I drove past the flags several times that day. I assumed they had been put out in front of Restheaven Memorial Park in Louisville KY for the remembrance of September 11, a day we now celebrate as “Patriots Day”. My curiosity got the best of me when I saw a tractor trailer parked in a nearby lot covered in patriotic graphics with the words Dignity Memorial Vietnam Wall emblazoned on the side. I had decided that on our way back we would have to stop and see what it was all about. There, behind the gate, I could see it; tucked in the corner of the memorial park stood a giant black wall. It looked very similar to the Vietnam Memorial Wall in Washington DC.
Many questions went reeling through my mind: Was it the actual wall from DC? How did it get here in Louisville? Why is it here in Louisville? Why hadn’t I heard anything about it? I felt honored to have come across it, yet I felt sad that there were probably many people, like me, running around town on that beautiful sunny day, unaware that such an iconic structure was here in our very own city.
I grew up in the state of New York and I had been to Washington DC on a field trip with my eighth grade class. As I recall, it was pretty awe-inspiring then, I could only imagine the feelings it would evoke now, as an adult. To my knowledge, I did not know of anyone who died in Vietnam but I remember seeing visitors stopping near the wall, locating the name of their loved one and placing paper over their name to transfer the letters in pencil scribbles. Some people left mementos, some people wept, but most of us from the eighth grade class stood transfixed at the sheer size of the monument. It seemed to go on for a mile. It really put the amount of people who lost their lives into perspective for us. Now I would get the chance to experience it as an adult with a young child of my own.
We got out of our car and slowly approached the area where the wall stood. There were several tents lining the pathway. We stopped in a nearby tent to see if we could gather more information. There were people buying t-shirts. My son, who is 7, wanted a t-shirt. He still didn’t quite understand why we were there but he wanted a t-shirt nonetheless. He had to have a shirt. My husband told him that they did not have children sizes but my son persisted regardless. He assured us that he would wear the oversized shirt as a “sleepy shirt” and insisted on getting one. After a final “no” from us, he pouted. A few minutes later, the lady selling the t-shirts came over with a shirt in her hand. She asked my son directly, “What’s your name?” My son tentatively responded to her abrupt interrogation, “Drew.” She said “Well Drew, here is your shirt. That man over there wanted to buy you a shirt.” She motioned to a man, wearing a Vietnam Veteran hat, standing by himself over toward the side of the tent with his head down. She explained to my husband and me “He bought himself a shirt and said ‘If you don’t think it will offend his parents I’d like to buy that boy’s shirt too.’” Tears welled up in my eyes. I told my son, “Please go thank that man over there. He just bought you the shirt you wanted.” Hesitantly, he walked over to the man and said “Thank you.” The man turned to my son and said “Son, what’s your name?” My son responded “Drew.” “Drew, I hope you have a good life.” He said it in a way that you would wish someone a blessing as in a wedding or before a very long journey, with intention and care. Then he patted my son’s shoulder and walked away.
There was silence. Then, almost in unison, the tears began to fall from my face. There were several ladies in the tent, including the sales woman, and we were all looking at each other sobbing like proud Mamas. As a parent, I find there is no greater appreciation and joy than when someone else does something nice for your child. In this moment, we all felt we had witnessed something very profound, a blessing of sorts. My son on the other hand was looking at everyone trying to figure out why we were crying. The lady that handed him the shirt said to him “That’s one special shirt you have there, Drew. Keep it forever” I was beside myself. I felt foolish for not buying the shirt myself, though felt honored for having this Veteran acknowledge my son in the way that he did. It now held significance greater than any souvenir money could buy. Then I realized, I didn’t even get his name. I felt this sudden urgency to chase him down and ask him to take a picture with my son. So I did what any good mother would do, I sent my husband after him instead. I said, “Please go find him and ask him if he would take a picture with Drew.” My husband, being the tender man that he is, quietly walked over to the man, shook his hand, while laying the other hand on the man’s shoulder and (presumably) asked the man if he’d mind taking a picture with our son. He gladly obliged. When he came back towards us I shook his hand and finally got to ask him his name. He said he would be glad to take a picture with Drew.
He said “Yeah sure… where ever” as if he does this sort of thing every day. He had such a proud smile. My son on the other hand, was still confused.He said to me afterwards “If you get a moment, please look-up ‘Richard Holien’. He is on panel eight, row one hundred and twelve.” then showed me the card where the information booth had written down the information. He continued, “He is my brother, we served together.” It took me a moment to absorb the fact that this man had lost a brother in the war. It took me a moment to absorb the fact that he had survived the war and his brother did not. It took me a moment to hold back the tears as the magnitude of those facts rushed toward me consecutively. Again, I was speechless. All I could do was shake his hand again and thank him. It was in that moment where I realized what a shallow sentiment “Thank You” can be. What I meant to say was “Thank you for your sacrifice. Thank you for risking your life. Thank you for finding the strength to carry on when your brother did not make it home. Thank you for introducing me to your brother and giving this visit a deeper meaning for my family. Thank you for a greater appreciation for this monument. Thank you for this humbling experience.” No, “Thank you” did not cover all of that nor did I have the wits about me to express them in such a way. In hindsight, “thank you” was such a joke.
As I was reflecting on how incompetent I was as a communicator, I noticed him walk towards the wall for the first time since first spotting him in the t-shirt tent. He stopped in a few places scanning up and down the names, then squatted down and rested his hand on the wall for a long while in front of the wall.
I assumed he had found his brother’s name and wondered if I should go to him but decided to give him his space to grieve or say his peace in his own way. When I turned back towards him, a few moments later, he was gone. I took my son’s hand and walked over to the now empty space in front of the wall and noticed the number “8” in the lower right side of the panel. Together we found Richard P. Holien on Panel 8 near the bottom. Then together we said a prayer for both of the brothers.My son and I caught up with my husband who was speaking to one of the event staff members. He mentioned that later that evening there would be a candle lighting ceremony. The Vietnam Veteran motorcycle club would ride in and he said “…many just hang back and don’t go to the wall.” This statement alone is a sobering reminder of how raw the memories and emotions continue to be for some Veterans, a rawness that I cannot even begin to conceive. The staff member also mentioned that the money they receive from the selling t-shirts and other items goes directly to the veterans. There are many homeless Vietnam Veterans here in Louisville and some of them came out to help set up the wall. There are events planned for each day the wall is displayed. Yet, I was not aware of any of them. I could find only one website that contained details of the events that I all but missed. To the defense of our news media, I do not normally listen to the radio or watch the local news, but, I know someone that does and she didn’t know about The Wall either.
The Wall speaks volumes to the number of lives lost or missing during the Vietnam War. There are over 58,000 names inscribed. The replica wall is three-quarter scale
of the actual wall in Washington DC. The replica is 240 ft long and 8 feet high and is still as heartbreaking and humbling as the original. Many visitors left mementos; playing cards, photos, cigarettes, cards, flowers, and even beer cans. I overheard one woman ask her husband, “I wonder what they do with all of this stuff that people leave here?” Her husband responded, “I hate to tell you this but they probably throw it all in the trash. What else are they going to do with it?” I couldn’t help but pray for that not to be true.Beneath one of the tents near the wall was an open vault. As we approached the tent we saw a sign that read:
“All memorabilia, notes, and messages, left at the Dignity Memorial Vietnam Wall will be forever secured in this Wilbert SS Triune Vault (To be inferred and dedicated at a later date.) You are invited to place notes, letters, or messages in this vault.”
It was a very nice candle light ceremony; complete with a flyover… of mallard ducks and a C130 (probably on its way to the airport but we adopted it as ours for the special ceremony).
What started out as a drive-by “let’s stop and check it out” event, turned into an emotional day that my family will remember forever. The Holien Brothers opened a door and gave us a glimpse of their story and I am forever grateful. I wish I knew more about them. I wish I had. At the same time, I want to withhold the living brother’s name in this publication to respect his privacy. How do you reach out without being invasive? So, I think back to the only request Mr. Holien ever made of me. If you get the chance to see The Wall, please go to Panel 8, row 112 and acknowledge Sgt. Richard P Holien of the US Army.
- Traveling Monument Schedule:
Links
Dignity Memorial Site
Louisville Event Site
Run for the Wall
Patriot Guard Riders
