Eulogy for Dan
I couldn't write this without help until now. I am an artist. My work is not famous, but it is known to those who know me. For years, I have painted the homeless, capturing the reality of those living rough on our city streets. My style is realism, an attempt to capture their suffering and determination in shades of colors shunned by most artists I know. This focus did not come from nowhere. It grew from a deep, often painful bond with friends who are United States veterans
Over many years, I became acquainted with veterans who were, in the words of the world, "disturbed." They carried silence like a heavy burden, unwilling to speak of their experiences until a bond of trust was forged. I realized a hard truth: many of the men I see sleeping on cardboard are not just homeless men; they are veterans suffering from PTSD. Painting them became my only way to deal with it, a silent conversation where words cannot go. My veteran friends, however, share a different bond with me—a bond of trust that allows for the truth to surface.
I want to tell you about Dan.
I saw Dan off and on for a few years. We worked in the same field, two men moving through the margins of society. One day, he looked different. He looked better, as people do after a great vacation.
"Hey Dan, you look great," I said. "What are you doing different?"
"My doctor diagnosed diabetes," he replied calmly. "I'm taking insulin."
"You don't look to be in as much pain as you used to," I noted.
"I know. I feel better."
Knowing Dan was a veteran, I asked if the cost was covered.
"100%," he said.
This caught my attention. I had spoken to many vets; I knew that VA benefits covered only service-related disabilities, and even then, sometimes only partially. One friend of mine, for instance, has a disability covered at only 60%.
"That's amazing," I said, pressing gently on the inconsistency. "I didn't know non-service-related disabilities were covered by VA benefits at 100%."
Dan’s demeanor shifted slightly. "The diabetes isn't why I'm receiving 100% benefits," he said bluntly. "100% means a serious disability."
He looked me in the eye. "I got a 30-caliber bullet in the back of my leg."
My mind raced. "Wait," I said, astonished. "Isn't 30-caliber one of ours?"
"Yep."
"And it's in the back of your leg?"
He didn't speak. He just looked at me.
I thought for a minute; then the irony dawned on me. "Was it friendly fire?"
Dan answered in a tone that was defiant, steady, and final. "Yes, it was."
The moment was tense. For a split second, a dark thought crossed my mind: A wound in the back could arguably be attributed to fleeing! As everyone knows, cowardice in battle is the worst disgrace a soldier can suffer. But the look on Dan’s face, and his determined body language, eliminated the possibility instantly. Obviously, the Veterans Administration had decided that question long ago.
As I imagine the scene: Dan is charging up a hill, bullets flying, and an accidental discharge from behind strikes him, disabling him for life. And yet, he walks without a limp, like it's “only a scratch.” If he hadn't told me, I never would have noticed anything unusual.
This explained his "bite the bullet" attitude. That expression likely originated in the American Civil War, when battlefield surgery was crude and anesthesia was a luxury. Soldiers had to bite down on a soft metal Minie ball to endure the agony of surgery, and here was an actual non-fatal casualty of battle. It explained Dan's defiant grace. He never lost his temper. He always spoke in an even tone, despite internal rage due to a battlefield error, carrying the lifelong pain of a wound that came from an unexpected source.
I never saw Dan again after that conversation.
It was an unusually long time before I heard the news. I asked around and was told he had died. I was disappointed that I never heard of his funeral. I reasoned, however, that it was taken care of the way he would have wanted.
I missed his funeral, but if I had been present to give a eulogy, this is what I would say:
Dan, you carried a heavy burden with a quiet strength. You bore the physical consequence of a mistake made by your own side, yet you never let it break your spirit. You taught me that the cost of war is not just measured in the battles fought, but in the silence that follows. You are not gone. You live in my memory, and in my artwork, in the strokes of paint that I hope reflect your dignity. You will live in the memory of every vet who carries a secret wound.
Indeed, I am only an artist, and I am uncertain of my ability to put this in words that do you justice. May this memory serve as a tribute. You were a man who charged up the hill, and was struck from the rear. For that we shall never forget you.