American History Tellers - America's Monuments | 58,000 Names | 6

Episode Date: March 31, 2021

The Vietnam War was one of the most divisive conflicts in American history. Over 58,000 Americans died in the fighting; many more returned home with wounds both visible and hidden. When veterans lobbied for a memorial to honor American soldiers lost in Vietnam, a young college student named Maya Lin was picked from a blind competition to design it. Her unconventional vision would lead to a bitter dispute over the nature and purpose of public art in America — and how a nation heals its wounds after a collective loss.  Listen to new episodes 1 week early and to all episodes ad free with Wondery+. Join Wondery+ for exclusives, binges, early access, and ad free listening. Available in the Wondery App https://wondery.app.link/historytellers.Support us by supporting our sponsors!See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Wondery Plus subscribers can binge new seasons of American History Tellers early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Imagine it's June 1970. You're a private first class at the Cam Ranh Bay military base on the coast of South Vietnam. A year ago, you came to the hospital here to recover from a shrapnel wound. But today you're healthy, and the moment you've been waiting for has finally arrived. You've been discharged. You're sitting on a bench outside your barracks, waiting for your ride to the airport.

Next to you is one of your squad leaders, Corporal Murphy. The two of you fought in the same unit after you got out of the hospital. He turns to you and smiles. Well, what's the first thing you're going to do when you get back? Oh man, I'm going to lay down on the couch in my mom's house and stay there for a long, long time. I'm sure she'll be happy to see you. Not as happy as I'll be to see her. Murphy always sends his men off with a farewell. In this case, farewell is a flask of rye whiskey. The two of you take turns sipping from it as transport jeeps pass by. When do you think you'll go back? Well, when there's nothing left to do here. I don't know, maybe not even then. Corporal Murphy's already been back home, but he didn't let

much grass grow under his feet. He signed up for a second tour and was back in a flash. You shake your head and pass him the flask. So you're telling me you're never going back? Come on. Well, you better prepare yourself. It's different back home now. People don't understand what we've seen, what we've had to do. Americans don't understand this war, and they don't like it.

You don't like it much either. That's why you can't understand wanting to do. Americans don't understand this war, and they don't like it. You don't like it much either. That's why you can't understand wanting to stay. You've seen too many things here, like that time when an ammunition truck exploded right in front of you, killing 12 of your friends. Corporal Murphy has his share of horror stories too. Every soldier does. You take another swig of whiskey. Well, I'm glad I'm leaving. And if you think I'm coming back here again, boy, you've got another thing coming. A jeep approaches, skidding to a stop. Well, I think that's my ride. Murphy stands up. You both look at each other. He tips the flask towards you. Here, you finish it off No way, you're the one that's going to need it

He just shakes his head You might think that now But you haven't been back home yet You shake Murphy's hand Then turn and climb into the back of the jeep As it trundles off, you look back to see your friend getting smaller in the distance Soon you'll be in the air Headed back across the Pacific towards family and friends, towards home. You try to picture everything

you're returning to, but all you can see is the carnage you're leaving behind. Still, you wonder if Murphy is right. Maybe home won't be the way you remember it. And as much as you want to put the hell of this war behind you, maybe it will be impossible to forget. Have you ever wondered who created that bottle of sriracha that's living in your fridge? Or why nearly every house in America has at least one game of Monopoly? Introducing The Best Idea Yet, a brand new podcast about the surprising origin stories of the products you're obsessed with. Listen to The Best Idea Yet on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts.

From the team behind American History Tellers comes a new book, The Hidden History of the White House. Each chapter will bring you inside the fierce power struggles, intimate moments, and shocking scandals that shaped our nation. From the War of 1812 to Watergate. Available now wherever you get your books. From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers. Our history, your story. The Vietnam War was one of the most divisive conflicts in American history. Begun as a clandestine military operation to stamp out communism in Southeast Asia, the conflict soon escalated into a full-scale war that dragged on for a decade. Begun as a clandestine military operation to stamp out communism in Southeast Asia, the conflict soon escalated into a full-scale war that dragged on for a decade.

Amid rising death tolls and reports of civilian massacres, Americans at home clashed violently over the increasingly unpopular war. Some saw it as a battle for freedom and democracy. Others argued it was a tragic mistake. Between all the shouting stood the 2.7 million American men and women who served during the war. Many returned home physically wounded. Many more would suffer the invisible wounds of post-traumatic stress disorder and other mental health issues. Over 58,000 Americans died fighting in the unsuccessful war. Afterwards, the country turned towards creating a memorial to those lost. But plans for a memorial to the Vietnam War themselves soon became polarizing,

leading to a bitter, prolonged dispute. The battle over the memorial would spark a cultural debate on the nature and purpose of art in America, and lead to a reckoning over how a nation heals the wounds of a collective loss. This is the last episode in our series on America's Monuments, 58,000 Names. In the early 1970s, veterans of the Vietnam War returned home to a nation divided. Many Americans were exhausted by the devastating toll of a failing war. Unlike the soldiers who had returned triumphant after the victories of World War I and World War II, Vietnam veterans came home

to face confusion, indifference, or outright hostility. Many returning veterans found it difficult to obtain the government benefits and services they needed because the Office of Veterans Affairs had allocated too many resources to older veterans from Korea in World War II. And many struggled to reacclimate to civilian life and to a nation where by 1971, three-quarters of Americans opposed the war they'd fought in. In 1973, Congress made their first attempt to officially recognize the tremendous toll that the war took. An Illinois representative proposed a resolution to honor the Vietnam war dead with a grove of trees. The resolution passed, but went nowhere. On April 30, 1975, with the fall of Saigon to North Vietnamese forces, the Vietnam War finally

came to an end. But echoes of the trauma and loss lingered in the minds of the American public and its veterans. It was unclear how the country could begin to heal itself or how a commemoration or a memorial could help that process. Then in 1977, the Washington Post ran an editorial written by a 27-year-old veteran named Jan Scruggs. The piece was focused on what he felt was a continued indifference toward his fellow Vietnam veterans. Scruggs wrote, Perhaps a national monument is in order to remind an ungrateful nation of what it has done to its sons. As a teenage member of the 199th Light Infantry Brigade,

Scruggs was wounded in battle by a rocket-propelled grenade. After his stay at a military hospital, he returned to combat, only to watch 12 fellow soldiers die in an ammunition truck explosion in 1970. That's what gave me PTSD, he would later say. After returning home, Scruggs turned his energies to helping establish mental health services for his generation of vets. Although he agreed with many vets that the VA needed reform, Scruggs knew there was a larger, more symbolic issue. No one had yet figured out how

to memorialize such a prolonged and problematic war, or how to build a monument for the first modern war America had lost. Scruggs set aside his own conflicted feelings over the rightness or wrongness of America's role in Vietnam to begin to think about how to create a memorial himself. Beginning with $2,800 of his own money, Scruggs initiated a campaign in early 1979 to solicit donations and raise over $1 million toward the memorial's construction. He formed a non-profit foundation called Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund. He knew little about fundraising and less about lobbying, but his charisma and earnestness started making a mark in Washington, D.C. Then Scruggs found a willing ear and $10,000 from businessman Ross Perot. Perot's college

roommate at the U.S. Naval Academy had been killed in action in Vietnam, and Perot felt emotionally bound to the issue. More donations followed, and by Memorial Day of 1980, just one year later, Congress took up Scruggs' call. Lawmakers passed a bill authorizing three acres in Constitution Gardens on the National Mall for a Vietnam memorial. Following a speech by President Jimmy Carter, Scruggs spoke to the press about how his foundation would choose the design for the memorial. We do not seek to make any statement about the correctness of the war. Rather, by honoring those who sacrificed,

we hope to provide a symbol of national unity and reconciliation. But what the symbol would look like was anything but certain. Scruggs Group announced it would hold a design competition. It would be judged blindly and open to anyone. The rules were simple. Submission should be reflective and contemplative in character. The names of all 58,000 fallen soldiers would have to be incorporated into the design. And lastly, all entries would have to be non-political. They were to express no opinion

whatsoever about whether the war had been right or wrong. Organizers sent the rules in a call for submissions to architecture firms, as well as art and architecture schools across the United States. And all across the country, designers, artists, architects, and even college students began readying their submissions. Imagine it's late January 1981. You're an architecture student at Yale University. This semester, you signed up for a class called Funerary Architecture from the Stone Age to the Present. It's a fancy title for what is actually a landscape design class focused on studying and designing memorials. This evening, you're eating in the dining hall with your classmate Maya. She's in the class, too, complaining about your professor, a pastime you both enjoy.

Ah, so stupid. You couldn't have a memorial for World War III because by definition, World War III kills everyone, right? Who would be around to build it? You nod. You're totally right. Professor Burr was too hard on you in crit. Memorials to wars need to be honest about the immensity of it all.

They have to convey the toll and the sacrifice. Huh? Well, what about the Vietnam Memorial competition? Are you going to enter that? Well, definitely. Actually, I think I've already got a pretty good idea for it. Well, I wish you the best of luck. Because there's going to be, like, what, hundreds, thousands of entrants?

Yeah, thousands, definitely. Billions! A billion entrants! Chuckling, Maya looks down at her plate, twirling gravy into her mashed potatoes. Well, you know, I don't really care about winning the competition. I just wanted to make a meaningful design. Yeah, I'm sure the winner would be some figurative nonsense anyway. Some general on a horse. Did they have horses in Vietnam? Anyway, some sort of patriotic erection, like the Washington Monument. Well, you know, actually, you remember when we drove down to Washington to Constitution Gardens? That's where they're going to place the thing.

And I got this idea. It's a beautiful park, you know? You don't have to destroy it by plopping some statue there. So why not use the landscape instead of fighting with it? Well, what do you mean? I keep going back to those World War I memorials we research, you know? They're so powerful, so simple, you can't look away from the horror of it all. You notice that Maya's been moving her fork around the potatoes, sculpting them into a kind of V-shape. See, this is the ground, and then you work down into it,

instead of up. You fit the sculpture to the earth, and the walls come up like this. You're making a sculpture out of mashed potatoes. I can just see it on the walls. You write down all the names of every single soldier who died. Over 58,000 of them. God, all those people. Dying for a war we didn't win in a country that didn't even want us there. Well, cheers to the American way. You raise your plastic cup and jest, but Maya doesn't return the gesture. She's got a faraway look in her eyes. Think all the people who knew those dead soldiers. Their relatives, their friends.

Those are the people the memorial is really for, you know? Maya's face is determined. She's putting some thought into this. You're not sure you see much point. They say the submission process is anonymous but you don't believe that for a second the powers that be aren't going to entrust the design of such a high-stakes memorial to some college student even one as talented as maya

maya lynn was a 21 yearold landscape architecture major at Yale University. Her professor, Andrus Burr, encouraged all nine of the students in his funerary design class to submit for the memorial competition. Burr himself submitted a design proposal, and at the last minute, so did Maya Lin. The Vietnam Memorial Design Competition received more than 1,400 submissions, so many that the Memorial Fund acquired a hangar at Andrews Air Force Base to display all the entries for judging. To oversee the competition, the Memorial Fund appointed an architect named Paul Spryergan, and he in turn selected a panel of eight jurors to judge the entries. The jurors were a mix of artists, architects,

and urban designers, but none of them were veterans of any war. In May 1981, the jurors reached a decision. The winning design was entry number 1026. Sketched simply and plainly from three different angles, the design imagined two walls of reflective black granite that sloped down into the ground, joining in a wide, chevron-shaped V. One wall pointed at the Washington Monument, the other at the Lincoln Memorial. Etched into the walls were the names of the fallen soldiers, listed chronologically according to the date each soldier had died. The handwritten artist's statement described the memorial as a rift in the earth. The jurors wrote that Lynn's design was an eloquent place where the simple meeting of Earth, sky, and remembered names contains messages for all. But if the jurors were surprised that the winning entry was a college student named Maya Lynn, no one was more surprised than Lynn herself.

A retired Marine colonel sent by the Memorial Fund stunned Lynn when he arrived at her dorm room and informed her that she'd won the competition. Her prize was $20,000, $60,000 in today's money. Pleased and excited with Maya Lin's vision for the memorial, Jan Scruggs rushed to show the winning design to Ross Perot. Since his initial donation, Perot had contributed an additional $160,000. But now, seeing Lin's design, Perot balked. Up to this point in history, traditional war memorials had been of men engaged in battle, a hero leading a charge against an

anonymous enemy, soldiers caught in the moments just before or after victory. With her winning design, Maya Lin challenged that tradition. Instead, she created something pointedly abstract. The Vietnam Memorial was a question mark rather than an exclamation point, and Ross Perot despised it. Soon, he would be joined by other vocal dissenters, Vietnam veterans who would argue against Lin's design and against Scruggs and his foundation. The debate would pit veteran against veteran and threaten to swallow any goodwill the memorial might generate.

Like the conflict it sought to commemorate, the Vietnam Memorial itself would become a magnet for controversy, protest, and anger. Richard Bandler revolutionized the world of self-help all thanks to an approach he developed called neurolinguistic programming. Even though NLP worked for some, its methods have been criticized for being dangerous in the wrong hands. Throw in Richard's dark past as a cocaine addict and murder suspect, and you can't help but wonder what his true intentions were. I'm Saatchi Cole. And I'm Sarah Hagee. And we're the hosts of Scamfluencers, a weekly podcast from Wondery that takes you along the twists and turns of the

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how would you spend your last few minutes on Earth? You can binge Incoming exclusively and ad-free and Wondery+. Join Wondery+, in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify. It didn't take long for the winning design of the Vietnam Memorial to generate controversy. But it wasn't just the design. It was the woman behind it that some people objected to. Maya Lin was born in 1959 and raised in Athens, Ohio. Her parents were Chinese immigrants. Lin's father was an accomplished potter. Her mother was a poet and

scholar of Chinese literature. As she explained in an interview, I was born and raised in the Midwest, surrounded by non-Chinese people. I never really looked at myself as a minority. I looked at myself as just like any other kid. But some of her critics used her identity as a way to discredit her. Cartoons depicted her as a sinister Asian figure undermining American troops. Male critics pointed to her youth and gender as reasons to dismiss her. Still, Lin's design struck a chord with many. Even though she had no personal experience of the war she sought to commemorate, her design and its underlying concepts stood out to the jury of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund.

In a statement written as part of the proposal, Lin explained her thinking. I imagine taking a knife and cutting into the earth. Names alone would be the memorial. There was no need to embellish the design further. The people and their names would allow everyone to respond and remember. Black granite would make the surface reflective and peaceful. The mirrored effect would double the size of the park, creating two worlds, one we are part of and one we cannot enter. Lynn's design featured another striking choice. The names of the dead and missing soldiers would be listed year by year

in order of the date that they were declared dead. In this way, the names of the soldiers would tell the story of the war against the sparse V-shaped walls. A returning veteran would be able to find his or her time of service when finding a friend's name, Lynn wrote. It would create a psychological space for them that directly focused on human response and feeling. But Lin's intentions were quickly lost in a torrent of controversy. As soon as the Vietnam

Memorial's design was announced in the press, letters from outraged veterans began to pour into the offices of the Memorial Fund. One complained that the design had all the warmth and charm of a black dagger. An Army major wrote that the design had all the warmth and charm of a black dagger. An Army major wrote that the memorial was just a black wall that expresses nothing. Indeed, for many veterans, it was the simplicity of the design that was so affronting. The memorial didn't look enough like either a traditional picture of victory or a traditional tableau of suffering. One veteran wrote that it is so unfulfilling as a lasting memorial that no memorial would be a better alternative.

The charge against the memorial was led by Jim Webb, an occasional war novelist and full-time counsel for the House Committee on Veterans Affairs. Webb, a Vietnam veteran himself, soon found common cause with another vet named Tom Carhart. Carhart had been an infantry platoon leader in Vietnam and received two Purple Hearts. Both Webb and Carhart had initially been involved in the Memorial Fund Foundation, but they both found nothing to like in the Foundation's choice.

As the months passed and it became clear that the Memorial Fund was moving ahead with Maya Lin's design, Carhart's fury grew. One needs no artistic education to see this design for what it is, a black trench, a black gash of shame and sorrow. Perhaps that's an appropriate design for those who would spit on Vietnam veterans. But can America truly mean that we should feel honored by that black pit? The color black was one of the biggest points of contention. Carhartt's preference was something white and graceful. In fact, Carhartt had also entered the design competition. His submission had been a figurative sculpture of a soldier holding a fallen comrade,

his face turned to the sky in anguish. Carhartt would also have preferred a designer of a different race. Anti-Asian sentiment ran high among certain segments of the Vietnam veterans community and across American society in general. Carhartt was unafraid to channel it. He demanded that somewhere on the memorial should appear a warning that it was designed by an Asian, though he used a racial slur in his wording. His hope was that the memorial fund would cave to public pressure and start the competition over again, this time with an all-veteran jury. Tensions were rising when in October 1981 at a public hearing,

Jan Scruggs attempted to defend the design against its vocal dissenters, including Webb and Carhartt. The meeting was hosted by the U.S. Commission of Fine Arts, the government agency that would oversee the memorial's installation. Agency leaders hoped to find a compromise between Angry Vets and the memorial's design team before their disagreements reached a breaking point. Imagine it's October, 1981, Washington, D.C. You're a lawyer and a Vietnam vet, and you've just left a public meeting to discuss the new Vietnam War memorial, the one designed by that college girl. With you is your friend and fellow vet, Paul. He's furious. God, did you see her, the little lazy girl? She left as quick as she could. Can't even stick around to answer questions. It's an insult. Keep your voice down, Paul. Let's just talk outside. You and Paul both served,

but different tours and different years. Still, the two of you share the bond. You hate to see him this upset. He keeps ranting as you walk through the lobby of the Fine Arts Commission headquarters. It hasn't even been ten years and they're already trying to forget about us. Literally burying us with a so-called memorial that's just a trench in the ground. Jeez. As you both step outside onto the sidewalk, Paul gets louder and more animated, practically shouting over the passing traffic. You know, he's right, that Carhartt guy. The memorial is shameful.

Who paints a memorial black? You think two million veterans want to be filled with shame? This evening was the second public viewing of the memorial design, and it was as contentious as you thought it would be. The designer was there, the Lynn girl, and you could tell she was upset. Everyone was upset. You can hear other people arguing as they spill out on the sidewalk beside you. Well, Paul, I don't know.

The thing is, I kind of like the design. I don't think it looks shameful. I think it's meant to be contemplative and reflective. Paul wheels around to face you. Are you telling me you're okay with it's meant to be contemplative and reflective. Paul wheels around to face you. You're telling me you're okay with it? That's not what I would build, but I don't build monuments. I think the design is appropriate. Paul shoves his finger in your face. There's not a damn thing appropriate about death. A people dying for their country with nothing to show for it. Paul turns and starts walking away. Hey, Paul, Paul, my car's this way. I'll walk. It's starting to rain. Then I'll walk in the rain.

You throw up your hands. You know there's no use trying to reason with Paul when he gets like this. The wounds of the war are fresher for him than they are for you, and he's taking this memorial personally. Then again, why shouldn't he? To anyone who fought in the war or fresher for him than they are for you, and he's taking this memorial personally. Then again, why shouldn't he? To anyone who fought in the war or lost a loved one to it, it is personal. You feel that way too. But you were serious when you said you liked the Lynn girl's design. You appreciate the starkness of it, the simplicity.

But so many people seem to hate it. Memorials are supposed to bring people together, not divide them. Maybe the critics have a point. Maybe all your fellow veterans who've suffered this long deserve some sort of compromise, something that will help them finally find some peace. After the Commission of Fine Arts meeting ended, several veterans turned on each other. Jan Scruggs confronted Tom Carhart on the sidewalk, calling him a traitor and wondering out loud whether they taught disloyalty at West Point. Jim Webb called Scruggs pathetic, and Scruggs shot back that Webb was a cocky platoon leader,

a member of the elite and snobbish officer class. In the days and weeks that followed, more veterans spoke out against the memorial. A prominent admiral resigned from the memorial fund. The Marine Corps League spoke out against it, and Ross Perot echoed Carhartt's call to scrap the design and start a new competition. But despite all the protests, Scruggs stuck to his guns. And after several days of public hearings, members of the Commission of Fine Arts put the official stamp of government approval on Lynn's controversial design. Undaunted, Jim Webb recruited 30 congressmen to co-sign a letter to President Reagan. Part art critique, part cease and desist, the letter demanded that Reagan ask his Secretary of the Interior to withhold permission for the groundbreaking,

scheduled for just a few months away. But the President and his advisers declined to get involved. By that winter, plans for the memorial's construction were already underway. Lynn enlisted architect Kent Cooper to head the construction team. Cooper, already an accomplished architect, had also submitted a design to the memorial competition. But unselfishly, he embraced Lynn's design as best he could. Having to dig and regrade a large portion of the National Mall was a challenging task, and the intense media scrutiny focused on the project only made it more difficult. For Lynn, Cooper's commitment to her design was an increasingly rare source of support. Having relocated from New Haven to Washington for the installation process,

Lynn found herself both under the media microscope and very much alone. Articles and TV coverage portrayed her as a sullen, humorless figure, or as a spoiled college student who failed to appreciate that she'd been granted the opportunity of a lifetime. Her Asian heritage came up again and again, often in careless and cynical ways. Her handling of the issue, though, could be as incisive as her memorial design. In an interview with 60 Minutes, host Morley Safer asked her, How Chinese are you? As apple pie, she shot back. She also had to fight not only for herself, but for her design.

At every turn, Lynn felt that politicians, architects, and bureaucrats were trying to chip away at the integrity of her vision for the memorial. She rejected attempts to make the marble less reflective and to add any explanatory text above the soldiers' names. But the more she defended her work, the more critics sought to cast her as a stubborn artist who was making the memorial less about Vietnam and more about her personal victory in the design competition. With both sides refusing to budge and the March 1982 groundbreaking fast approaching, it was unclear whether a middle ground

could be reached. But some at the Commission of Fine Arts had begun thinking, perhaps the solution lay not in taking anything away from the design, but adding to it. Their surprising proposal for a compromise would come in the form of a second,

entirely new sculpture. But it wasn't clear if the addition would save Maya Lin's vision The prizing proposal for a compromise would come in the form of a second, entirely new sculpture. But it wasn't clear if the addition would save Maya Lin's vision for the Vietnam Veterans Memorial or ruin it. How did Birkenstocks go from a German cobbler's passion project 250 years ago to the Barbie movie today? Who created that bottle of red Sriracha with a green top that's permanently living in your fridge? We'll be right back. This is Jack, and we've covered over a thousand episodes of pop business news stories on our daily podcast. We've identified the most viral products of all time, and their wild origin stories that you had no idea about. From the Levi's 501 jeans to Legos. Come for the products you're obsessed with. Stay for the business insights that are going to blow up your group chat.

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Podcast at the 2024 Ambies and is a Best True Crime nominee at the British Podcast Awards 2024. Ghost Story is now the first ever Apple Podcast Series Essential. Each month, Apple Podcast editors spotlight one series that has captivated listeners with masterful storytelling, creative excellence, and a unique creative voice and vision. To recognize Ghost Story being chosen as the first series essential, Wondery has made it ad-free for a limited time only on Apple Podcasts. If you haven't listened yet, head over to Apple Podcasts to hear for yourself. In the spring of 1982, organizers broke ground on the National Mall for the Vietnam War Veterans Memorial. But this only inflamed the controversy surrounding the memorial's unconventional design.

To many involved in the memorial's installation, it was clear that the voices of the critics needed to be acknowledged. Jan Scruggs, the head of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund, realized this as much as anyone. The Memorial Fund offices had been besieged with angry letters from all across the country. And this was the last thing Scruggs had envisioned when he'd started the Memorial Fund two years earlier with his own money. Pressure was building from all sides to scrap Maya Lin's design entirely, or at least temper it with some kind of compromise. So Scruggs listened to a proposal from a four-star general named Michael S. Davison. Davison spoke at a small, last-minute meeting of senators and members of the military. His proposal was this. Add a second, figurative

sculpture to the memorial site, a sculpture that would be more fitting, more heroic, and more traditional. Jim Webb, one of the memorial's loudest critics, thought this was a brilliant idea. And he even had an artist in mind. Frederick Hart had placed third in the Memorial Fund design competition. A 38-year-old figurative sculptor, Hart's work was muscular and realistic. His monument would be simple, a bronze sculpture of slightly larger-than-life soldiers, one white, one black, one Hispanic. The sculpture would not be complex or controversial. There would even be a flag. It would stand just above the vertex of the existing two walls towering over the grounds.

But now it was Maya Lin's turn to voice displeasure. After enduring a year of verbal abuse in the press, she insisted her memorial was not worth compromising. If compromised, it becomes nothing, even if it's a 250-foot-long nothing. Hart responded, It's not Maya Lin's memorial, nor Frederick Hart's memorial. It's a memorial to, for, and about the Vietnam veterans to be erected by the American people, in spite of what art wars occur. Lin had already defended

her design against the Memorial Committee's ideas to add protective railings and a bandstand. At an October 1982 meeting of the Commission of Fine Arts, with only a month into the Memorial's opening, she urged Commission members to reject Hart's sculpture altogether. Lynn argued that any additional monument would make the entire wall and the space surrounding it simply a backdrop with some soldiers' names on it. Under the new proposal, the wall of soldiers' names would become nothing more than a retaining wall. A compromise was brokered. Hart's second sculpture would be included, but it would be placed far back from the wall. In the commission's words, it would create an entrance experience to the memorial.

It was little comfort to Lynn that Hart's sculpture would not be ready until 1984, two years later. But it did mean that the memorial dedication in November would present the design as Lynn and the memorial fund originally intended. Meanwhile, Lynn and architect Kent Cooper's construction had other challenges to face, starting with where to source the memorial's black granite. The best granite came from Sweden or Canada, but some members of the memorial committee saw both countries as symbolic havens for draft dodgers. So the final granite slabs were shipped from India, and to accommodate all 58,000 names, the original size of the walls had to be doubled and their height extended. Lynn also continued to resist calls to display the dead soldiers' names alphabetically.

She pointed out an obvious drawback to the approach. There were 667 soldiers named Smith. Listed alphabetically, each man's uniqueness would fade into a confused mass. She insisted that the names should be displayed chronologically, according to the date of each soldier's death. Lynn would later explain, I knew the timeline was key to the experience. The design is just a list of the dead. To find the name, chances are you will see others close by. You'll see yourself reflected in them. Dedication Day arrived on November 13, 1982, two days after Veterans Day. On a cool, cloudy Saturday morning, a parade of 15,000 veterans marched down Constitution Avenue from the National Gallery to the memorial. Flags, banners, and regimental colors were proudly on display, while some veterans carried handmade signs protesting the war. Despite all the controversy, the dedication ceremony itself took place without protest.

At a podium near the memorial, speakers introduced Jan Scruggs to polite applause. Jets flew over the National Mall. The U.S. Marine Band played. But the focus remained on the veterans. Soldiers of all ranks and ages solemnly approached the Wall of Names, gazing at and touching the black reflective granite. The memorial honored the dead, but it would be up to the living, survivors and family members, to accept it. Imagine it's November 1982, Veterans Day weekend. You work as a general contractor in Silver Spring, just north of D.C. But today you've taken a cab down into the city, to the National Mall,

to meet your little brother and see the new Vietnam Memorial. You see James there on the edge of the crowd, right where he told you he'd be. The two of you haven't spoken in a while. He's younger, by seven years. But he greets you with a wry smile. Good to see you, old man. Good to see you, little brother. Gotta tell you, I'm surprised you wanted to see this. Well, I figured I'd come down here, take in all this nonsense for myself. The two of you head into the crowd. James missed Vietnam.

By the time he was of age, they'd ended the draft. So instead, he went on to college. You weren't so lucky. The two of you fall in line with a slow-moving crowd. It takes a moment before you realize you're walking down a slope into the earth. James makes small talk as you shuffle along. Well, tell me, you've been doing okay? How's business? Oh, we've been doing fine. I've been doing fine. How about you? Still taking art classes? Yeah, and waiting tables. But I've got some new pieces I'm pretty excited about. Next to you, the black wall grows taller with each step you take.

You've been thinking a lot lately about the other men in your unit. Eddie Perez, Stephen Nelson. Ones who didn't come back. You know their names are somewhere on this wall, but you can hardly bear to look for them. Hey, old man, look here. Your brother James has stopped in front of one of the panels. You were there in 71, 72, right? Would you like to find some of your friends? I have a map of the panels. They should be around here somewhere. You look up at the names. So many names, and your face reflected in them.

Around you, other veterans are softly crying. Some are touching the wall, running their fingers over the names. It's so quiet down here. James lowers his voice to a whisper. Let's find them. What were their names? His voice is so gentle, so kind. You realize that the two of you have barely ever discussed the war before today.

You weren't prepared for this moment at all. The place you're standing in is beyond a memorial or a fancy artwork. It is something else entirely. It's a sacred space. Looking into the walls of dark, polished granite, you start to scan the names. Soon enough, you'll to scan the names. Soon enough, you'll find the ones you're looking for. Visitors to the Vietnam Memorial encountered a path that slowly carried them down into the earth.

As it did, the walls of black granite rose up beside them, revealing thousands of names. Without the imagery of flags or soldiers in combat to distract, the names themselves became the substance of the monument. The high shine of the black granite reflected the park surrounding it and the viewers' faces as they tried to commune with those names. As Lynn intended, the walls created two spaces, one we are a part of and one we cannot enter. On the day of the dedication, Maya Lynn stood on the upper level of the memorial, just another face in the crowd. She was proud of what she'd accomplished,

but also understood that even though the wall's design was hers, it now belonged to the world. She later recalled, I was in tears, watching these men welcoming themselves home after almost ten years of not being acknowledged by their country for their service, their sacrifice. The controversy surrounding the memorial didn't instantly vanish from the pages of the press, but visitors hailed the monument for its interactivity, its tranquility, and emotive power. After the memorial's opening weekend, there was suddenly little room left for conflict or criticism.

That same weekend, Frederick Hart celebrated his commission by hosting a thank-you dinner for his supporters, including Jim Webb and Tom Carhart. Two years later, Hart's memorial, entitled The Three Soldiers, was installed adjacent to Maya Lin's. For his work, Hart earned $300,000, 15 times what Lin received. The Vietnam Memorial remains one of the most visited sites in the National Park Service. Veterans come to find the names of their fellow soldiers. Families look for the names of their loved ones. They leave poetry and artwork as remembrances. A visit to the memorial inspires the emotions echoed in the words of columnist James Kilpatrick. Kilpatrick

had been one of the memorial's most vocal opponents, but after seeing it, he wrote, Nothing I had heard or written had prepared me for the moment. I could not speak. I wept. This memorial has a pile driver's impact. No politics, no recriminations. The memorial carries a message for all ages. This is what war is all about. Maya Lin had the vision and temerity to create a space that defied convention, and in so doing, she solemnly, respectfully, and honestly memorialized the fallen veterans of the Vietnam War. I did not want to civilize war by glorifying it or forgetting the sacrifices involved, Min wrote. The price of human life in war should always be clearly remembered.

From Wondery, this is Episode 6 of America's Monuments from American History Tellers. On the next episode, I'm speaking to Clint Smith, staff writer for The Atlantic and author of How the Word is Passed, a look at how monuments and landmarks across America grapple with the history of slavery. We'll talk about the complicated history of some of the monuments in this series and the national conversation happening right now around Confederate statues. If you like American History Tellers, you can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts.

Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, out a short survey at wondery. For more than two centuries, the White House has been the stage for some of the most dramatic scenes in American history. Inspired by the hit podcast American History Tellers, Wondery and William Morrow present the new book, The Hidden History of the White House. Each chapter will bring you inside the fierce power struggles, the world-altering decisions, and shocking scandals that have shaped our nation. You'll be there when the very foundations of the White House are laid in 1792, and you'll watch as the British burn it

down in 1814. Then you'll hear the intimate conversations between FDR and Winston Churchill as they make plans to defeat Nazi forces in 1941. And you'll be in the Situation Room when President Barack Obama approves the raid to bring down the most infamous terrorist in American history. Order The Hidden History of the White House now in hardcover or digital edition, wherever you get your books.