Tag: war

August 6th, 1945.

I grew from birth to the age of ten in the “Atomic City,” Oak Ridge, Tennessee. I even had a wooden carved bomb that read “Dan Sanders Atomic Baby.” Fighter jets and guard houses were my normal views and surroundings. My dad worked for the Manhattan Project that helped create the atomic bomb, and I know he had reservations—hell, more than reservations. I’m sure he had nightmares about how it was used. He often said the first bomb should have been dropped on Mount Fuji as a warning shot, and that killing civilians—children—was an act of revenge, not war, and I agree with him.

The death toll on August 6, 1945 — the day Hiroshima was bombed — is estimated at 70,000 to 80,000 people killed immediately. By the end of 1945, about 140,000 people had died in Hiroshima, including those who suffered a long, agonizing death from radiation poisoning, which I have seen time‑lapse video of, and it is truly horrifying.

Sometimes at night when I think about this—and it’s not always on the anniversary, for it has haunted me for as long as I’ve been alive—I picture some kids in an open field, sunny green grass, blue sky, playing soccer laughing then suddenly turned to dust.

I met a survivor of that bombing many years ago, and he talked about how his life was spared because his house was a few miles from the hypocenter, and he was hunched behind a brick wall working in his garden, talking to his wife standing on the porch. After the blast wave passed over, he looked for his wife on the porch, and all that was left was a shadow left on the wall.

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Rating: 1 out of 5.

Gridiron for Leg Irons

In the winter of
Nineteen hundred and sixty-four
Something was going on,
Called the Vietnam War.

But all we could hear,
At the stadium that night
Was the roar of the crowd,
As we continued our fight.

But older friends
Had joined the fray,
And died in a swamp
Many worlds away.

The play was called.
And I started my run.
As another friend died
Under the gun.

The play I remember
Was Buck-forty-five
As the government kept telling
Us, lie after lie.

Then came the day
They said I must go.
But I stood on the line and shouted
My NO!!

They locked me in chains,
Both hands and
Both feet.
But the mind of the boy
Would not face defeat.

The judge said,
Son, “What will you do?”
I said, “Your honor.
It is all up to you.”

If you think I was wrong, then
To jail, I must go.
If you believe I was right
There’s a great Broadway show.
Perhaps we could go.

And with those words
In the blink of an eye
I traded the gridiron
For leg irons
And two years
At Danbury FCI.

Rating: 1 out of 5.

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November 15, 1969 — Vietnam Moratorium

On this day in 1969, the Vietnam Moratorium Committee staged one of the most potent anti-war protests in American history. Students, activists, religious leaders, veterans—millions of us—took to the streets, calling for an end to the war and the withdrawal of American troops.

And I was there. I remember the sound of voices rising together, the signs carried high, Peace Now, Bring the Boys Home, Stop the Killing. It wasn’t fringe, it wasn’t small. It was a broad coalition of Americans from every walk of life, standing shoulder to shoulder in a peaceful, nonviolent demand for change.

The Moratorium wasn’t just one day. It was a series of protests, teach-ins, vigils, and marches that grew month after month. On November 15, 1969, it culminated in Washington, D.C., where more than half a million people gathered—the largest anti-war demonstration in U.S. history. From Arlington National Cemetery to the Capitol Building, we marched and listened to voices that carried moral weight: Senator George McGovern, Coretta Scott King, Pete Seeger, Muhammad Ali, John Kerry, Daniel Ellsberg, and Abbie Hoffman.

President Nixon wasn’t swayed. Just weeks earlier, he had given his “silent majority” speech, asking Americans to back his plan for “Vietnamization”—gradually withdrawing U.S. troops while shifting responsibility to South Vietnamese forces. He claimed to have a secret plan to end the war, but offered no details. His approval ratings soared, and many rallied behind him.

But for those of us in the streets, the war was not an abstract policy. It was blood and loss, friends drafted, lives shattered. We weren’t silent, and we weren’t a minority. We were the conscience of a nation, refusing to let the killing continue unnoticed.

Looking back, the Vietnam Moratorium was more than a protest. It was a turning point in public opinion, proof that ordinary people could gather in extraordinary numbers to demand peace. It showed the world that America’s heart was divided, and that many of us believed the war was morally, politically, and economically wrong.

I was there, and I carry that memory with me still—the chants, the music, the hope, and the stubborn belief that voices raised together can bend history.

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