Let Their Spirits Dance: A Novel by Stella Pope Duarte

By Stella Pope Duarte

Let Their Spirits Dance is the relocating tale of a family's trip throughout the USA. Thirty years after the loss of life of the family's son and brother, Jesse, in Vietnam, the relatives has remained in lots of methods locked in a time of grief and discomfort. Having heard her son's voice, Alicia makes a vow to the touch his identify at the Vietnam Memorial Wall in Washington, D.C., and her determination evokes her warring youngsters, besides thousands of strangers around the country.

Stella Pope Duarte portrays a kin being affected by the common scars suffered via all who've been touched by way of dying via conflict. during this powerfully evocative novel, Pope Duarte connects relatives, neighbors, and a complete country with the names at the Wall, honoring the lads and girls who served in Vietnam in addition to those that watched and waited, yet by no means forgot.

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Sample text

No, but I’ll get better. Don’t be surprised when you see me either. ” Two days after Christmas, a deputy sheriff dropped by to serve a subpoena on me for assault charges. “I should be charging her! ” “I don’t know anything about it, ma’am,” he said, uninterested. ” “I’m a schoolteacher. ” “Nobody’s a criminal until proven guilty, if that’s any comfort. If I were you, I’d get pictures…of your face…you know, before and after. ” “If it’s your word against hers, it’ll be hard to prove,” he said, handing me the papers.

Hills have a number out here. Sometimes the big shots get mixed up and don’t know which hill we’re on. Most of the guys out here are OK, but there’s some assholes, like Major Cunningham, a gabacho who likes to volunteer for all kinds of action. I told him, stop volunteering our platoon, pendejo, what do you want, to see us all dead? We got enough to do. The vato wants to be a celebrated hero. He makes the rules in the rear and you know us, los Chicanos we’re out there, front lines. I tell the guys shoot, cover yourselves, but it’s hard when you look at the Vietnamese in the face.

The smoke was cleansing the air around him of evil spirits. He saw me trudge up to his shack and never said a word. He was smoking his ironwood pipe with the sculpted faces on the stem. My voice was gone. A whine began from deep within my breastbone. I had never heard it before. I moved toward the old man and knelt by his side. 36 / LET THEIR SPIRITS DANCE I clung to his neck, holding on to him for dear life. Over and over again, I let out the tone of a melody that never varied. The pitch was the same, and it came in great gulps.

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