"Tribute "
In August of 1994 I found myself on a business trip to our nation's capitol. My first time to DC. A chemist's convention, no less. I was there, playing the suit, stuffing the shirt, shaking the hands. Put on a big, friendly smile, meet, greet, and market. Although I play the part well, it remains a role I am not overly enthusiastic about. Though not my ideal of a good time, it did offer the opportunity to explore Washington...on company money even. Inevitably, personal time was at a premium, and, as a result, I was limited to one afternoon of exploration. Undaunted, I set off...
I began at the National Air and Space Museum, and wandered around DC -- trying to pack as many experiences as possible into this one afternoon.
Truly a wonderful afternoon! The history, beauty and energy of our capitol had my emotions in constant flux. From pride and patriotism while examining the Apollo space craft to a dark and morbid fascination when standing beneath a Soviet ICBM. The art gallery kept me occupied for hours, and yet I barely scratched its surface. Lincoln's memorial, our Declaration of Independence, and the homes and offices of our elected leaders, national heroes, and history makers all fascinated me. I could write volumes.
But I choose to elaborate on the most profound and most disturbing spectacle of Washington. A tribute, memorial, and a reminder of our nation's darker hours.
57,000 names. 57,000 men and women -- most whom had only just begun to live. 57,000 soldiers, husbands, brothers, comrades, children...lost. 57,000 hopes, dreams, desires, and loves...lost. Their light snuffed out before they ever had the opportunity to shine.
Our history, like all of humanity, is carried by a river of blood. A blood spilt for the preservation of our ideals and rituals, the whims and egos of our leaders, our greed and our need for resources, our ignorance, our failure to communicate, to accept, or our unwillingness to listen. On the surface we appear a sentimental lot by erecting memorials, statues and museums in an effort to preserve the memory of our countrymen lost in battle. However, these memorials are built on a foundation of patriotism and national pride. Our mourning fades, and the grief, stench, and horrors of war are quickly replaced by our reverence for the American way of life and the red white and blue.
Let us not forget that this way of life is coordinated and executed by men. Fallible men. Sometimes troubled, sheltered, hardened men with agendas not aimed toward the greater good. Sometimes, under the direction of these men, misguided or otherwise, lives are needlessly, carelessly lost, and a generation mourns.
During our involvement in Viet Nam, over 57,000 Americans lost their lives; 57,000 parents wept. To what end? Victory? The protection and nurture of freedom, democracy and the American way? Hardly. Did we halt the red tide of communism threatening to wash over the planet and shackle the freedoms of its inhabitants? Not quite. In the end, 57,000 our children were sacrificed, and a generation lost its innocence. We did, however, succeed in blackening another corner of the globe with the stains, the screams, and the horrors of war. Yet for over a decade, our elected leaders sanctioned this travesty.
A fitting reminder of this dark chapter of our national history, the Viet Nam memorial provides a worthy tribute to those who gave their last breath in Viet Nam. As you walk along, and the names begin to multiply, you are quickly overcome with sadness -- and shame. Tens, hundreds, soon thousands of names scroll by in front of your eyes. These lives forever removed from our midst -- left only to exist in our memories. As you stare into this wall of names, you see your own reflection in the black marble, your own reflection among the souls of those who fell. You become a part of those names, a part of this tragedy, and you begin to understand.
We condoned this. We are responsible, and only we can prevent these flames from scarring another generation of Americans.
As the names trail off, as the marble disappears into granite, and as the tear rolls slowly down your cheek, the names ask you to remember. Remember where we have been. Remember what we have done. Realize how very far we have left to go. When next we choose to play the policeman or flex the muscles of our Uncle Sam, remember the blood that already stains our hands. Before we again allow the lives of our youth to empty from the hole of a bullet, remember that tear now wiped on your sleeve. Ask yourself, are we building our future, or just another wall of tears?
