I had a friend who wanted to be engaged to me. Maria, Maria Stuckey, bless her soul. Her family lived up the street from us. We had a big house on the corner, and they lived at 4828 Olive Street. Those were good days. I have a picture of her sitting in our living room. That's just before I was about to leave. She was very concerned, and I appreciated that from her.
I couldn't make a commitment because I didn't know if I was going to live or die. My priority was I wanted to deal with my mom and dad. That was my priority.
In Pleiku, I had a friend who was very articulate, and I liked that. She was able to, ah, comfort me, to give me a feeling of comfort.
My friend Bee in Philly always teases me, "There's your son! There's your son!" I'd say, "Don't start any crap! Next thing, you'll have me getting sued, because somebody wants to say, 'He's the father!'" I don't want to hear about it. It may cost me money.
My dad said he was sorry he never served, and that's why I was proud to go in. My brother went into the Air Force, and I was drafted into the Army. It worked out, you know. The whole experience matured me.
When I came home, instead of me being an architect, I became a humanitarian. I started to work for non-profits to develop issues to save" humanity. I became the Executive Director of the Public Housing Agency in Chester County. I managed over 12 hundred units. That was an interesting experience. My board member, Paul Rie, used to tease me. Our office was not far from the YMCA. Paul said, "You know, they hung a black guy in front of that Y." I thought, Wow, but he and his wife were very good to me. I miss him.
There was an orphanage outside of Pleiku. I never experienced hunger, but when I went to the orphanage, a little kid ran up to me and grabbed my leg. It touched my heart, so, how should I say this" we stole these C-rations. They were just sitting there, getting wet in the rain, so we'd take four or five boxes, as many as we could. We'd put them in a jeep, said we were going to town to get a haircut, get something to eat or do the laundry, whatever, and we'd take them to the orphanage.
That was a good feeling. When I came home, I brought that attitude back. When I got here, I looked at people and understood. This is home, man, this shouldn't be happening here, so I set about trying to correct some of the things and whatnot, so it was all good.
We're all brothers, regardless of the color of our skin. You and I are brothers. Religions and politics cannot change that. We'll always be brothers because that's the dynamics of life.
Some bastards were such racists. They would come to town and rub their Caucasian skin and say "no same same" to the Vietnamese while pointing to the African American soldiers. They expected different treatment. They were very cocky and arrogant and felt superior even to the population that was there.
God is going to straighten all this out. It's going to be good. I don't know when because I can't tell you what his schedule is. He tells me what his schedule is. He's going to straighten it out here on earth because, like I said, we're all brothers.
If you were in a foxhole, ten, fifteen feet away from me and you ran out of ammo, you're not going to say, I'm not asking that N person for his rolls. I made some of my best friends in Vietnam.
There was an aristocratic clothing store at 17th and Chesnut. Jackson and Moyer. His grandson was in my unit. Best friends! The Biddle family, his grandson was there. We became good friends. Nigel Virgil Temple West was in my platoon. I met a lot of people, and came home with a lot of friends. My best friend, Frank Norquist, got me home early. He married a diplomat's daughter. During that time, if you were drafted, you went. Many of the rich kids didn't wiggle out. A lot of them volunteered. They went in. That changed my whole concept. Those guys were great.
I'm careful walking on soft ground now, because I remember the punji stick pits, where they'd defecate on the bamboo ends to infect the wounds of whoever stepped on them. I don't want to say primitive, you know, but they had weapons that were used centuries ago.
I wasn't a tunnel rat. I was too big to be a tunnel rat.
A lot of the women were spies, and they would be mutilated for being spies, and I mean mutilated.
I couldn't make a commitment because I didn't know if I was going to live or die. My priority was I wanted to deal with my mom and dad. That was my priority.
In Pleiku, I had a friend who was very articulate, and I liked that. She was able to, ah, comfort me, to give me a feeling of comfort.
My friend Bee in Philly always teases me, "There's your son! There's your son!" I'd say, "Don't start any crap! Next thing, you'll have me getting sued, because somebody wants to say, 'He's the father!'" I don't want to hear about it. It may cost me money.
When I came home, instead of me being an architect, I became a humanitarian. I started to work for non-profits to develop issues to save" humanity. I became the Executive Director of the Public Housing Agency in Chester County. I managed over 12 hundred units. That was an interesting experience. My board member, Paul Rie, used to tease me. Our office was not far from the YMCA. Paul said, "You know, they hung a black guy in front of that Y." I thought, Wow, but he and his wife were very good to me. I miss him.
There was an orphanage outside of Pleiku. I never experienced hunger, but when I went to the orphanage, a little kid ran up to me and grabbed my leg. It touched my heart, so, how should I say this" we stole these C-rations. They were just sitting there, getting wet in the rain, so we'd take four or five boxes, as many as we could. We'd put them in a jeep, said we were going to town to get a haircut, get something to eat or do the laundry, whatever, and we'd take them to the orphanage.
That was a good feeling. When I came home, I brought that attitude back. When I got here, I looked at people and understood. This is home, man, this shouldn't be happening here, so I set about trying to correct some of the things and whatnot, so it was all good.
We're all brothers, regardless of the color of our skin. You and I are brothers. Religions and politics cannot change that. We'll always be brothers because that's the dynamics of life.
Some bastards were such racists. They would come to town and rub their Caucasian skin and say "no same same" to the Vietnamese while pointing to the African American soldiers. They expected different treatment. They were very cocky and arrogant and felt superior even to the population that was there.
God is going to straighten all this out. It's going to be good. I don't know when because I can't tell you what his schedule is. He tells me what his schedule is. He's going to straighten it out here on earth because, like I said, we're all brothers.
If you were in a foxhole, ten, fifteen feet away from me and you ran out of ammo, you're not going to say, I'm not asking that N person for his rolls. I made some of my best friends in Vietnam.
There was an aristocratic clothing store at 17th and Chesnut. Jackson and Moyer. His grandson was in my unit. Best friends! The Biddle family, his grandson was there. We became good friends. Nigel Virgil Temple West was in my platoon. I met a lot of people, and came home with a lot of friends. My best friend, Frank Norquist, got me home early. He married a diplomat's daughter. During that time, if you were drafted, you went. Many of the rich kids didn't wiggle out. A lot of them volunteered. They went in. That changed my whole concept. Those guys were great.
I'm careful walking on soft ground now, because I remember the punji stick pits, where they'd defecate on the bamboo ends to infect the wounds of whoever stepped on them. I don't want to say primitive, you know, but they had weapons that were used centuries ago.
I wasn't a tunnel rat. I was too big to be a tunnel rat.
A lot of the women were spies, and they would be mutilated for being spies, and I mean mutilated.
(Note: You can view every article as one long page if you sign up as an Advocate Member, or higher).
