I felt the train start to slow before my exit and put a plan in place. I moved to the end of the pole closest to the door and backed into it, feeling the coolness of it between my ass cheeks. The train stopped and the doors sprung open, but I continued to dance with my back to the men. Finally the buzzer sounded, signaling that the doors would be shutting in a few seconds. Without warning I sprung through the doors, turning to see them close behind me with the men banging on them, too slow to get there in time. I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that I was surely going to be giving a happy ending to that dance if I had not made my timely escape. I turned and headed up the stairs, out of the tunnel and walked the three blocks to the store yet again.There weren't many people out walking in the area I was, thankfully, though I still saw the cars slow as they drove past me, a few yelling some comments out their window about what they'd like to do to me. It was still difficult to grasp. Aside from that, they don’t spare a second (or first) thought when walking or riding their motorbikes by a decommissioned M-46 towed field gun, or a captured US warplane or chinook helicopter with its belly, its ballast cemented into the pavement out in front of a government building or museum... I’d grown up in the 1980s, in the long shadow of the war, when Vietnam, the war there, remained etched into America’s recent memory.It was a stigma, a trauma.A festering, open wound.As a nation, we had collective PTSD.There were those I knew, personally, who’d returned from the front lines, and I’d heard their stories... Like an uncle of mine who’d served, taken a bullet in the ankle, was honorably discharged.Every single night since the war, for years afterwards, he’d been plagued by night terrors. Vivid dreams.Him back in the green, trudging through the caws, echoes and marshes of boobytrapped jungle, his friend, Derrick, in tripwire; the whoosh of a bamboo whip; the young marine writhing.
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