A university writing teacher
when the VietNam War raged.
I taught my students about napalm,
displayed the poster of the naked
young girl screaming down the road
her hands flung up in pain,
the “guava” bombs made by Honeywell Corp.
sent metal into bodies until
they changed to plastic shards
x-rays could not detect,
taught about the lie that the North Viets
had bombed our ship at Tonkin
to convince the public of war
against a tiny black-clad nation.
The youthful student eyes
stared up at me, supped
on these facts like little birds
so I spoke all over the campus
dropped the seeds of protest
in all those open mouths,
except this Chicago kid, Vito,
whose Marine dad was killed
in that nasty war, decided
to take his fists and bulk
and his tough, drunken friends
to find Un-American hippie freaks
and beat them to a pulp.
One evening they found me alone,
surrounded me, one smashed
face away from preventing me
mouthing my words of protest,
when one of my students,
Doug, a giant football player,
who hung the VietNam girl poster,
which pissed him off, on his dorm wall.
He strode up to the Marine’s kid
and said he would wipe the sidewalk
with him if he ever touched me.
I am glad I taught the Truth.
Originally published in The Font