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Nagasaki Vigil: August 9, 2008
I had taken the Frankford El from 69th Street into town, getting off at City Hall. We old-timers ride free, you know, courtesy of the State lottery. I don’t like to encourage gambling, but if folks want to do it, I may as well share in the perks. Riding the El is quite an experience, you know, as there are all kinds of people sitting around, mostly immersed in their own thoughts or reading the newspaper. There’s a free daily that the transit company gives out to patrons. The revenue from the ads must help balance their budget. Emerging from the underground station, I soon came into the beautiful view up the Parkway. There was the Art Museum at the end, with its great stone steps, the ones Rocky ran up in the movie. Whenever I walk on the Parkway, I take note of all the flags from around the world, each on a separate lamppost, each with its own nametag, all alphabetical. It makes you think how small the world really is, how we are connected to one another. I was walking up the Parkway towards the Catholic Cathedral, about half-way there, when I tripped over a piece of lumber protruding from a temporary cyclone fence, the kind contractors put up to keep people off the lot. I fell on my right knee, and I scraped some skin off. It was bleeding, but I was too proud to let on that anything was wrong. At the same time, I sort of hoped someone would come forward and say, “Are you OK? Can I help you?” It wasn’t crowded that time of a Saturday morning, but there were some around who saw me fall. Nobody said a word. Not even eye contact. “Oh well,” I thought, “they all have their own things to think about, and they don’t want to get involved with a stranger.” I’m not sure what I would have done in the same situation, but I hope I would have reached out to help. Not that I wanted help, of course. I got to the plaza across the street from the church, and the usual small crowd of peaceniks were milling around, handing out signs and setting up the mikes and speakers. It was a vigil, remembering the bombing of Nagasaki four decades ago. Why have it in front of a Catholic Church? Well, for one thing, we weren’t invited inside, so we had to stay out front, where the police could keep a watch on us. But why a church? Well, ground zero of the fat man bomb, named after good old Winnie Churchill, had been over the largest Catholic Cathedral in Asia. So it was sort of symbolic. I grabbed a sign and held it up so passing motorists could see it. They mostly seemed puzzled, not seeing the connection, but also not interested enough to find out. Zoom, zoom, and dash off before the light changes. One of our regular group called out: “What happened to your knee? It’s bleeding.” Well, I knew it was bleeding, that was no news for me. I also could feel the pain. But I’m a stoic about these things. I also am embarrassed when people want to help me in situations like this. But he knew me well enough and was undeterred. He got me a bunch of paper napkins from a fast food joint nearby and I was able to soak up some of the blood. And that was all. I put the blood and the pain out of my mind and just took in the scene. Cars were passing by, and some gave us a good-natured honk of encouragement. I walked around and talked to some people I knew, mostly older folks. They have been at this for a long time, and they don’t give up. There were some young people too, and they were most welcome. They are our hope for the future. I watched a young woman go up to the microphone. She began to sing, and I recognized the song and realized that I knew her. She had done an impromptu performance of this song at the last meeting of our group. As she belted it out, I realized what a great song it was, one she had written herself. It was great. Her husband was holding on to the baby while she sang. I went up to her afterwards and gave her a hug. She could have been my daughter. I don’t know who heard and actually listened to the song. Cars were passing by, so some caught snatches of it, but what could they make out of a peace vigil in front of a church? Across the street were some well-dressed young people gathered together, lounging on the steps of the Cathedral, smoking, laughing, talking loudly. Judging from the tuxedoes and formal gowns, they seemed to be part of an elaborate wedding. Probably they were waiting for the bride to arrive. Brides are allowed to arrive late at their own wedding, and no one can complain about it. The bridal party seemed to be completely unaware of the vigil group across the street. The separation between the two groups was complete. “Why couldn’t they at least be polite,” I thought, “and listen to this great song?” But I knew they had other things on their mind, and they probably thought the same thing about us. Why did we have to come and create this weird spectacle on a beautiful wedding day? For their part, the police listened. Of course, that was their job. The hour was soon over, and I helped pack up the signs and paraphernalia. Then I turned back toward the City Hall station. This time I was careful and gingerly stepped over the board that was the cause of my injury. As I looked at the booby trap, the thought crossed my mind that perhaps I could sue the City. But why would I want to do that? Let it be. Riding home, I reflected on my little adventure and concluded that they are all good people, trying to do their best: the strollers on the Parkway who looked the other way, the cops who were doing their job, the nervous wedding party wanting to make it a beautiful experience, the guy who gave me the paper napkins, our singer with her beautiful song and beautiful baby, and the old veteran who packed up the signs and the mikes. With
good people, all we have to do is get them to listen to one another. That
will be the beginning of peace. Dom Roberti |