Memorial Weekend in DC

I have to admit that, like many veterans my age, I’ve spent every Memorial Day in recent memory with veterans and soldiers I’ve served with, or met in the service. We would drink, talk about our friends, talk about soldiers who remain forever soldiers, because they never lived to become a veteran. We might cook food, sure, but for us, it’s never exactly been a holiday.

But this Memorial Day I felt like it wasn’t enough. We lost, and it’s always important to remember those we lost, but I needed to honor those who had gone before, fallen servicemembers I would never know, because they paved the way for me. I know there’s a lot of talk going on about who heroes are, but for me, it’s always been the generations past, who went willingly to ensure that we have never had a war on our own soil since the Civil War. It’s hard for Americans who have never read or travelled or seen what happens to places we fight in to understand how much that means, that our families have lived in relative safety for a hundred years. But for those who have, it means a lot.

When I got there, it was intense, humbling, and incredibly emotional. I think I’ve been somewhat insulated, living where I do, from the enormous groundswell of support and remembrance from the American people, and from veterans who absolutely, at all costs, will remember their brothers and sisters.

Like the Korean War Veterans Association, whose tribute to their brothers at the Korean War Memorial was incredible. They came not for any photo op, or to try for funding or anything like that. They didn’t use the day for anything than its purpose: a remembrance of their fallen brothers. Sixty years since that war was hot, and many of these gentlemen were extremely elderly, facing debilitating heat. Yet still they came, honored their brothers, and left with few words. They didn’t ask for thanks – but if you happen to want to give them some, Director Thomas McHugh happened to give me his name, and might pass it on.

But where I broke was actually the World War II memorial. I hadn’t expected to see many other people there, or signs that people had been there. It was important for me, to honor the dead of this war. Some of them not much older than my daughter, who signed up by lying to their recruiters about their age, they were so eager to be fighting back against the greatest evil this world has ever known.

But of course, Rolling Thunder had already been there – the wreaths of flowers of remembrance. And they weren’t the only ones – flowers and flags had been left by every state – some wreaths from counties near and far, others unmarked. On this day, no one was forgotten.

And on the ground, next to the fountain, lovingly placed, was a small, yellowing hometown newspaper clipping in a sealed ziplock bag, about the death of a servicemember.

I am not ashamed to admit that I cried like a baby, though I couldn’t even tell you precisely why. Call me weak if you want to. But the idea that in the middle of this enormous, commercialized holiday, there were so many keeping the faith – remembering so that it is never, ever forgotten – that meant something to me, even if it is hard to explain. As did their sacrifice. As will, always, their sacrifice.

These are, indeed, hallowed grounds.

Category: Politics