Generations

This Memorial Day was different. At the National Memorial Day Concert on television, a young Marine stood at attention during the playing of the Marine Corps hymn. He was missing both of his arms due to combat injuries…. "Always Faithful, Semper Fi" I heard "In Flanders Fields" read and "Taps" played again for what seemed like the millionth time, but this year I really heard them. The sound of a lone bugle playing that somber melody has always touched me. This year I heard the blood in those words and in those notes, and I saw the tears in those salutes.

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row

That mark our place, and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard among the guns below.

I was the first in my generation not to serve in the Armed Forces. Many of my relatives served in both World Wars and in Vietnam. My great-grandfather, who lived to the age of 105, was an Army doctor in World Wars I and II. I was told that he went on the second wave of D-Day to clean up after the first wave. I can only imagine what that could have felt like. I am told that he never talked about that much to anyone; he pretty much skipped over that part of his military history in conversations. My grandfather on my dad's side earned a Purple Heart over in the Pacific in World War II, while my grandfather on my mother's side was in the Navy on a refueling station over in Singapore during that same war. My dad spent time in the Air Force, and was in a communications unit in Vietnam during the late 1960's.

He had friends who were killed in action over there; just several of thousands lost whose names grace the Vietnam Memorial Wall in Washington DC. I visited there with my dad in 1992, and became acutely aware of the bravery and the gravity of the sacrifice given by those who fought and died. Picture if you can; taking your son or daughter down to the airport to see them off, knowing they are leaving to fight in a foreign land, and might not ever return. That happened to so many people, and I wonder if it is lost on those of my generation. Seeing the endless sea of names on that black wall in Washington left an impression on me. Somewhere between those names, and the echoes of mortar shells that come during 4th of July fireworks, lay the memories of those who came before. I can only imagine what that feels like.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow

Loved and were loved, and now we lie,

In Flanders fields

There was the possibility that I could have gone to Iraq during the first Gulf War; I had just turned 18 and registered for Selective Service the week before it broke out in 1991. That being said, I was still raised with a strong sense of patriotism and pride in our nation's history. In particular, I developed a strong affinity for the history of the Civil War; and also the music and culture of the time between then and before World War II. Year after year, I became slowly aware of my parents and grandparents' contributions to our national defense. Perhaps not much in the grand scheme of things, but it only takes one person to make a difference. When I walked into that room in 1991 and signed that Selective Service form, something inside of me was sure that I was headed overseas. Some thirteen odd years later, here I am. I did not end up overseas, instead I am writing these words down, slowly making enough sense of my history while trying to find my way in the larger American landscape.

For me history is a reflection of my art and creativity, for my relatives I think history was more literal. They were a part of generations whose lives are recorded in the books we read. I don't think I'll ever be able to claim that for myself. With the prose that I write, the music that I compose, and the songs that find their way out of me, perhaps what I can do is offer a unique idea about what went on before me. Some guilt does exist in me about me not serving in the military, but it is likely more of my own making than anyone else. I think us artists struggle with that, and that guilt can be magnified against the canvas of a military upbringing.

Oddly enough, this work that is before us right now in these pages, represents the most honest and straightforward look that I have ever given this subject of my family and its military history. Stranger still is the fact that this rendering comes through text and not musical sounds, as such given the majority of my professional training. Slowly I've began to realize that music is the sounds of life, as much as anything. My part on this score is something like the 2nd oboe or the viola part or something; that interior part is not too noticeable until it isn't there.

This year, things seemed to come full circle. My grandparents on both sides, seems to really look their age; for the first time in a long time I thought of them as "old". Even my parents seemed older. The stories stay the same, but the eyes are wearier, and their faces show the years. Then I looked in the mirror and noticed the beginnings of wrinkles and the slight tinge of gray in my own hair.

But at the same time, there was and still is an overriding sense of God and country in our family always has been and always will be. I've often thought about what my father experienced in Vietnam and what my grand-parents experienced over in the Pacific in World War II…what they saw, who they met. My dad saw bombings and lived with the fear of death first hand everyday. I think he knew that we were in an unpopular war. He has the name of high school friends on the Vietnam Wall, I saw him cry there. I have to remember that My Heavenly Father is watching us from up there, where I have booked my ticket for someday.

These stories have a life to them because they are real. I have wondered how my life's stories compare to theirs, and wonder that mine may pale in comparison. At those times, they were about like me, even younger then. The world was such a different place then it is now. But then again, is it really? Our sons and daughters are still over on foreign shores, fighting for something we like to call "freedom". Parents still wake up to uncertain times. We claim to be wiser with each passing generation, but are we and at what cost?

I believe Gen. George Patton said "War is immoral" and I'd be inclined to agree. But strife happens when you have two equally opposing ideologies, both thinking that they are right. I am certainly no left-wing pacifist, nor am I an ultra-rightwing war monger. Is God on our side or theirs? Or does God take sides? I'm reminded of Romans 8:28 "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who are called according to His purpose." (NIV translation).

The reader may be pouring over these pages, and think that the narrator here is some kind of conservative, Bible-beating preacher. Let me unpack that for a minute. First, I despise both the terms liberal and conservative. For me neither carries much weight. Jesus Christ came preaching the Kingdom of God, I doubt that he was viewed as a conservative. Yet those who claim to be Christians get labeled conservative. I don't get it. But then again, it doesn't bother me that I don't get it. Instead, it is my hope that through these words, you may get a loving look at some people, and the part in history that they played, through eyes of their own flesh and blood.

Ultimately, I know I'm not a soldier like my dad and grandparents are; I am not wired that way. I'd still go if called, because my personal well-being is less important here. I think we needed to be in Iraq, but I wonder why we didn't finish the job in 1991. Just because I'm patriotic, doesn't mean I don't have questions. But then again, the world doesn't revolve around my questions….But at the same time, there was and still is an overriding sense of God and country in our family always has been and always will be. I don't like war, but I recognize its necessity. I'm sure my relatives didn't like going overseas to fight. I can't quantify their feelings of fear for them. Ultimately I wonder if I just didn't possess the same amount of courage that they did. All I can do is wonder what I would do if I were in their situation. If I recall correctly, none of my relatives who fought, waited for the draft, they all enlisted straight away.

I honestly don't know the answers to these, and I doubt I ever will. It is pointless for me to even attempt an answer in the space of this text. I know my dad faced those same questions some 35 years ago. I can see it in his eyes now more than ever, and I am beginning to understand. It's funny how we spend so much time rebelling against our own upbringing that we forget to see that's what makes us who we are. As we grow up we make different choices in different times. But if we back up and look at our lives through a different lens, I think there is no question that we become our parents. Inevitably, we spend so much time trying so hard not to become what our parents had become, until one day we just happen to look in the mirror, and we're them.

Generations come and go, and we all tend to forget the sacrifices made. Payment in blood and lives seems difficult for us to understand sometimes, especially given the past 20-30 years of relative peace. It seems oddly sentimental to say "lest we forget", but I wonder how many of us really have. I have; I know I've been guilty of that. I think I needed to be around for this Memorial Day. As I pass begin my 31st year on this earth, I find myself at peace unlike I've felt in years. But it took a relative maelstrom to get here. Suddenly, without much forethought, I found myself composing the words that you have just read. This is more than 30 years of my observations of myself, my family, and my God. I had no intention of writing these lines, and yet this narrative had to come out. Perhaps it is my role in all of this, in my family to be the scribe of these events; to take them down so that others might know that their families are more precious than they may ever know if they don't take the time to ask.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from falling hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

Major John McRae, 1915

Postscript: Major John McRae was a Canadian army doctor in the Ypres Salient in Belgian Flanders during World War I. Like many young men of his day, he wrote poetry and was quite good. After conducting the burial service of a fallen comrade, McCrae went to sit on the step of a field ambulance and composed the immortal words that I have used here to frame this piece..

WORKS CONSULTED

Groom, Winston A Storm in Flanders: The Ypres Salient, 1914-1918. New York: Groves Press, 2002.

National Memorial Day Concert, National Public Television broadcast,
New York/Washington DC. 31 April 2004.