The
air is heavy here—not just the June humidity waiting for rain but heavy with
memory. For all the political self-serving propaganda of war memorials in the
capitol of a powerful nation, the spirits of my people lies thick on the land,
crying their sorrow, their rage, their brotherhood, their courage. They rest
under the trees of their native land and their eulogies are sung by a thousand
birds.
Across
the lawn is a vast wall of names, men and women dead fighting the wars of the
rich and powerful. In front of me is a statue of a dying soldier tended by a
female medic—perhaps designed to be a nod toward gender equality, but what I
really see is the central virtue of my people. Loyalty above all else.
Sacrifice for a brother in arms.
For
many Americans, community is formed in the military. Unions, gangs, and granges
serve that purpose to an extent, and churches to a lesser degree, but the bonds
formed in the armed forces are by far the most powerful for my people.
What
keeps working Americans fighting the wars of petty politicians? Economics play
a part—joining the military may be the only option for a kid who wants to get
ahead. It is a way out. But it is not only that. It is community and a place to
belong and a place you know your comrades have your back. It is a place where
people lay down their lives for each other. It is a chance to be part of
something greater than yourself.
As
I look at the vastness of the place, as I walk with bowed head past the names
of the dead, I honor them. The Capitol is a tiny dot in the distance—the place
where wealthy men and women whose children are usually safe from war decide the
fate of thousands, millions. But, here, among the dead, I see courage and loss
and love. I see a community born of struggle and born of our intense need to
find a place to belong.
