Memorial Day

The cost of freedom is buried in the ground. Take a moment to remember.

Day of Recognition
I was in Washington D.C. visiting a college friend during the winter of 80 something. I was there visiting him just after Christmas. He was busy doing his daily work routine, so I had time to kill. I thought that it would be appropriate to go and see the monuments and various other sights since I was majoring in American History. I had never been to D.C. before.
He and I walked his route to work together and when we got to the Blue Cross Blue Shield Building we went our separate ways. It was a bit chilly outside, but I didn’t mind. The brisk air felt good and the walking would do me good. I stopped first at the Washington Monument.I was uninspired. My second stop was the reflection pond. I sat there for a moment and thought how beautiful it must be during the spring when the trees were in bloom. From there I proceeded to the Lincoln Monument. I remember looking up at this marvelous sculpture and standing in front of it in awe. I could almost feel the thoughts that were held in those eyes. The quiet that surrounded the monument was eerie. This impressed me. I thought of his life and the unfulfilled dreams he had, just like so many other assassinated leaders. The Jefferson Memorial was next. I was fascinated by the architecture and all the hidden elements and symbols. I think I stood and talked to the guide for almost an hour about the different ideas that ran through the design.
My biggest surprise was yet to come. I was heading for the government buildings and then planned on hitting the Smithsonian. I remember that The Wall had had its’ grand celebration this past summer. I figured I would go there next, after all there had been such a big hubbub over it from the very beginning. People had questioned the purpose of all the names and commented on the ugliness of the black stone so sharply cutting into the earth. The controversy alone made me want to see it.
As I walked up upon the “open field” that lay before the massive black wall, I stopped and froze. The view shocked my senses and stopped me dead. I stood there, almost unable to breath. I scanned the shiny black wall from one end to the other. Slowly it seemed I was able to regain the use of my muscles and I walked ever so slowly toward the wall. The names became clearer. The wall grew larger. The silence was deafening. I looked along the bottom of the wall and saw the articles that people had left for their friends and loved ones. It was moving to see others lives lying before me. I started to read some of the names. Who was I looking for? I didn’t know anyone personally that had fought in the war other than my father. He was still alive. I felt tears well up and I began to cry.
I wasn’t sure what I was feeling, sympathy? Pain? Lost love? I didn’t know. I reached out and touched the wall. It was cold, yet I felt comfort by that action. My mind drifted off to an earlier time. I remembered saying good bye to my father as he went off to fight in the Vietnam War. I remember the kind, gentle, and loving father he was before he left for the war. I remembered how things changed when he returned.
The changes came slowly. It seemed to start with the amount of time he spent with us kids. He seemed to become more and more preoccupied with chores and projects around the house. He did build us our first color t.v. He also worked on other electronic gadgets that he categorized as his toys. We would ask him to go and do things with us and the time he used to have to play with us seemed to be diminishing. But then, maybe we were getting older and more into our neighborhood friends. His patience and tolerance for our typical childhood antics seemed to be the next to go. He put up less and less with the sibling spats and the pettiness that children show. He also seemed grow more and more irritated with my mother.
Life in general seemed to become tougher for us kids, more so for me. He seemed to have a special anger just for me. The once gentle and kind father became violent and abusive. The endearments he used to call me were gone. Now I was a slut, liar, trash, and someone God never should have wasted something as precious as life on. The physical abuse never got to the point of broken bones, but I dreaded it just the same. The hurt and pain carried on for many years. The mental abuse was the worst. Bruises heal quickly; emotions can last a lifetime. I died somewhere in my childhood, and for the first time I realized it.
I began to understand what I was feeling, while standing in front of that wall. I was looking for my name and the names of countless other children who may have suffered the same fate. My father may not have died in that war, but indirectly both he and I did, my father from PTSD, and I from the loss of innocence and the emptiness of a soul. Here I was facing the fact that I was a living corpse from the war. What was I to do and how was I to heal? I knew I had a long road ahead of me. I had a child to find and a spirit to revive. The Wall that so many people had argued about and fought over had become my healing stone.