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27 T he keyboard player hammered away at a jaun- ty tune played in that cheesy synthesizer tone heard throughout Asia. His hands landed with uncanny accuracy, in spite of the fact that he was totally blind. I had seen other amazing mu- sicians without sight before, but this man had obviously never even had eyeballs. The skin was stretched taut over his sockets, smooth and unblemished, making it clear they had been sealed since birth. Keeping rhythm to his left was a smaller fellow in a folding chair with some type of vertical stringed instrument, like a stand-up bass meets a gutbucket. He played with his feet, only having a couple of swollen, thumb-like digits for toes on each. He was armless, reclined in his chair, swaying his head back and forth to the beat. Orb-like eyes bulged outward and a swollen tongue protruded from between his teeth. Hung near- by was a sign that read “Victims of Agent Orange.” After a few moments I finally broke away and trudged up the mar- ble steps from the lobby of the War Remnants Museum in Ho Chi Minh City, the eerily joyful tune dimming behind me. With the haunting music as an accompaniment, the museum was filled with propaganda-laden semantics, everything polarized as “proud patriots” versus “criminal im- perialists.” Four years later, as I visited the museum a second time, I found my- self reminiscing about those mutant musicians. While staying with an old college buddy who was living a block from the building, I strolled past its gates and looked again at the captured tanks and planes sitting outside, rust creeping in and paint fading. Raindrops pinged off of my poncho as I continued my slog through the city’s lush, ver- dant streets, passing the former presidential palace immor- talized via photos of Viet Cong tanks crashing through its front gates on April 30, 1975. Helicopters sat on the roof from where they once frantically airlifted Americans out as the city fell to communist forces. Soon I was sitting in the main backpacker district, sipping on a 25-cent mug of beer with a giant chunk of ice floating in it and watching the beads of condensation trickle down the sides. The endless mugginess doesn’t just cause the vegetation to go wild; it saps the chill out of booze almost instantaneously, necessitating some unorthodox drinking practices. I watched the scooter herds zip along, groups of dozens going in different directions, somehow merging and passing through an intersection without ever stopping as rainbows of ponchos streaked behind them. Reflecting on my previous trip, I thought of the Cu Chi tunnels, located a few hours outside of Ho Chi Minh City. Guides show the network of tunnels used by the Viet Cong during the war while cheerfully demonstrating to curious tourists all the booby traps used to kill and maim Ameri- can soldiers. Ever present in the jungle background is the rat-a-tat-tat of automatic weapons fire, sounding off from the on-premises shooting range. Although that experience — along with several others — was fascinating, it left an uneasy feeling in my gut, a sense of unfinished business that several years hadn’t been able to dissipate. Those from the States who are about my age grew up in the long shadow of the war. Leg- less vets at traffic stops were a com- mon sight throughout the nation, and films such as “Platoon” (1986) and “Full Metal Jacket” (1987) explored the dark psychosis that lingered, as much as some tried to ignore it. My own father had served two combat tours, and was denied a third against his wishes. The small-town boy from North Carolina returned home a radi- cally changed person. Soon estranged from a wife and three children, he de- veloped a penchant for hard drink and aggressive tendencies. Later marrying his second wife, my mother, his un- spoken past and other family would be another symptom of the war, one that wouldn’t become clear to me until much later in life. I can count on one hand the number of times he’s spoken in any detail about his deployments. Like many who saw extended combat, he became hardened. While still glorified by some, it’s really one of the saddest things that can be said about a man. A few days went by as my friend and I caught up on life and what was happening in the world. The headlines were dominated by ISIS, the Islamist militant group of insurgent fighters who were expanding into Syria at the time. On my prior visit to Indochina I had learned about other extreme ideologues born of a power vacuum created by America’s martial follies: the Khmer Rouge, whose traces are left in mountains of skulls and mass graves. My visit four years ago had been limited to Cambodia and southern Vietnam, and I was back to see the rest of it — the areas where my father fought and the far northern stronghold of Hanoi. It was time to experience both my national and personal graveyard of empires. I can count on one hand the number of times he’s spoken in any detail about his deployments. Like many who saw extended combat, he became hardened. While still glorified by some, it’s really one of the saddest things that can be said about a man.