The weight of words

I believe we are made of words. Words are powerful. They give truth to our experiences. They allow us to share what we feel, know, and believe. They create history. The dead can be revived and the past seen more clearly.

I ended this school year reading The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien with my juniors. I had never read the book before, but it supported my team teacher in history so I picked up a copy. The novel is about O’Brien’s experience in the Vietnam War. As I read this book, I began to hear words more clearly. I began to hear the words of my father.

My father, who passed away 11 years ago from lung cancer, caused in part by Agent Orange, served in Vietnam. He was drafted, served, and came home changed. When I began to research this book, I realized, sadly, I didn’t know about his experience in the war. I also didn’t know the causes of the war, how the war ended, or even about the history of the draft. I immediately set my kids to work researching all aspects of the war.

Over the course of the next two weeks, my room was full of words. Words of wonder, concern, interest, and understanding. Empathy filled our voices. Knowledge empowered our reading. Interest drove kids to talk to me after class and watch war documentaries on YouTube and Netflix. Vietnam War footage gave life to the text and gave us pause.

We struggled to understand the structure, the meaning of the stories, and how O’Brien’s own experience fit into the narrative. We closely examined his words. We looked at words of pain, words of nature, and words of experience. Many of my students loved and hated the book. The words were confusing and sometimes, too true. I struggled through this as well. I struggled with what this story brought to the surface.

Each chapter, each page, and each item the soldiers carried, filled me with sadness. My kids were upset about the deaths, the despair, and the senseless killing of an orphaned baby water buffalo. I was upset by how little I really knew about my dad’s service and the things he carried. I know he carried alcoholism, a spell of homelessness, and a fear of crowded and small spaces.

I found myself wondering if my dad saw friends blown up. Were his evenings spent thinking of home, of my mom? Did he also joke about death because it made it easier to keep moving forward? Did he carry death, as O’Brien? If so, where? How does one carry such weight?

O’Brien’s story called to me. His words asked me think about my own story, the things I carry. This, in turn, led back to my dad. His death. His life and my deep love for him. Some days I could barely read the book or watch the video clips. I kept seeing his tan face staring up from a jungle in the photographs I pored over as a child.

I asked my juniors, as part of their final exam, to write a personal narrative about the things they carry. I asked them to think about physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual/religious things. The things could be good and bad, literal and metaphorical. As we discussed the assignment, students began to process the weight of what each of us carries, every day. They wondered at how sometimes we can carry it at all. It’s a valid wonder. How do we carry our weight each day?

I told my students about the things I carry because my dad died; the things I carry because he lived. I couldn’t find the exact words to share my grief, but I did find the words to connect our book to my dad, and they became one and the same.

Brandy J. Bishop teaches English and Leadership at Colony High School. This column is the opinion of the author and does not necessarily reflect the views of the Mat-Su Valley Frontiersman or its parent company, Wick Communications.