How I Learned to Hate (part 1)

It was on a pleasantly warm fall day in 1967 that I learned to hate. I wore my Sunday best even though it was a weekday and I stood on a gently rolling hill with my family and several hundred friends. The grass was still deep green, but the leaves on the trees had already begun to change to dark oranges, brilliant yellows, reds, maroons and yet unnamed shades of green. There were reminders placed throughout the hillside of others who had stood there before us to  perform the same kind of ritual for which we had gathered in that dedicated space behind the St. Vincent Church. The park was well groomed and we heard small tractor mowers off in the distance. My dad told me once that each time one of us six children was born, his heart grew another size to accommodate enough love for all of them. If love causes a heart to grow, I concluded that hatred must make it shrink. My heart was reduced in size that fall day for I began to hate a whole nation.

     Communism was on the move in the '60s. Specifically, the Commies or Reds, as we referred to them, had moved into North Vietnam. After that they were expected to move south, then into Laos, Cambodia, Thailand and onward until they took over the world. It was the peak of the Vietnam war.

     Donald S., affectionately called Fish, at whose funeral we had gathered, was killed in that war. Fish was a high school classmate, but more importantly a close friend of my older brother and sisters. Fish, we were told, was bravely on patrol in a small two-syllable-named city in Vietnam, when he stepped on a mine and was, um, blown to pieces. Marine medical personnel pieced him back together again, dressed him sharply in his Marine blues, decorated him with ribbons and medals, painted him with make up (his face was talcum powder white and his lips were old blood red as he lay in the coffin), placed him in a pine box, draped it with an American flag and sent him home to us to be remembered, mourned and buried on this hillside. The many and bright colored flowers – petunias, gardenias, roses, lilies, and carnations - placed next to other tombstones, under granite angels and beside simple crosses did nothing to brighten up the sad, distraught, broken and angry mood of all who were there.

     Eyes overflowed with tears. Old, middle-aged and young hands trembled. Bodies shook uncontrollably and hugs of comfort were generously offered. After the preacher spoke, a Marine guard folded the US colors and presented them to Fish’s mother. Each time the flag was folded in half I felt my heart decrease in size, perhaps by halves as well. Despite the comforting breeze, blue sky and warm sunshine that did their best to brighten our spirits that day, we stood motionless, as if frozen, when Taps was played. Most of us forgot to breathe. For many, the bugle’s sound was in a key that unlocked the flood gate of more tears.

     I began to hate the Russians, Russia, the Soviet Union that day. To be sure, I didn’t even know the difference between the three. It didn’t matter. Hate does not discriminate. All that was evil and harmful and mean and worthy of spite was Red, was communism, was Russian. Better dead than Red! Kill the commie bastards because they had killed Fish! I remember hoping the war would last long enough that I would get a chance to do my part to fight back.