One Man's Silence

I was only a few months in the womb when my Uncle Bob was killed by a drunk driver, so I have never been in physical contact with him. His death came as a shock to my family: Here was a man who'd survived through the Vietnam War, only to be struck dead in the middle of a divided highway on a cold December night.

Every so often, his memory is reawakened within me. Recently, someone asked for my middle name, and decided that I should be called "Bob." Although I think the name is a bit unfitting to my character, I do ingest a slight dose of pride with the misnomer.

Christopher Tkaczyk

The memory of his person was rekindled when I recently viewed the film "The Thin Red Line;" I recalled stories I've heard about war and the methods of men in such a time. The film explores the humanity of war and man's ability to differentiate between justified homicide and murder. The only border between the two actions is the thin red line, a boundary not every man can cross. Director Terrence Malick focuses on each soldier's motivation for justifying the crossing of the line. Love, fear of death, prevention of reoccurence, ambition and recognition are among the many instigators that propel each man's choosing.

As I've never faced the perils of death and the responsibility of war, I cannot justly commit myself to any cemented truth of my abilities.

My uncle was not an honest man. Many times throughout his teen-age years he came into trouble with the law; the local police department knew my grandparents' house quite well, as they brought him home on numerous occassions.

At about age nine, I was helping my grandmother clean out a cedar trunk in her basement. As she carefully removed the ancient linens her mother had brought to the country from England, I spotted an American flag, triangularly folded in proper military fashion. "That's Uncle Bob's," she told me, explaining of how his coffin looked, covered with the banner.

When I was young I learned the importance of survivial on an immature level. Reputation is just as important to a boy as are his "Star Wars" toys. When your reputation is tarnished, it may leave negative images of you in the minds of others. It's said that after one dies, the best thing a family can do is hold onto the memories of that person. We all hope that the endearing qualities of ourselves are the ones that will be remembered, but with the memory of my uncle, I've found this to be a falsity.

When he was enlisted in the Marines, Uncle Bob continued his insubordination. At one point, my grandparents received an official letter from the government, explaining that their son had gone A.W.O.L. They feared he had fled the country, probably to Canada, following suit of other anti-war protesters. Later, they were informed that his paperwork has been sent to the wrong division, and that it was not an error on his part.

He was later reprimanded after he responded to a malevolent drill sargeant's orders with a defiant "Fuck you!" I admire his impertinence. The drill sargeant later asked my uncle into his office, where he offered my uncle a smoke. Stupidly, he accepted and lit the cigarette, smiling, I imagine, carefree and easy. The drill sargeant allowed to him to sit, enjoying the nicotine for a moment, before he asked for the cigarette back. My uncle obliged, and handed it over to him. Rather stoic, I recall hearing, was the drill sargeant, as he forcefully smashed the cigarette butt into the tanned globe of my uncle's cleanly-shaven head. I picture him refusing to wince in pain as the burn of the ash seared a spot into his head. If ever a man had a set of stones, his are the ones I want to match with my own valor and fearlessness.

The U.S. Marine Corps does not give awards to soldiers because of their insolence or their inability to follow directions. The only thing my uncle was ever awarded was an untimely death. To survive through the disaster of war is a reward in itself. I admire any man or woman who can find it within themselves to do what they have to in order to make their way home. It is only the greatest irony that a person can be murdered out of the context of war after having survived.

Uncle Bob is my silent hero.

To me, he is a silent man. He no longer has the power to deliver speech, yet his silence is not inaudible. I hear of him and from him through the stories that my grandmother passes down. I have never heard his voice, yet I know his words, which are larger than can be taught through any lectured means, save that of experience itself.

I do not know if he killed anyone during the Vietnam War. If he did, I do not know why he crossed that thin red line and I do not know his precise motivation in doing so. I am also unaware if the name we share will parallel each other's principles and impulses. That is a question I shall ask forever.

- Chris can be reached over e-mail at tkaczykc@umich.edu

Daily Arts Editor

01-28-99