"Hey man, hope you don't mind spending so much time here, but this is really important to me."
Upon entering the World War II Memorial in Washington D.C., I had chills. Ben and I were by no means the only visitors as we strolled past the Bas-relief panels. We took a moment to study each. The scenes represented a total mobilization and unification of the country and her citizenry, something unique to America that had not happened before, or taken place since World War II.
We entered the plaza. A whispering breeze waved a light mist from the fountain. Aside from the cascading water, there was no noise. Total peace and quiet. From where we stood, pillars formed an oval arena with two pavilions at either end - one for the Pacific conflict, the other commemorating the Atlantic.
I stepped up the promenade, my fingers brushing the granite perimeter. There were 56 pillars in total, each commemorating a U.S. state, district, or territory that contributed to the war effort. At the base of nearly every one were individual flowers or bouquets. The silence was humbling and reflective.
At the Atlantic Pavilion I stood beneath the laurel wreath and looked across the site. In what would become one of the most moving experiences of my life, I turned to descend the other side. Immediately upon doing so, caught in my own reflection, I realized I was in danger of stepping into someone's photo. I smiled sheepishly, apologized, ducked my head, and quickly passed, but only a moment's glance captured in my mind an image that I shall never forget.
An elderly woman stood by one of the state pillars. She was accompanied by, I guessed, her three daughters. The woman held a single rose, posing for the very photo that I nearly stepped into. What struck me in that nanosecond glance was her equanimity. Behind her eyes there was a definite twinge of pain, of loss. Yet, she stood with a sense of dignity and composure that in no way could be faked.
Ben and I pressed on, moving from the World War II Memorial, to those commemorating the Korean and Vietnam Wars. There were Honor Flight veterans from each conflict, with ceremonies, which we politely viewed from a distance.
As we made our way to the Lincoln Memorial we passed by a group of World War II veterans. I thanked them for their service. Ben, from Australia, did the same. As we walked we shared a similar overall feeling, "I don't get moved by much, but that was incredible."
At the Lincoln Memorial I did something I rarely take the time to do: I read the words. Chiseled into stone at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington D.C. are the accolades of a nation founded on concepts of human liberty, equality, and freedom. They are words of pride, of sacrifice, and of unity. These words echo similar sentiments also immortalized in stone, immediately across the Reflecting Pool at the World War II Memorial.
They are words that, when one takes but a moment to ponder their meaning and significance, are as deeply moving and inspiring as the woman with the rose.
Standing at the threshold of the Lincoln Memorial is a rewarding experience. One can gaze down the length of the Mall, which is fringed with world-class museums, monuments, and memorials - precisely what Washington, D.C. is famous for.
The Smithsonian, the memorials, and the monuments are poignant, and deeply so. But, they are moving for what they represent, not because of their physical location. You could transfer each one to a different location in the U.S. and still retain the profundity. In fact, doing so would expose Washington for what it is - the cultureless, corrupt, and wholly unhelpful city I described last week.
To drive the point further I realized, the same cannot be said about, say, New York City. You could not remove the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, Brooklyn Bridge, Broadway, or any of the vibrant and creative districts of Manhattan to another locale and still retain their identity.
Washington D.C. has always been disconnected from America. This country was founded in Philadelphia; George Washington took the oath of office as the first President in New York City. As the capital, D.C. only came about as the result of a governmental compromise.
This observation could not have been clearer as I stood within the walls of the Lincoln Memorial, pouring over the words spoken by a man who is unequaled in terms of articulation. How ironic, that those words are found in the nation's capital - no one speaks that way about America anymore, particularly those entrenched in this very city within the beltway moat, charged with the task of running it.
On the rare occasion that someone does speak out with a sense of pride and patriotism, that person is ridiculed by a self-appointed class of intelligentsia possessing not a fraction of the dignity, elegance, or modesty as the woman with the rose. The feeling was absolutely tangible - we are losing something precious and unique. We are losing our identity. We are becoming just like everyone else.
And with that I, the American, descended the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Just two paces behind me was the Australian, following my path. How symbolic.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
Upon entering the World War II Memorial in Washington D.C., I had chills. Ben and I were by no means the only visitors as we strolled past the Bas-relief panels. We took a moment to study each. The scenes represented a total mobilization and unification of the country and her citizenry, something unique to America that had not happened before, or taken place since World War II.
We entered the plaza. A whispering breeze waved a light mist from the fountain. Aside from the cascading water, there was no noise. Total peace and quiet. From where we stood, pillars formed an oval arena with two pavilions at either end - one for the Pacific conflict, the other commemorating the Atlantic.
I stepped up the promenade, my fingers brushing the granite perimeter. There were 56 pillars in total, each commemorating a U.S. state, district, or territory that contributed to the war effort. At the base of nearly every one were individual flowers or bouquets. The silence was humbling and reflective.
At the Atlantic Pavilion I stood beneath the laurel wreath and looked across the site. In what would become one of the most moving experiences of my life, I turned to descend the other side. Immediately upon doing so, caught in my own reflection, I realized I was in danger of stepping into someone's photo. I smiled sheepishly, apologized, ducked my head, and quickly passed, but only a moment's glance captured in my mind an image that I shall never forget.
An elderly woman stood by one of the state pillars. She was accompanied by, I guessed, her three daughters. The woman held a single rose, posing for the very photo that I nearly stepped into. What struck me in that nanosecond glance was her equanimity. Behind her eyes there was a definite twinge of pain, of loss. Yet, she stood with a sense of dignity and composure that in no way could be faked.
Ben and I pressed on, moving from the World War II Memorial, to those commemorating the Korean and Vietnam Wars. There were Honor Flight veterans from each conflict, with ceremonies, which we politely viewed from a distance.
As we made our way to the Lincoln Memorial we passed by a group of World War II veterans. I thanked them for their service. Ben, from Australia, did the same. As we walked we shared a similar overall feeling, "I don't get moved by much, but that was incredible."
At the Lincoln Memorial I did something I rarely take the time to do: I read the words. Chiseled into stone at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington D.C. are the accolades of a nation founded on concepts of human liberty, equality, and freedom. They are words of pride, of sacrifice, and of unity. These words echo similar sentiments also immortalized in stone, immediately across the Reflecting Pool at the World War II Memorial.
They are words that, when one takes but a moment to ponder their meaning and significance, are as deeply moving and inspiring as the woman with the rose.
Standing at the threshold of the Lincoln Memorial is a rewarding experience. One can gaze down the length of the Mall, which is fringed with world-class museums, monuments, and memorials - precisely what Washington, D.C. is famous for.
The Smithsonian, the memorials, and the monuments are poignant, and deeply so. But, they are moving for what they represent, not because of their physical location. You could transfer each one to a different location in the U.S. and still retain the profundity. In fact, doing so would expose Washington for what it is - the cultureless, corrupt, and wholly unhelpful city I described last week.
To drive the point further I realized, the same cannot be said about, say, New York City. You could not remove the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, Brooklyn Bridge, Broadway, or any of the vibrant and creative districts of Manhattan to another locale and still retain their identity.
Washington D.C. has always been disconnected from America. This country was founded in Philadelphia; George Washington took the oath of office as the first President in New York City. As the capital, D.C. only came about as the result of a governmental compromise.
This observation could not have been clearer as I stood within the walls of the Lincoln Memorial, pouring over the words spoken by a man who is unequaled in terms of articulation. How ironic, that those words are found in the nation's capital - no one speaks that way about America anymore, particularly those entrenched in this very city within the beltway moat, charged with the task of running it.
On the rare occasion that someone does speak out with a sense of pride and patriotism, that person is ridiculed by a self-appointed class of intelligentsia possessing not a fraction of the dignity, elegance, or modesty as the woman with the rose. The feeling was absolutely tangible - we are losing something precious and unique. We are losing our identity. We are becoming just like everyone else.
And with that I, the American, descended the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Just two paces behind me was the Australian, following my path. How symbolic.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
