God bless America, says the elderly man sitting beside me.
And for a moment, I feel what he might mean. A wash of nostalgia, sentimentality and weight. Is this how patriotism feels?
I’m conflicted about war memorials, Love it or Leave It bumper stickers, and the red, white & blue. Even the holidays— Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Veteran’s Day — make me uneasy. Too much macho, testosterone, blow-‘em-up-and-boast-about-it.
I’m a pacifist. A lover, not a fighter. I want to make art, not war. I could be a Quaker.
Yes, yes, I’m happy to live in the land of the free. I’m not ungrateful. I recognize sacrifice. I married a veteran, and yet, I bristle at these glorifications masked as honor.
But here I am, on a bus in a parade, filled with elderly men who have served in the Navy, Army, Marines. The street is lined with people of all ages, smiling, holding flags, and waving at us. As we drive past, a woman puts her hand to her heart. A man mouths thank you. A group of children hold a banner they made: We love you, Veterans!
The heart swells. Who wouldn’t like this?
***
People say, Thank you for your service. I can’t say what I don’t fully grasp, and instead I ask: What was it like?
It was fun, says John.
My heart sinks. Surely I misheard. I’m expecting honor, duty, sacrifice. He’s 90, he didn’t mean it, he misunderstood. It’s not suppose to be adrenaline and exuberance. But war, like life, is rarely lived in black and white. Fun could mean camaraderie, could mean purpose, could mean belonging. Fun could mean young.
***
Inside the bus, the radio plays Anchors Away and we are lifted in an easy joy. Our group, in their 70s, 80s and 90s, is all smiles.
Look, I say, the children are waving to you. And John, his spine bent in such a severe curve he can hardly look up, even he is waving.
Isn’t that something, he says, as his frail hand rises to acknowledge the praise, waving and waving. All these people out here for us.
***
Photographing the Suddenly Dead (an excerpt)
We no longer have to name
the sins that we are guilty of.
The evidence for every crime
exists. What one
must always answer for
is not what has been done, but
for the weight of what remains
as residue—every effort
must be made to scrub away
the stain we’ve made on time.
— Kevin Powers
from Letter Composed During a Lull in the Fighting
* Names and identifiers have been changed to protect privacy.