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I am now old enough to be teaching the children of my first students. Among that early group were many who had arrived in the United States as “boat people,” survivors of harrowing escapes from postwar Vietnam.
Their families had risked everything—braving treacherous seas, pirate attacks and the heartbreak of leaving their homeland—to start anew along the Texas Gulf Coast.
One of my teaching assistants was a Vietnam veteran who later authored two influential books on the war. He taught his discussion sections in Vietnamese, creating a powerful connection between his experience and those of the students who had lived through the war’s aftermath.
This is the time of year when I lecture on the Vietnam War in my 400-person survey course. After class, Vietnamese American students often stay behind, eager to share their families’ stories. These moments are profoundly humbling, reminding me that the war cannot be reduced to a simple antiwar narrative or a sterile analysis of geopolitics.
For me, the Vietnam War must be taught through a lens of layered and inescapable horror: the high school classmate I lost to the fighting, the veterans I’ve known who returned haunted by PTSD, and my first students, whose families endured unimaginable suffering to escape.
Their stories remain with me—not as abstractions but as vivid, painful reminders of war’s human cost. The Vietnam War did not end when the last American helicopter lifted off from Saigon; it persisted in the memories of those left behind, the refugees who rebuilt their lives with courage and the veterans whose wounds, both visible and invisible, could not be healed.
Teaching the Vietnam War demands honesty. It is not just a lesson in strategic failures or ideological debates; it is about lives irreparably altered, the resilience required to survive and truths too complex to fit into neat narratives. The war’s legacy is one of loss and survival, heartbreak and hope. It is as much about the young soldiers whose lives were cut short as it is about the refugees who redefined what it means to persevere. At its core, the Vietnam War is a story of the profound and enduring human consequences of history.
We begin the class session with a series of film clips from Platoon, The Deer Hunter, Apocalypse Now and Rambo. In longer classes, I include clips from Born on the Fourth of July, Casualties of War, The Green Berets and Heaven & Earth. These films offer an exceptionally powerful way to engage students with the Vietnam War’s complex history, politics and enduring legacy.
Though fictionalized, these films have profoundly shaped public memory and understanding of the Vietnam War. They provide insight into the lived experiences and emotions of American soldiers, the cultural and psychological aftermath of the conflict, and the ways Americans have grappled with this divisive chapter in their history.
The films focusing on the “grunts” who fought the war—such as Platoon and The Deer Hunter—offer compelling narratives of personal and collective trauma. They depict loss, moral ambiguity, alienation and the psychological toll of the war, including PTSD, survivor’s guilt and the challenges of reintegration into civilian life. These portrayals humanize the soldiers, presenting them as individuals caught in a morally fraught and chaotic conflict, rather than as simplistic heroes or villains.
By emphasizing the disorienting and dehumanizing nature of the war, these films probe deep questions of morality, duty and the blurred lines between right and wrong in wartime. At the same time, films like Rambo and The Green Berets reflect a different narrative, one that seeks to reclaim honor or justify the war, portraying it through a more jingoistic or heroic lens. These contrasting depictions illustrate how American culture has struggled to reconcile the war’s legacy and its impact on national identity.
While these films capture the emotional truths of the war and its aftermath, they are not without significant limitations. With the exception of Heaven & Earth, these works focus almost exclusively on the American experience, largely ignoring the perspectives of the Vietnamese people—both civilians and soldiers. This omission is telling and reflects broader cultural tendencies in the United States to view the war through a self-referential lens, framing it primarily as an American tragedy.
The absence of Vietnamese voices has profound implications. By sidelining the perspectives of those who endured the war’s devastation most acutely, these films contribute to the erasure of the Vietnamese experience. They reinforce a narrative in which the war is reduced to a binary conflict between the United States and communism, neglecting the complexity of Vietnamese society, including its internal divisions, cultural resilience and long history of resistance to foreign domination.
Moreover, this omission obscures the full moral implications of the war, particularly the immense suffering inflicted on Vietnamese civilians and the enduring legacies of destruction in Vietnam. By focusing solely on the American experience, these films fail to fully grapple with the war’s human cost and its far-reaching consequences.
In teaching about the Vietnam War, it is essential to critically examine not only the stories these films tell but also the silences and absences within them. While these movies provide valuable insights into the American psyche and the war’s toll on U.S. soldiers, they must be complemented by narratives that center the Vietnamese experience. Films like The Sorrow of War, Vietnamese memoirs and other cultural artifacts are vital in providing a fuller, more nuanced understanding of the conflict.
Only by incorporating Vietnamese voices can students grasp the war as a deeply complex human tragedy—one that transcends national boundaries. This broader perspective fosters a richer, more empathetic understanding of the Vietnam War’s history and its lasting consequences, illuminating not just the pain of war but the resilience of those who lived through it.
The Vietnam War, the antiwar movement and the Kent State shootings were each indelibly shaped in the public imagination by a series of iconic photographs that captured the anguish, violence and political divisions of the era. These images remain seared into cultural memory, serving as powerful symbols of their time. My students and I spent time discussing the war’s most iconic photographs and their broader significance.
Malcolm Browne’s The Burning Monk (1963) depicts the self-immolation of Thích Quảng Đức, a Buddhist monk, in Saigon. Protesting the persecution of Buddhists under Ngo Dinh Diem’s South Vietnamese regime, the monk’s composed demeanor amid the flames shocked the world and became an enduring symbol of spiritual resistance and the moral costs of political oppression.
The uncredited Burning Draft Card (1965) photograph captures acts of defiance against conscription, underscoring the deep moral and political opposition to the draft. These public burnings symbolized the generational rebellion against authority and became rallying cries for the antiwar movement.
Bernie Boston’s Flower Power (1967) from a Pentagon protest shows a young demonstrator placing a flower into the barrel of a soldier’s rifle. This poignant image juxtaposes the innocence of the gesture with the violence implicit in the rifle, embodying the idealism of the counterculture and the spirit of the nonviolent antiwar movement.
Eddie Adams’s The Execution of Nguyễn Văn Lém (1968) freezes the moment South Vietnamese general Nguyễn Ngọc Loan executes a Viet Cong prisoner during the Tet Offensive. The photograph’s stark brutality shocked global audiences, raising serious questions about the conduct of the war and the ethical dilemmas of U.S. alliances. While Adams later expressed regret over how the image vilified General Loan and oversimplified a complex moment, its impact on public opinion was profound and enduring.
John Filo’s Kent State Shooting (1970) captures Mary Ann Vecchio, a 14-year-old runaway, kneeling and screaming beside the body of Jeffrey Miller, one of four students shot dead by the National Guard during a protest against the Cambodian incursion. The image became a symbol of the tragic consequences of state violence against peaceful protesters, further deepening the generational divide and intensifying national outrage over the war.
Nick Ut’s Napalm Girl (1972) shows 9-year-old Phan Thi Kim Phuc running naked down a road, her body burned from a napalm attack. This haunting photograph brought the human cost of the war into sharp relief, exposing the devastating impact of military tactics on civilians. Kim Phuc’s visible agony became a moral reckoning for many Americans, forcing a re-evaluation of the war’s justification.
Hubert van Es’s The Fall of Saigon (1975) depicts desperate evacuees clambering aboard a helicopter in the final hours before the city fell to North Vietnamese forces. This image captured the chaotic and humiliating end of the Vietnam War for the United States, symbolizing the war’s immense human and political cost.
Together, these photographs brought the brutality, moral ambiguity and human suffering of the Vietnam War into the homes of millions through newspapers and television. They shaped public understanding of the conflict, fostering widespread disillusionment and fueling antiwar activism.
Beyond their immediate historical context, these images underscore the enduring power of visual media to influence public opinion, reshape political narratives and galvanize social movements. They remind us that history’s most profound truths are often conveyed not through words, but through the raw immediacy of visual testimony.
The Vietnam War cast a long shadow over my generation, serving as the defining trauma and moral crucible of our youth. It wasn’t just a distant conflict fought overseas; it infiltrated every aspect of American life, from draft boards to dinner tables, and spilled into the streets with protests that rocked the nation. For many young men, it demanded deeply personal and existential decisions about duty, conscience and the meaning of morality in the face of war.
I registered as 1-A-O, a conscientious objector classification that committed me to nonmilitary service. This choice wasn’t an evasion of responsibility—it meant that no one else would be drafted in my place. It was a reflection of my beliefs, shaped by the ethical dilemmas of a war that increasingly felt unjustifiable. Yet, in the end, fate intervened. My draft lottery number was 362, a near-certain guarantee I would not be called.
For my close friend, however, the story was tragically different. His lottery number was 4, placing him squarely in the system’s crosshairs. While I was spared by the random draw of a numbered Ping-Pong ball, he faced the harrowing reality of conscription. This disparity—two lives shaped by chance—underscored the arbitrary and often cruel nature of the draft.
The draft lottery, introduced in 1969 to make conscription more equitable, was anything but fair to those who lived through it. Watching the televised drawings was a surreal and terrifying experience. In mere minutes, the randomness of a number could dismantle plans, shatter dreams and strip away any sense of control over one’s future. For many young men, the lottery wasn’t just a bureaucratic mechanism—it was a haunting symbol of powerlessness.
These experiences were formative for my generation, shaping our views on authority, morality and what it means to live a meaningful life. The Vietnam War was not just a geopolitical conflict; it was deeply personal, fought in the hearts and minds of millions of young Americans.
My high lottery number spared me the most immediate and personal consequences of the war, but the weight of those choices—and the awareness of what my peers endured—remains with me. It is a lasting reminder of the arbitrary forces that shape our lives and the moral courage it takes to confront them. For my generation, the Vietnam War was more than a moment in history; it was an enduring moral reckoning that continues to resonate decades later.
The Vietnam War was the defining trauma for the baby boomer generation, profoundly shaping the emotional, cultural and political consciousness of those who came of age during its tumultuous era. For many, it left lasting scars of guilt and grief, compounded by survivor’s guilt among those who did not serve and the enduring weight of an unresolved tragedy.
Through draft deferments, high lottery numbers, flight to Canada or Sweden, or conscientious objection, some avoided the war’s physical and emotional toll. Meanwhile, others—often from less privileged backgrounds—bore its full weight. The randomness of the draft lottery heightened the sense of arbitrariness and injustice, leaving many to ask, why them and not me? This guilt lingers because it’s tethered to a broader societal tragedy that engulfed not only soldiers and their families but an entire generation.
The war also left a profound sense of tragedy that continues to resonate. Its brutality, moral ambiguity and ultimate futility serve as stark reminders of human frailty and the costs of misguided leadership. Vietnam was not just a military defeat but a moral failure, shattering trust in government and belief in the righteousness of American power. For those who lived through it, the Vietnam War is not a distant historical event—it is an open wound, a reminder of lives lost and futures shattered.
For those who experienced its turmoil firsthand, Vietnam demonstrates that history can never be purely academic. It is not merely a sequence of events to analyze but a deeply felt and personal reckoning with what happened and what it means. For baby boomers, the war is a visceral memory, continually resurfacing in films, books and personal reflections. Teaching or studying Vietnam cannot be a detached exercise—it remains bound to the raw emotions and lived experiences of a generation still grappling with its legacy.
C. D. B. Bryan’s Friendly Fire captures the tragedy of Vietnam in a way that resonates deeply with the generational trauma of the baby boomers. The book recounts the true story of Michael Mullen, a young soldier killed by American artillery, and his parents’ relentless quest to uncover the truth about his death.
It exposes not only the physical horrors of war but also the bureaucratic indifference, emotional devastation and moral ambiguities it leaves in its wake. Mullen’s mother, Peg, emerges as a searing emblem of the war’s human cost. Her journey through grief and righteous anger brings her into direct confrontation with the military establishment and the senselessness of her son’s death.
Bryan’s narrative goes beyond the battlefield to illuminate the ripple effects of war on families and communities. It lays bare the deep fractures Vietnam created within American society—disillusionment with authority, the pain of irreparable loss and profound moral questions about the war’s justification. Friendly Fire starkly portrays how the tragedy of war extends far beyond the soldiers who fight, reverberating into the lives of those left behind. It underscores how decisions made in distant corridors of power alter and often shatter the lives of ordinary people.
For the baby boom generation, the Vietnam War remains the defining tragedy of their youth—a painful chapter that shaped their values, their sense of justice and their expectations of government accountability. It stands as a cautionary tale about the hubris of power, the cost of conflict and the moral reckoning that follows. Vietnam was not just a geopolitical conflict but a profoundly personal one, revealing the fragility of trust in institutions and the devastating human toll of ideological and political miscalculations.
Bryan’s Friendly Fire encapsulates these truths, reminding us that behind every casualty statistic is a deeply personal story of grief, love and unanswerable questions. Most profoundly, the book lays bare a central irony of the Vietnam War: While the United States claimed to be aiding the Vietnamese people, it was often acting in its own self-interest. This stark revelation amplifies the tragedy, showing how the rhetoric of liberation was undercut by the realities of destruction and exploitation. Friendly Fire forces us to confront the moral ambiguities of war and to reckon with the enduring human cost of decisions driven by self-interest, hubris and misguided aims.
The United States did not engage in Vietnam to spread imperialism, secure raw materials or out of blind adherence to the domino theory. Policymakers, including President Lyndon Johnson, genuinely aspired to create a free and independent South Vietnam. Yet the chasm between that ideal and the harsh military and political realities on the ground proved insurmountable.
The Vietnam War was not just a tragedy; it was a profound national rupture. Many nations have lost wars, but Vietnam cost the United States more than military victory—it cost the nation its sense of purpose and unity. The war bitterly divided Americans, fractured the Democratic Party, fostered deep distrust in government, eroded patriotism and tarnished the country’s global reputation. It not only shattered the image of American invincibility but also led an entire generation to view the United States as an imperialist, militarist and racist power.
For the Vietnamese, the war was a catastrophe of staggering proportions. Estimates of Vietnamese casualties—soldiers and civilians—range from 970,000 to three million. Additionally, some 275,000 to 310,000 Cambodians, 20,000 to 62,000 Laotians, and 58,220 U.S. service members lost their lives. The war left an indelible scar on Southeast Asia, reshaping its societies through immense loss and suffering.
The Vietnam War offered hard-earned lessons, many of which remain tragically unheeded. It showed that misguided tactics, like search-and-destroy missions, fail to achieve strategic goals and alienate the very populations whose support is essential. It revealed that dishonesty from policymakers corrodes public trust, a cornerstone of sustained national effort. It highlighted the perils of intervening without a nuanced understanding of another nation’s history, culture and internal dynamics. It demonstrated how soldiers, asked to risk their lives without clear objectives or public backing, can be easily demoralized.
Wars are inherently tragic—far easier to initiate than to conclude. Technological superiority offers no guarantee of success. Perhaps the war’s most enduring lesson is the peril of unintended consequences: Military interventions, however well intentioned, can trigger a cascade of instability, wreaking havoc far beyond the immediate conflict.
The Vietnam War stands as a cautionary tale, its unlearned lessons echoing through subsequent conflicts. It remains a somber reminder of the devastating costs of hubris, ignorance and dishonesty in the conduct of war.
In the war’s wake, the victorious North Vietnamese government renamed Saigon, the former South Vietnamese capital, Ho Chi Minh City, symbolizing the consolidation of communist rule. Agriculture was collectivized, reflecting the regime’s commitment to a centralized, state-controlled economy. Meanwhile, tens of thousands of former South Vietnamese officials, military personnel and intellectuals were forcibly relocated to remote areas or re-education camps, enduring brutal conditions. Many were executed.
The consequences of these policies were devastating. Hundreds of thousands of Vietnamese fled their homeland, taking to the sea in fragile rafts and makeshift boats to escape persecution and seek refuge abroad. The risks were immense; an estimated 200,000 perished during these perilous journeys across the South China Sea, a stark testament to the desperation and determination of those fleeing a repressive regime.
By the late 1980s, Vietnam had undergone a dramatic and paradoxical transformation. Following the failures of collectivization and the economic hardships it wrought, the government embraced Đổi Mới (Renovation)—a series of market-oriented reforms aimed at revitalizing the economy. This marked a shift from ideological rigidity to pragmatic capitalism, as Vietnam integrated into the global economy, often by exploiting cheap labor to produce goods for Western markets.
Factories churned out exports for international markets, turning Vietnam into a hub of low-cost manufacturing. Simultaneously, the country became a popular destination for American tourists—a stark contrast to the years of war and enmity.
While these reforms revitalized Vietnam’s economy, they came at a cost: the exploitation of cheap labor, environmental degradation and the erosion of some of the very ideals the communist revolution had sought to achieve. This transformation reflects the complex and often ironic outcomes of historical processes, where ideological ambitions give way to pragmatic necessities, leaving a trail of both progress and compromise.
My teaching career has now come full circle. Forty years ago, I taught the first wave of Vietnamese students who had fled their homeland in the aftermath of the Vietnam War. Today, I stand before their children, among the brightest and most driven students in my classroom. Their achievements testify to the strength and resilience of families who endured unimaginable loss and hardship in pursuit of a better future.
Yet, as I teach these students, I see more than their faces. I see ghosts—friends and classmates who never returned from Vietnam, whose young lives were lost in the mud and rain forests of an unforgiving war. I think of those who came back, scarred in body and spirit, carrying wounds too deep to heal. And I think of my students’ parents and grandparents, who packed what little they could carry, climbed aboard leaky boats and braved starvation, storms and pirates for a sliver of hope.
I wonder about the lives they left behind—the homes, families and culture torn apart by war. The sacrifices are staggering, the losses incalculable. How is it, I ask myself, that history unfolded as it did? The Vietnam War is one of those rare historical moments where the weight of tragedy feels almost unbearable. The loss of life, the destruction and the displacement of millions are wounds that no narrative of progress can erase.
And yet, from this devastation emerged stories of resilience, survival and reinvention. The children and grandchildren of refugees who arrived with nothing now thrive—excelling in schools, leading communities and contributing to the fabric of American life in extraordinary ways.
This paradox—where wrenching, irreplaceable losses lead to unimaginable opportunities—underscores the complexities of history. It reveals the entwined nature of tragedy and triumph and the cost of progress often borne in human suffering.
It is humbling to realize that the unimaginable sacrifices of one generation can plant the seeds of success for the next. What, I wonder, do my students’ parents and grandparents think when they see their children now? Does it ease the pain of what they endured? Or does it deepen the sense of all that was lost along the way?
History is never merely an academic exercise. For those who lived it, history is profoundly personal—a weight of memory, loss and hope. It forces us to confront the ambiguities of the human experience: how suffering inspires strength, how survival opens the door to renewal and how the human spirit endures even in the face of immense despair.
As I look out at my classroom, I see not just faces but stories—of courage, sacrifice and perseverance. I see students who carry forward the legacy of their parents and grandparents, who overcame the worst of history’s injustices to create opportunities their families once thought impossible.
And in them, I see a challenge for us all: to honor the sacrifices of the past by working toward a world where no one has to endure such losses again. If there is a lesson in this paradox, it is that the resilience of the human spirit is boundless—but the cost of that resilience must never be forgotten. These students bear the weight of history, but they also embody its promise. In their faces, I see not just the ghosts of the past but the hope of a better future.
