I See Dead People Memorials.

The World War II Memorial is pretty great.  It’s enormous.  It has water features.  Plural.  And there’s a lot of concrete that signifies things.  My camera phone blows so I didn’t take any pictures of it and I’m recalling all of this from memory.  My phone at the time was an antiquated Blackberry that acted more like a rolodex and was designed like one of those Franklin-Covey planners that every high schooler wants but never uses.  Every year without fail I talked my parents into buying me one with promises of better grades and focus as though I didn’t need those things in order to use the planner to begin with.  Lesson: in order to be organized you have to be organized. 

To the best of my memory, there’s a circular water feature kids and adults alike can dip their feet into.  It’s shallow.  There may or may not be a fountain.  There is a sign that lets tourists know not to throw change into it.   The foreign tourists do so anyway.  Ringing the fountain on the outside of the ten-foot wide walking path are fifty (probably) statues and a concrete wreath hung on each.  In the rear of the monument is a wall of large 8-inch gold stars. Hundreds of them.  Each one stands for one-hundred Americans killed in the war. In total, something like 650,000-750,000 U.S. soldiers were killed or went missing in the war.  And not one of them was the father of the motherfucker that cut me off this morning.  Unfathomable.

But in all seriousness, that’s a lot of dead people.

When I was in 8^th grade, I went on a school trip to D.C. with the class and my principal, who I actually liked. I was a dork.  We did the whole D.C. thing and I remember walking along the Vietnam Memorial with amusement at its novelty and composition.  I remembered it being it bigger, with multiple black marble walls.  It’s just the one, though.  Something like 70,000 U.S. soldiers died in Vietnam.  A tenth of what we lost in WWII but it’s still too many, and the memorial succeeds in ways the WWII one doesn’t.  *Spoiler Alert* Engraved upon the memorial is the name of every U.S. man and woman killed in Vietnam (that’s the idea anyway, whether or not it’s actually true I don’t know).  The monument itself is a wall, maybe 300 feet in length, of polished black marble that buttresses a cutout wedge of a hill.  It’s understated, elegant, and striking.  It’s a touching tribute to the men and women who fought and died for our country. (Or, to protect it?  Why did we go into Vietnam again?)  But seriously, what a pain in the ass, keeping all of those names straight, making sure they’re up on the wall.  The monument doubles as a tribute to America’s bookkeeping ability.

Both monuments affected me.  I took it as a sign of my old-age again, thinking the whole time I was on the verge of mystery tears, “What the fuck is going on?” 

It’s a moving experience.  Honestly, I think it has to do somewhat with all of the shows about war.  At the WWII monument I had flashes of Band of Brothers and The Pacific. For me, those shows filled in the emotional gaps left between the cold, stoic petrified wreaths.  Even though I didn’t remember the character names, I had a relatable face.  I can’t think of a joke to sum this paragraph up so I’ll just move on.

As a new candidate for the “worst job ever” I submit “guy-who-works-in-the-Lincoln-Memorial-bookstore.”  The shop is INSIDE of the memorial.  It’s a whopping 8X15 feet of non-air-conditioned space within a stone’s throw of Lincoln’s lap. The line of sweaty foreigners stretches on interminably throughout the day.  At the end of each and every exhausting day, the poor cashier bids adieu to our 16^th president and limps down the 40 steps to his car, parked some mile and a half away.  All for minimum wage.  Worst. Job. Ever.  If I had that job, I would hate America and never use pennies or fives.

I think I annoyed my brother because I kept telling my niece and nephews, who were along for the grueling tour, “You really think the government would display the real Washington Monument? No, this is just a reproduction. The real one is in the vault under the Capitol.”  

I’m the best uncle ever.

That’s all I have to say about that.