Adelaide’s eyes widen. “Did you bring them with you?”
I chuckle. “I don’t travel with Ron’s letters.”
Her shoulders slump. “I wanna read them.”
“Next time you’re at my house, they’re all yours.” I stretch an arm across her shoulders, give her a gentle squeeze.
She sits up straight as an arrow, indignance lacing her tone. “Why did America get involved in Vietnam in the first place?”
It’s hard to imagine how little my eighteen-year-old granddaughter knows about the very thing that defined my life when I was her age. Even harder to comprehend that I’m seventy and can still remember it all. “It’s complicated,” I say. “The men in Washington thought ifSouth Vietnam fell to communism, the other countries in Southeast Asia would follow. They called it the domino theory.”
She knits her eyebrows together. “Why was that America’s problem?”
“That’s what everyone wanted to know by the end of the war. Don’t they teach about Vietnam in school?”
“A little. Mostly noncontroversial stuff like Ho Chi Minh and the French occupation. Not much about the actual war. Maybe I’ll learn more while I’m at NYU.”
“You’re better off watching the Ken Burns documentary. It tells you everything you want to know and even more you don’t.” My heart speeds up at just the thought of it. “Watching it made me so angry. Johnson knew exactly what he was getting us into. He lied to the American public. And the worst of it was the way the public treated our vets when they got home. Liketheywere the problem.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Atrocious.”
“What was Uncle Ron’s draft number?”
“He didn’t have one, lovey. He enlisted before conscription started.”
A look of horror crosses her face. “Do you think they’ll bring that back?”
“I certainly hope not.” I place two fingers under her chin. “Don’t misunderstand me. The men and women in our military areheroes, every one of them. But not all people are meant to be soldiers. Your great-uncle Ron was one of those people. He was born with a peace symbol sewn into his beautiful heart.”
A beat passes before Adelaide speaks again. “Some girls might be, but I’m definitely not born to be a soldier.”
“You don’t think so?”
“No ma’am.”
“What do you think you were born to be?” I ask with a gleam in my eye.
“An actor. Broadway first. Then Hollywood.” She says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
My smile fades. A picture of her on a casting couch with some asshole hovering over her, fumbling with his zipper, flashes across my brain.In living color.The good Lord knew what he was doing by not giving me a daughter. I’d have never survived her teenage years. I’m barely surviving Adelaide’s. “You should be whatever you want,” I force myself to say.
“I think I’ve got what it takes.”
“That you do!” I’ve flown to Arizona to sit in the front row at every one of her high school musicals, whether she’s been the lead or had a supporting role. “Can I tell you something honest?” I ask. The last thing I need to do is preach. But I can’t help myself. I don’t want her to get hurt.
“You can tell me anything, Grammy. As long as it’s not something bad about my tattoo.” She chuckles, then touches her sleeve, under which that tattoo is hiding.
My tattoo. Oh, for goodness’ sake. And to think I consider myself somewhat liberal.I turn to face her. “The competition gets much tougher once you start college. Even worse outside of college. I hate to say it, but you’ll hear plenty of nos.”
“That won’t stop me.”
She says it so fast I chuckle to myself. My girl cries at the drop of a hat. I can’t imagine what it will do to her when she’s told no over and over again. Very few overnight success stories out there.
I know exactly what that’s like, the power of no. It cuts deeply into our psyche and strips us of our self-worth. It destroys our confidence and has the power to make us question whether our talent is even real. I’ve been told no more times than I can count.
It’s a great irony. We creative people tend to be highly sensitive. Yet we are drawn to the jobs that dish out the most criticism. Nowadays anyone can sit behind a computer screen wearing a judgment hat and place a snarky review on a record, a book, or a movie, just because they didn’t connect with the art. Just because someone believes their taste to be superior.
It kills me to think of anyone judging Adelaide.
“We should sing a duet together,” she says. “How fun would that be?”
