A Trip to the Mall
Relatives from the Mid-West asked my wife and me to meet them in Washington, DC for a day of touring. In this era of hyper-patriotism, this was the last thing I wanted to do on the weekend before Memorial Day. Hearing our itinerary on that steamy Saturday morning heightened my agitation: the Korean War, Vietnam War, WWII and Lincoln Memorials. But at the urging of my wife, I agreed to serve as tour guide for what promised to be a stroll down the memory lane of American militancy. Much to my surprise, spending a day visiting these icons of the warring prowess of our nation actually bolstered my hope in the power of nonviolence and love. Indulge me as I take you on an alternative, virtual tour of the Washington mall. The Korean War Memorial lies at the western end of the mall near the Potomac. The memorial emitted an aura of the superhuman: a platoon of nineteen 7-foot, 1000-pound stainless steel soldiers frozen in time on patrol. The scene was eerie. The soldiers had very human faces: weary, reluctant, but determined. Yet their stature connoted an immortality that insulted the numbers of casualties sketched in stone at the end of the memorial: over 54,000 American, 415,000 South Korean and 16,000 UN forces. (Missing from the memorial was an accounting of the hundreds of thousands of North Korean and Chinese troops and civilians who also died in the conflict.) This disconnect between the purpose-driven determination of the immortalized, super-sized soldiers and the tragedy of the anonymous casualties undermined the integrity of the memorial. At best, the display confused onlookers, who didn't know whether to grieve the great losses, honor the courage of the participants, or scorn the ludicrousness of the war. This was not the case at the Vietnam War Memorial, located directly across the mall from the Korean War Memorial. The message in its long, dark and unadorned wall was profound. The message was specified by what felt like a never-ending inscribed list of names of American soldiers who died in the conflict. It was brought to life by the letters, mementos and other articles still being left at the wall for loved ones. The memorial was a simple statement of death and loss. Despite its starkness, the Vietnam Memorial seemed the most animated of all the memorials I visited that day. Tourists tended to quiet down as they walked the course of the wall. Toward the end of the walk one could hear the wall whisper. "no more war, no more killing." Unfortunately, the message of the Vietnam War Memorial was drowned out by the frivolous spectacle that serves as the new memorial to the second world war, which holds a prominent place in front of the Washington Monument. The WWII Memorial seemed to celebrate war, with its large pool, gushing fountains and peripheral granite columns: a virtual Roman bath with tourists frolicking in the water. The message was clear here as well: victory is large and glorious, sacrifice is noble. For me, the design of this memorial trivialized the immense global losses of this conflict that concluded with the application of nuclear weapons upon a civilian populace. Perhaps World War II cannot be effectively memorialized by any artifact. But the climax of the day occurred at the Lincoln Memorial: a temple housing a 19-foot high, 120-ton caricature of a wise and confident Abraham Lincoln. Here was one of the best-known symbols of American liberty: a replica of the man who freed the slaves and saved the union. To escape the boisterous tourists overflowing the steps of the memorial, (this is one of the most popular sites for taking class pictures during school field trips), I wandered inside and reread two of Lincoln's speeches—the Gettysburg and Second Inaugural Addresses—inscribed on the walls. Ironically, Lincoln's own words betrayed the stony portrayal of his confidence. A phrase at the heart of the Second Inaugural speech implied Lincoln struggled with the absurdity of armed conflict. In referring to the warring northern and southern sides, Lincoln conceded that "Both read the same Bible and pray to the same God, and each invokes His aid against the other." Surely Lincoln was overcome by this angst-filled contradiction. How did one reconcile neighbor killing neighbor with the biblical teaching of loving one's enemy? And though Lincoln would not live to see it, the Civil War ultimately failed to bring authentic liberation and equality to African Americans. Troubled, I departed and rejoined my company. Like myself, they seemed to be occupied by some question. As I approached I overheard them debating where exactly Forrest Gump was standing on the steps in the recent movie starring Tom Hanks. I started to fire off a wisecrack but was cut off by my wife who wondered out loud where Martin Luther King, Jr. was standing during his "I have a Dream" speech. Her diplomatic intervention quickly moved my mind to another set of historic words connected to this memorial. King had led thousands of people to these steps and declared that a century after the promulgation of the 13th Amendment, his people were still not free. It was an eloquent speech that essentially called Americans to live by their own precepts. It was, amazingly, not an angry speech. But what has always struck me most about the speech is its central call for solidarity: "I have a dream that one day . . . the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood." After years of nonviolent protest, marked by outrageous and violent injustices against peaceful African Americans, King called for unity and commensality. The legacy of King's movement was real change, such as the Civil Rights Act—the fleshing out of the 14th Amendment. Through King's movement, the liberty and unity that a bloody war had failed to secure a century before was brought about by a long-suffering faith in love. King's words and the memory of the peaceful march on the Lincoln Memorial haunt the Washington mall. They overshadow the pretentious shrines that attempt to consecrate war: memorials that note the great sacrifices of many Americans, but also, sadly and errantly, imply that violent force is a necessary companion to liberty and justice. Scott Fina A member of CPF and St. Malachy's Parish, Scott has taught at St. Joseph's and Temple Universities. |