It's a bit silly to look back on a simpler -- or at least less
cluttered -- time and long to recreate those moments. But as the days
grow
longer and warmer perhaps longings such as these are to be expected.
The neighborhood
picnic, the block party, the community parade, barbequed burgers and
brats, a
triple-decker sherbet cone from the local ice cream shop, badminton in
the back
yard, a bike ride just before dusk and catching a firefly or two. These
were
some of the memories of Memorial Days long ago.
But I also remember my dad standing patiently along the parade
route every year as each of his three children marched in the local
school
bands. I was the youngest, so I got to see more of my dad's
parade-viewing protocol
than either my older sister or brother did.
Dad was a World War II veteran, as were all four of his older
brothers. He served in the US Army from the day he was drafted in 1941
to late
in 1945. He had terrible eyesight so he was assigned to do the
correspondence
and be the paymaster of his unit, so he was not often -- by his own
account -- in
harm's way during his service. He did manage to sustain an injury one
Saturday
night as he and a few of his buddies ran through a field after partying a
bit
too much and he fell on a gun stand and cut his eyelid. At least that's
how
the story was always told by my mom. I only knew he hated chicken
because he
said it was served way too much in the Army. Dad never talked much
about his
soldiering with me, and he lost plenty of his friends in that war.
So every Memorial Day I'd stand at his side, watching as he
cheered his kids in the band, but also watching him raise his hand and
put it
over his heart every single time the flag passed by as part of a parade
unit.
Sometimes he'd salute when a group of soldiers marched by. He never
told me to
put my hand over my heart when I saw a passing flag; in fact he was
focused
during those moments and not worried about what I did or what others
thought.
With the Viet Nam war raging through my formative years, I
remember feeling conflicted about watching this aging soldier and father
I
adored show so much deference to the flag and practice such clear-minded
patriotism while I heard so much from people who wanted peace. It would
be a
pattern of conflicted thoughts and opinions I faced as a young woman
considering many issues of the time: civil rights, the war on poverty,
the
Equal Rights Amendment for women and other domestic concerns. My views
were
often not what my dad's were -- I was the leftie in a family of
conservatives.
But my dad never urged me to be otherwise.
The years raced by. My dad is gone. Never once did he try to
deter me from my moral, political or social views. The last year that
he cast
a vote in a Presidential election, he did not vote for the Republican --
at my
urging. He came home from the polls, called me and said, "It's all
yours,
kid." I had convinced him that he was casting a vote for future
generations
not his own. I have always wondered if I will have the courage to love
that
much. And I stood by him every chance I got at parades. I loved him so
much
and admired the quiet but strong inner peace he had surrounding his love
of
country.
I'm having more trouble with that this year. This Memorial Day I
am feeling a bit gut-punched. Oil is fouling the Gulf Coast.
Corporations are
running my government, spending my hard-earned money with the bail-out
funds
and choosing what my healthcare will or will not be. One of my sons is
somewhere in Afghanistan serving with the US Army and not speaking to me
because he believes my priorities are disordered as I advocate for peace
and
healthcare justice here at home.
My other kids and grandkids are spread out all over the country
from Michigan to Colorado to California, and we don't have summer
barbeques
together or stand on the curb to watch parades go by. We chat by text
message
when there is an emergency or the occasional obligatory holiday call.
It's an
odd long distance, high-tech sort of family unit that my dad would have
trouble
understanding. But many American families deal with these sorts of
relationships.
This Memorial Day I find myself wondering what makes me think I
can change even one tiny piece of the national scene in the United
States where
the big-money interests control so much that we face leaving our kids
and
grandkids a planet in far worse shape than we found it, a nation less
just and
less stable than we found it, states and cities more dangerous and run
down
than when we were children and neighborhoods left with little sense of
neighborhood at all. We work harder for less, and most of the people I
see
seem generally pretty unhappy unless they find a way to medicate away
reality.
Is it too late? Are we too far gone? Am I foolish to believe
we
can still change the course with enough courage and passion and hard
work and
by making better connections with one another? Or is my view tainted by
my
experience as one who lost all to the greedy healthcare system and who
has had
to claw her way out of the damage? Am I wrong to think we can still
care
enough about one another and our world to change the course?
Memorial Day 2010. So far away from what used to be reality and
way too close to realities I often feel powerless to change. Maybe my
dad knew
this whole exercise in citizenship and loving one's country would not be
an
easy one but that a simple act of remembrance of all those who lost
their lives
in the struggle so we all could fight on would be an anchor of sanity
when
things seemed so out of control.
My hand is over my heart, Dad. I'm trying. Happy Memorial Day.