[This special post is the first of a series inspired by the
history behind Memorial Day. Check out my similar
2012 and 2014
series for more!]
On what we don’t remember about Memorial Day, and why we
should.
In a long-ago post
on the Statue of Liberty, I made a case for remembering, and engaging much
more fully, with what the Statue was originally intended, by its French
abolitionist creator, to symbolize: the legacy of slavery and abolitionism
in both America and France, the assassination of Abraham Lincoln and the
memories of what he had done to advance that cause, and so on. I tried there,
hopefully with some success, to leave ample room for what the Statue has come to
mean, both for America as a whole and, more significantly still, for generation
upon generation of immigrant arrivals to the nation: I think those meanings,
especially when tied to Emma
Lazarus’ poem and its radically democratic and inclusive vision of our
national identity, are beautiful and important in their own right. But how much
more profound and meaningful, if certainly more complicated, would they be if
they were linked to our nation’s own troubled but also inspiring histories of
slavery and abolitionism, of sectional strife and Civil War, of racial
divisions and those who have worked for centuries to transcend and bridge them?
I would say almost exactly the same thing when it comes to the history of Memorial Day. For the
last century or so, at least since the end of World War I, the holiday has
meant something broadly national and communal, an opportunity to remember and
celebrate those Americans who have given their lives as members of our armed
forces. While I certainly feel that some of the narratives associated with that
idea are as simplifying and mythologizing and meaningless as many others I’ve
analyzed here—“they died for our freedom” chief among them; the world would be
a vastly different, and almost certainly less free, place had the Axis powers
won World War II (for example), but I have yet to hear any convincing case that
the world would be even the slightest bit worse off were it not for the quarter
of a million American troops who lives were wasted in the Vietnam War (for
another)—those narratives are much more about politics and propaganda, and
don’t change at all the absolutely real and tragic and profound meaning of
service and loss for those who have done so and all those who know and love
them. One of the most pitch-perfect statements of my position on such losses
can be found in a song by (surprisingly) Bruce Springsteen; his “Gypsy Biker,” from Magic (2007), certainly includes a strident critique of the
Bush Administration and Iraq War, as seen in lines like “To those who threw you
away / You ain’t nothing but gone,” but mostly reflects a brother’s and
family’s range of emotions and responses to the death of a young soldier in
that war.
Yet as with the Statue, Memorial Day’s original meanings and
narratives are significantly different from, and would add a great deal of
complexity and power to, these contemporary images. The holiday was first known
as Decoration Day, and was (at least per the thorough histories of it by scholarslike David Blight) originated in 1865 by a group of freed slaves in
Charleston, South Carolina; the slaves visited a cemetery for Union soldiers on
May 1st of that year and decorated their graves, a quiet but very
sincere tribute to what those soldiers have given and what it had meant to the
lives of these freedmen and –women. The holiday quickly spread to many other
communities, and just as quickly came to focus more on the less potentially
divisive, or at least less complex as reminders of slavery and division and the
ongoing controversies of Reconstruction and so on, perspectives of former
soldiers—first fellow Union ones, but by the 1870s veterans from both sides.
Yet former slaves continued to honor the holiday in their own way, as evidenced
by a powerful scene from Constance Fenimore Woolson’s “Rodman
the Keeper” (1880), in which the protagonist observes a group of ex-slaves
leaving their decorations on the graves of the Union dead at the cemetery where
he works. On the one hand, these ex-slave memorials are parallel to the family
memories that now dominate Memorial Day, and serve as a beautiful reminder that
the American family extends to blood relations of very different and perhaps
even more genuine kinds. But on the other hand, the ex-slave memorials
represent far more complex and in many ways (I believe) significant American
stories and perspectives than a simple familial memory; these acts were a
continuing acknowledgment both of some of our darkest moments and of the ways
in which we had, at great but necessary cost, defeated them.
Again, I’m not
trying to suggest that any current aspects or celebrations of Memorial Day are
anything other than genuine and powerful; having heard
some eloquent words about what my Granddad’s experiences with his fellow
soldiers had meant to him (he even commandeered an abandoned bunker and
hand-wrote a history of the Company after the war!), I share those
perspectives. But as with the Statue and with so many of our national
histories, what we’ve forgotten is just as genuine and powerful, and a lot more
telling about who we’ve been and thus who and where we are. The more we can
remember those histories too, the more complex and meaningful our holidays, our
celebrations, our memories, and our futures will be.
Series continues
tomorrow,
Ben
PS. What do you
think?
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