In Troy’s working-class neighborhoods, where iron factories used to roar, Vietnam wasn’t just a chapter in a history book; it was real life. For guys like me coming of age in the ‘60s and early ‘70s, it wasn’t about debates on TV or heated arguments in college lecture halls. It was about draft letters showing up on 8th Street, friends saying goodbye at the bus station, and the knowledge that some wouldn’t make it back home.

Small industrial cities like Troy sent more sons to Vietnam than most. Blue-collar families didn’t have the connections or college deferments or bone spurs that shielded others. Records from Rensselaer County show dozens gone forever, names like those of brothers Stephen and Stanley Barrett. These weren’t just numbers. They were the star athletes from Troy High, the kids who played stickball under streetlights, the ones who maybe dreamed about Hudson Valley Community College or just taking over their dad’s trade.

Steve and Stan were friends of mine. I spent a month with Steve before he was shipped off.  He wanted to give me his guitar, telling me he wouldn’t be coming back alive. I told him to keep it, and we would start a rock band when he returned. He was right – dead at age 19. His death, in part, helped turn me into an anti-war activist.

Vietnam taught America plenty, but it started with humility. Sure, we had big ideas about stopping communism, the so-called  “domino theory,” and believed that if Vietnam fell, all of Southeast Asia would soon follow, and then they would be coming for us. Many of us thought it was BS and protested.

People didn’t really get the strength of Vietnamese nationalism or how guerrilla warfare in jungles made........

© The Saratogian