Dulce et Decorum Est

Well, it's Memorial Day, and I couldn't wait to put together an american flag-ridden post. Because that is just how I roll.

Case in point: today I drew American flags on at least 50 smoothie cups and wrote "Happy Memorial Day!" When I cheerfully offered that greeting to customers at the pickup counter, a few acted pretty surprised. At first I figured it's just because they hadn't heard it yet. Well, not from someone-- more like from an annoying mattress commercial using the holiday as an excuse to lure in customers with a sale.

For a lot of people, I figure the fact that it's memorial day hadn't registered. Because, let's be honest, for lot of people (including me) it becomes just a holiday.

A day for hot dogs and burgers.

And parks.

And pools (opening day, no less).

And smoothies (Oh my, I just realized I did not fit in the traditional bomb pop... shame).

All good things. And not inappropriate things since it is a holiday. A day to partake in leisure activities and all things American. Still, this is the one holiday where we are supposed to simultaneously enjoy ourselves and acknowledge the price of that ability to enjoy ourselves. Acknowledge the price.

The more I handed out smoothies with a smile and patriotic "happy memorial day!," the more I thought about what I was saying and who I was saying it to. Sure, some had come from the pool and perhaps hadn't considered the meaning of the holiday. Maybe some had pondered and were surprised that someone else was sincerely recognizing the point of this day off. Those were the scenarios that made me out to look good. You know, the high and mighty one who thought deep and hard and was out to make sure others did, too.

But maybe, just maybe, someone else had considered the day much more seriously than me. Children coming in with babysitters-- maybe their parents are in the military. Maybe the 40 year old man had served in his twenties. Maybe the mom with 3 kids under the age of 5--one on her hip, one wrapped snuggly around her leg, the other with a red ribbon tied in her curly blond hair dancing to the table--just saw her husband off on another tour of duty. Maybe she expects him home in a few days with no idea what to expect. Maybe one of my co-workers is headed off to the Air Force in a few months... well, that one is confirmed. Maybe my roommate is already thinking ahead to a future as a military wife. Maybe my brother has a friend who just died training to serve. The grandfather walking with a cane? Did he serve? The odds say he did. The odds also say a good many of his buddies didn't return with him.

Oh, Sadie, wise one. Probably more people than you know know a lot more about military service than you-- know a lot more about paying tribute, a lot more about paying price. So quit you bellyaching about the people not observing the holiday correctly and worry about honoring those people who know much more than you ever will about the cost.

I stopped addressing people like they were guilty of irreverence and started pretending like each and every one knew something about losing a relative to war-- either physically or mentally. Not happy peppy like I was celebrating better; sincerely, like I meant it.

Because the truth is that I do. I'd like to think I'm not a naive waiver of the American flag. It's not just for kicks. Not because I just feel like it or because I collect them. I don't hold it up out of arrogance or disrespect of anyone else's home country. Matter of a fact, wherever you're from whatever your cause, wave your flag and honor your soldiers. Yes, even you citizens of the enemy state. If it's my right, it should be yours, too. But as long as it is my right, I'm taking the time to thank those who made it their duty to protect that right.

Some not by choice or conviction. A lot by draft and circumstance. Some living, a lot dead. Some believing wholeheartedly in the cause of the American government, a lot strongly opposed. Some following orders, some defying them whenever given the chance. Some truly moved on, a lot forever haunted. Some receptive to recognition, a lot who'd rather soon forget. I recognize that not all believe in war, some don't believe in supporting the troops. Many feel it's a waste of lives and that the U.S. is just prideful. Perhaps I am naive in saying I don't care.

I don't raise the flag because America is perfect or even the best. I don't raise it thinking that some horrible stuff has not gone down on this soil. I don't do it thinking that each soldier was happy to lay down his or her life. I don't raise it as a white woman, a republican or a Christian, or at least not because of those things. I raise it to acknowledge the price. Because I do not want to be the ungrateful spoken of in this common Vietnam veterans' creed:

"We the unwilling, led by the unknowing; doing the impossible, for the ungrateful."

English poet Wilfred Owen wrote the following poem in 1918 about his own experience in WWI. He died on November 4 of that year in the Battle of the Sambre, one week before wars end.

Dolce et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--

Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.

The last line of the poem is latin for "it is sweet and right to die for your country." A lie, according to Owen and, I'm sure, a lot of his comrades. If I'd seen how some of the men and women I'm supposed to be honoring today died, maybe I wouldn't declare with such zest "happy memorial day!" Many don't find war and death sweet and right-- go figure. But this I know: dulce et decorum est quod vox honoro muneris-- it is sweet and right to honor service.