To Those Who Have Gone Before

This post is dedicated to those servicemen, both active and veteran, who have directly impacted my life. To my father, Roger, to my mentor, Jeff, and to my uncle, James, as well as those incredible individuals I have met in my life in DC thus far. These words are yours and yours alone. 

It was hazy beneath the clouds and the hills stretched out in long, deep peaks. Somewhere among the wave of tourists, silent tears were shed and prayers were uttered. Before me lay an unknowable number of white carved stones of various hewn states; their presence a superficial afterthought from the identity of he who lies beneath. Their lives and loves are preserved here in timelessness. Flowers and nations bloom from their sacrifice, preserved on these mounds of uncontainable verdure. Inexplicably complex, untouchable and vast, this is Arlington National Cemetery.

I took this journey seemingly alone, but I was more than haunted throughout my walk by the pithy ghosts of warriors now and yon. I frequented cemeteries regularly in France, according to the Parisian custom of wandering into history. They are small in that place, with winding cobblestones and ancient tombstones. But here in America, nothing is done with subtlety and the landmarks to the deceased are no exception. Even so, the place is immense, glazed with gloom and severity. I walked endlessly from path to path, expecting at any moment to find the cemetery's edge and look once again into the skyline of Washington. No such thing occurred. I rounded corners in vain to find sprawling rows of headstones. I have never been to a place so desperately immense. Nor have I ever seen a marker of atrocity that plans for future peril, too.

It was a special place, too, yesterday afternoon, after the President left and the concert to memorialize these victims had ended. Each grave is given a small flag and a red rose three times a year: Memorial Day, July 4th, and Veteran's Day. And while I loved the symbolism it gives to an already iconic place, I couldn't help but question the tradition. Do we, as Americans, wordlessly apologize for the conflicts and conscriptions of our forefathers? Are we so ambivalent about the past that the best we can do is place a little cotton square on each burial marker? Can we look into the Virginian hills, not yet tainted with blood from the fallen, and know that thousands or millions more may join the ranks?

In my short story club this week, we read a classic piece titled, An Occurrence at Owl Creek. Said occurrence, it would seem, was the drawn out death of a confederate soldier, who was unsuccessfully hanged, then drowned, then shot. It is all written from his point of view, so the agony and curiosity of death litters each word and the color gray douses the entire tale in dehumanizing fashion. We may be black or white, but our skin is never gray.

I sat back and listened as the discussion raged on. Between this incidence, my day at Arlington, and my recent encounters with army veterans of varying ages, I've been forced to grapple with violence, death, and murder. My inability to deal with violence is a sort of sickness I inherited, albeit proudly, from my mother. I cannot watch Quentin Tarantino and I hide my face in my little sister's shoulder during movie scenes that feature graphic deaths. I've never seen someone die. All my family is alive. All my friends, too.

I suppose you could call me young, or just lucky, or perhaps even naive. Even so, as I mourned and absorbed our country's innumerable losses, I felt more pity for those who have seen atrocity and lived than those who experienced it and passed. I am and capable of many things the world affords me, but I confess that the strength of my spirit is not so great that I could function after such sights.

I believe this is the first time I have understood why so much respect and adoration is afforded to those who serve in the armed forces in America. The respect is not for the following of orders, the donning of uniforms, or the process of dehumanizing a people. We all do these things in our everyday life, in our own way - at work, at home, in our personal lives. No, this respect is gratefulness, really. Because of these brave, tenacious souls, we will never watch atrocity in action. We do not carry scars and secrets in the confines of our skin. We experience no burden of destruction and of the dead. They go to prepare and sustain this place for us. And for the republic, for which we stand.

May we never forget to place flags and upon the blades of grass beneath which you lay. May we never forget to place roses upon the pure white stones that bind you.