For Pa: Stories From ‘Nam
Everyone in my life calls my paternal grandfather, “Pa.” Friends, family, teammates– everyone knows Pa.
Pa is one of the best people I know. He’s been a cornerstone in my life for as long as I can remember. For the majority of my childhood, he and gram lived within a ten minute drive from our house so that they could help raise my brother and I while our parents worked. And even during periods while Grandma was still working and they lived further away, Pa would happily drive several hours every day to come watch us.
If we’ve crossed paths on my soccer journey, you’ve most definitely met Pa. He is undoubtedly the biggest fan I’ll ever have, and he’s hard to miss. Older guy; about 6’2”; bigger belly; thick, white hair; big, silver aviator glasses. Probably seated in the stands well before the team even takes the field for warmups. Likely accompanied by his three staple accessories: a cane (that’s progressed into a walker as the years have passed), a Vietnam Vet hat, and my grandma.
Pa’s a simple guy, really. If you’ve met him once, you’ve met him a million times, and you probably know the following:
He loves his family more than anything. And he’ll beam with pride when he tells you I’m better than Messi. (Told ya he’s my biggest fan.)
He is kind to his core. He loves animals– he once raised a litter of stray kittens on his back porch despite grandma’s protests. He cares deeply about people– he used to strike up conversations with any random stranger. And he would do anything for the people he loves– like cart me an hour each way to soccer practice every day from the time I was ten until I could drive myself… and even after that, he’d still offer to drive.
He worked for the post office as a mail carrier for 25 years and has the stories to prove it.
He’s a Vietnam Vet. Prior to carrying mail, he served in the US Navy for four years during the Vietnam War. And if he isn’t telling you a story about the post office, he’s probably telling you a story about Vietnam.
Most of what I knew about Vietnam growing up stemmed from Pa’s stories. I remember reading, “Inside Out and Back Again,” a book set during the war, in my 8th grade reading group and recognizing some of the things he used to talk about. Agent Orange, the Vietcong, jungles, tunnels, heat, villages.
He didn’t get into the heavy stuff with us kids, but based on the tidbits my parents told me about the effects the war had on Pa and the flickers of pain that sometimes crept across his face when he’d trail off in the middle of a story, I knew it wasn’t easy for him.
“You know, Grandma saved my life twice,” he’d always say.
“That’s enough, Ravo,” Grandma would remind him. Sometimes she’d add, “Don’t make me cry.”
I didn’t fully understand this interaction when I was younger, but I never wanted to see my grandma cry, so I’d happily redirect the conversation. Now that I’m older, I know what they were talking about and why it was such an emotional subject for my grandparents. Pa has PTSD from his time in Vietnam, and he suffered two mental breakdowns in the aftermath of the war.
My grandma saved his life twice by staying and supporting him.
I’ve come to understand that not every Vietnam Vet was afforded the same type of love and partnership. With America divided on the war, many struggling vets like Pa received little to no support– left to deal with their trauma on their own. Not only were they veterans (which is challenging in and of itself), but they were veterans of a war that a large segment of the public didn’t support. Their sacrifices were viewed (by some) as symbols of a futile war– a reminder of a dark chapter in our nation’s history that society was ready to forget. This only magnified the isolation and struggle Vietnam Vets faced upon returning home. They couldn’t just forget.
Even now, it’s hard for me to imagine Pa– the most gentle soul I know– going through all of that. But I do know one thing: Pa’s time in Vietnam was extremely important to him, and he bears its scars with more kindness and empathy than most could imagine.
Ravo Root Jr. (Pa) - 1965
When I made the decision to play in Vietnam last year, I was a bit nervous to share the news with Pa. Not only was I moving to the other side of the world, but I was headed straight to the place that holds so many complicated memories and feelings for him.
He took the news pretty well, though he did ask me if I was sure I wouldn’t rather stay in Syracuse and coach soccer instead… “They always tell me how much they love you there, Meg.” (He’s always trying to convince me to stay in Syracuse.)
I could feel his hesitations, but in true Pa-fashion, his love for me and support for my dreams overrode everything else. I left for Vietnam the same way I’ve left for any adventure in my life: knowing Pa was in my corner.
Similar to Pa, my time in Vietnam was transformative. I went there to play soccer, but I left with so much more.
My first few weeks felt like a series of one culture shock after another. There were no distinct breakfast foods, most people washed all of their clothes by hand, we traveled almost everywhere by motorbike, we ate our meals seated on tiny step stools, and EVERYTHING was shared: food, drinks, space, responsibilities. As a Western girl experiencing Southeast Asian culture for the first time, I was astounded by the sense of collectivism in Vietnam. Everything was about the team, the group, the community– which stands in stark contrast to the Western Individualism I grew up on.
At times, it was downright overwhelming, being enveloped by a new culture with so many differences. Take my first weekend in Vietnam, for example. Just a couple of days after arriving in Vietnam, a few of my teammates showed up at my door and told me (through Google Translate) to pack a bag for the weekend: we were going to the beach and leaving in ten minutes! Once my bags were packed, they led me down to a van crammed with 16 people, and we rode that bad-boy through five hours of motorbike traffic from Ho Chi Minh City to Phan Thiet. I didn’t really know anybody there, and I couldn’t speak a lick of Vietnamese, but I immediately felt like I was part of the family. We spent the weekend playing beach soccer, sharing giant spreads of seafood we’d picked up at a street market and cooked on the beach, and learning how to “cheers” in Vietnam… “Một, Hai, Ba, YO!” I was completely overwhelmed, but I’d never felt more welcomed or cared for by a group of strangers in my life.
The rest of my time in Vietnam followed a similar pattern: overwhelm paired with a deep sense of connection and community. After we wrapped up the tournament, I spent two weeks traveling through Vietnam. As soon as my teammates got word that I’d be staying in Vietnam to travel, my “solo trip” quickly turned into an elaborate country-wide tour with stops at several of my teammates' hometowns.
I spent the first few days out West, bouncing between two of my teammates’ homes. The West is *really* rural, and this is coming from a girl who grew up in a town with more cows than people. We took a tiny motorboat (once again, somehow packed with eight people and all of our belongings), down a small, marshy river to get between houses. We chopped down coconuts to drink from and cooked up chickens that roamed the backyard for dinner (well, my friend’s father did that part). We sang karaoke and shared feasts with the neighbors. We sat criss-cross in a giant circle and ate on the kitchen floor at dinner time, and we laid side by side atop bamboo mats on that same kitchen floor at bed time. It was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before, but what made it so special was that it was shared.
I split the rest of the trip between Hạ Long Bay, Hanoi, Da Nang and Hội An. I saw some of the most beautiful sights in the world, but my favorite memories are those I made alongside my friends. I was welcomed into their families in every way possible– we shared meals, coffees, prayers, explorations, belly laughs, loved ones. We even shared eggs. (When my friends realized I was only allergic to egg whites, they started spooning out their yolks and giving them to me at every meal.) Somehow, despite speaking a different language and growing up in an entirely different culture thousands of miles away, I felt right at home. And I know, as my friends reminded me before I left, I will always have family in Vietnam.
When I look back on that time, I feel even closer to Pa than I could’ve previously imagined. Though we had entirely different experiences– separated by 60+ years and two generations– they’re intrinsically intertwined.
Pa wasn’t physically there with me, but he might as well have been. There wasn’t a single day that passed by while I was in Vietnam that I didn’t think of him. I think about his experience there– full of trauma, tragedy and sacrifice– and the ways in which it shaped his life. Then I contrast it with my experience– full of adventure, connection and love– and the ways in which it will shape my life.
In a way, it feels a lot like generational healing. I got to return to the place that changed his life and let it change mine for the better. In the same way he will always carry his memories from Vietnam, I will always carry mine. But instead of being rooted in war, mine are rooted in friendship, family and community. I got to write a new chapter for our family, and Pa’s teachings are etched in the margins of every single page.
I think that’s the most beautiful part: I was only afforded the opportunity because of the man and grandfather Pa is to me. Because he and grandma didn’t give up when things were unimaginably hard… because he promised not to let his own struggles get in the way of him being the best father and grandfather he could be… because he showed up to drive me to soccer practice every single day.
I’m one lucky girl to have Pa in my life, and I will always look up to him. I can only hope that someday, maybe 60 years from now, I’ll get the chance to be just like him: carting my grandchildren around, telling them my stories from ‘Nam.