She held me in her arms as I wept. “Welcome home,” she said. “Welcome Home.”
I had no idea who this woman was. I had never seen her before, nor would I recognize her if I ever saw her again.
I had heard of this phenomenal phrase, but in 28 years I had never been privy to it. It was such an emotional release. My heart began to let go of the pain of so many years of not being seen, of being ignored when I mentioned the word Vietnam. Since my return to the U.S. in 1969, I had stood stoically as people turned away or looked at me scathingly if I mentioned I had been there. I stopped talking about my experiences. I shut down and kept quiet for more than 25 years.
I had come to Washington, D.C., in 1997 at the invitation of Connie Stevens, the producer of the film “A Healing,” a documentary telling the stories of women I had been with two years prior when we revisited Vietnam on a personal healing mission. Several of us, who had never met prior to our trip in ’95, had arrived from all points of the United States to view the premiere of the film. We had seen the movie, wept over our stories, been feted, and now were at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall.