Old Words from Dead Men

What can we learn from the dead? All our lives we are taught our nation’s history, about George W. (the guy with the cherry tree, not the guy with the baseball team) and Honest Abe, about our little Revolution (or, as the British say, “Those colonies are really getting on my nerves!”) and about the South’s little revolution (“States’ rights! And other stuff!”), and about the myriad other people and events that make up the sometimes-filling-yet-always-tasty goulash that is the US of A. Textbooks and war movies are great, but what does it all mean, and why do we love it so much? I was walking around Washington, DC this weekend, minding my own business, as I pondered these questions. It seems to me (or at least it did at the time) that every American has the chance, right, and responsibility to learn from our ancestors, and to apply those lessons to their own lives. Granted, not every American will recognize that point in their life when they will benefit most from the fruits of yesteryear’s labor, and so most of this stuff will just fly right over their heads (if I’m not making any sense, then maybe this applies to you). Maybe it’s my relentlessly cheery disposition, or the fact that at twenty-two years I have perhaps an ounce of life experience upon which to drawn, but I couldn’t help but feel the sensation that the life of this nation is somehow interwoven with my own, and that the effort I am to give this year can benefit greatly from the words of the past (This is good news for you, St. Frances!).

My advice: go to Washington. Go to our nation’s capitol and walk. Just walk. Approach the Washington Monument as if it is the absolute center of the city (Is it? I wish I was a cartographer!) and imagine the throngs of eyes who have gazed up at this towering obelisk. Cross the lawns and look through the gate at the White House. Forget about your current political preference and your personal feelings about the man who resides there, and contemplate the historical significance of this house and how it has shaped the world. Then look around at the people next to you and realize that you could be looking at a future occupant of this house. Or, look at yourself (if you have some sort of inward-gazing eyes- and if so, I want to meet you) and realize the same thing.

Walk around the oval path of the World War II monument. Contemplate the square yardage of this memorial, with its fountains and iron wreaths and pillars that look like gravestones for entire states, and recognize that the size and magnitude of such a tribute could only be meant for a war possessive of those same qualities. Then, continue toward the Lincoln Memorial, stopping to take in and – why not? – reflect at the Reflecting Pool.

Climb the steps of the Lincoln and think about those whose feet have tread upon that same spot. Think about King and about Gump and about the countless other gatherings that have held meaning for someone. Then look up at Lincoln and experience the steadfast, resolute gaze he holds upon this city. Read his words chiseled into the wall, then look at his eyes again.

Go left from Abe’s house and walk the path of the Vietnam War Memorial. Look at the faces, still living, of those who pencil-rub the names of their sons, brothers, friends, husbands. Remember that a name carved into a wall might be all they have left. Consider the cost of war. Then, look at the faces of the statues at the Korean War Memorial, bodies colored in ash-gray that stumble out of trees into a parcel of low bushes. Feel the blank stare of each soldier, the fear in their eyes, their lost and jagged movements, and their concern for the only thing they have left, each other. Again, consider the cost of war.

Find the FDR Memorial (you might have to ask a park ranger for this one) and sit on the lap of the only President to have been elected four times. Wander around this expansive garden and feel the coolness of the waterfalls. Find the statue of the guy leaning towards a radio and pretend to listen along with him. Read Roosevelt’s words, carved into the stone, and realize their relevance for today. Think about what kind of person it takes to trust with the office of the presidency for over a decade. Say goodbye to Eleanor as you exit.

Walk around the Jefferson Memorial before you enter, and consider the position of his statue from all angles. Read the words on the wall, then compare the size of the statue with the surrounding pillars and imagine the words of the Declaration, before they were put to paper. Leave the memorial and gaze out on the body of water that offers a different perspective of the horizon. As you walk back to the Washington Monument, realize that at every memorial you visited, you could always see at least the tip of this tower, and wonder if that was done on purpose. Get back on a train, plane, or car, and replay the images of the day in your mind (and rest your feet, because you did a lot of walking!)

I’m not saying that spending a day looking at statues and reading words will magically give you all the answers to life’s questions. I don’t pretend to know how I will fit into this world, and what I will even be doing this time next year. What I can control though, are my choices, and the present state I find myself in. Giving a year of service to Baltimore will be an experience that guides my future choices and decisions, just as all those history-makers used their own lives as points of reference. Far be it from me to assume that I will end up in the White House (vote Donovan 2024!), but if I can become an American who did something, then I think I will have taken that chance, used that right, and fulfilled that responsibility. But hey, that’s just me.

Check out my photos of Washington, DC here.