MAY 28, 2023 – On this Memorial Day, I’m moved to express a somewhat contrarian view. I have nothing against the occasion; just the manner in which we observe it.
Quick! What’s the first thing most Americans think of when they hear, “Memorial Day”? Exactly: “weekend.” And what do we most closely associate with “Memorial Day Weekend”? Of course: hot dogs, hamburgers, mustard, ketchup, potato salad, big bags of chips, and perhaps . . . badminton in the backyard or whiffle ball in the park, Dad pitching, Mom catching, sister at bat, cousins playing infield, crazy aunts and uncles in the outfield, grandma and grandpa cheering from the picnic table benches.
Okay, okay, okay. “Foul ball!” cries a third of the population. “This is flag-waving day, bigger even than the Fourth of July [when we have fireworks as added distractions].” Of course it is. On our way up to the Red Cabin Saturday, as we passed through a very red and very affluent rural stretch of roadway northeast of the cities, we saw property fronts festooned with flags. One display was exceptionally formal—large American flags on tall poles alternating among the military service flags, all flapping smartly with the discipline of honor guards. A neighbor down the road from this exhibition was more down to earth: at regular intervals along the highway a couple dozen flags on short sticks had been stuck in the ground. Then there was the small Wisconsin town where along main street an estimated one hundred eighty (yes, 180) fresh, full-sized, American flags on light poles (two per pole; some poles with four) waved us through. I marveled at the storage requirements for such an inventory of flags.
In all seriousness—and here’s my contrariness coming through—I take greater issue with the flag-waving than I do with the burgers, potato salad, and whiffle ball.
As we ducked under the scores of flags on display in the town of Cumberland, Wisconsin, I thought about all the wars in which our country’s heroes have laid down their lives. I thought of the mothers, fathers, wives, sisters, brothers, children, friends and acquaintances of the soldiers, sailors and airmen who never came back; the losses too great to overcome, the sorrows too deep to measure. Their sacrifice was all in the name—truth be told—of war, of killing our own kind, of the failure of politics, the breakdown of diplomacy . . . the absence of reason. And all too often, soldier deaths were the result of colossal failures by generals and their civilian leaders, both at strategic and tactical levels, over which the ones laying down their lives had no say, no power, no influence.
For all non-military deaths, heroic or otherwise, we drape our reaction in black, but in war—humankind’s ultimate failure—we glorify death in the bright colors of nationalistic pride. This glory serves only to inspire further war—further failure—and sacrifice.
None of this is to denigrate military service or the sacrifice of life by those who wore the uniform. Quite the opposite. But in remembering those who fought and died in our wars, let’s honor them with honesty, not some shallow notion of patriotism measured by the size and number of flags waving above our picnics and sports stadiums—and pre-owned car lots.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
