now that they are the "flip side" of an artistic mind.  Intelligence and creativity are but places along a mental continuum.  They are often accompanied by the darker side of the mind - depression, self-doubt, racing thoughts, and the high flight of mania. 

In the days before designer drugs, I too might have been an alcoholic or an addict or some other lost soul.   But thanks to good timing and the compassion of family and friends, I have carved a life out which did not include either of those outcomes.   It has not been perfect, but it is sufficient.