The one and only letter I’ve written to my congressman was really sort of a team effort.
It came in May 1975, when some of my sixth grade buddies and I gathered beneath a tree at school.
This gathering, as you might imagine, was not a socratic think tank. On most days, we’d argue whether Roger Staubach was a better quarterback than Terry Bradshaw — or if there was a pretty girl alive who’d actually talk to any of us (the answer: no, not for several years).
But on that warm Arizona afternoon, we turned our attention to what we’d seen on TV the past few days: the fall of Saigon; the indelible images of U.S. personnel and frantic Vietnamese being plucked from an embassy rooftop; American choppers being shoved off carrier decks to make room for landings of more helicopters, most swollen with bewildered allies who soon…