Reclaiming Memorial Day

Every year, Americans reserve the final Monday of May to honor the servicemen and servicewomen who lost their lives in defense of the United States. Considering its solemn purpose, this holiday, which tradition has christened Memorial Day, ostensibly ought to be observed rather than celebrated. However, Memorial Day has morphed into an extended weekend of revelry. Rather than reflect on the tremendous sacrifice of our fallen soldiers, we take advantage of the holiday to shop, barbecue, imbibe a few adult beverages, head to the Jersey Shore, and ring in the unofficial commencement of summer. 

Honestly, who can blame anyone for engaging in this seemingly callous behavior? Due to its placement on the calendar, the Memorial Day Weekend, in tandem with Labor Day Weekend, serves as an ideal bookend for the summer season. Moreover, three-day weekends do not come along often, particularly during periods when Mother Nature usually delivers agreeable weather. We should exploit the rare opportunity to deviate from the monotonous routine that the work schedule imposes on us to relax and enjoy the wonderful gift of life.   

Nevertheless, our misappropriation of Memorial Day betrays a disconcerting reality; namely, our nation’s growing distance from the harsh realities of war. According to a New York Times piece, “at any given time in the past decade, less than 1 percent of the American population has been on active military duty, compared with 9 percent of Americans who were in uniform in World War II.”[1] This fact would be most welcome if it corresponded with a similar decline in the number of military commitments in which America is engaged. Unfortunately, September 11^th subverted any opportunity for an extended period of peace; the devastating attacks of that day engendered a declaration of war against terrorism, a conflict in Afghanistan, and a misadventure in Iraq. Our troops have been as active as ever, yet there are fewer of them available to answer Uncle Sam’s call. Therefore, our government has resorted to multiple deployments in the last decade to meet the troop deficit; in effect, we have asked the one percent continually to put their lives on the line while demanding nothing of the rest of the country, which has been too distracted by the goings-on at the Kardashian home or the melodrama amongst the Real Housewives of (fill in the blank) to comprehend the depth of the sacrifice we have demanded of our soldiers.

Although a true observation of the day would afford us the chance to appreciate war’s disastrous ramifications, the prevailing treatment of Memorial Day squanders this possibility. Now, I am not asking everyone to abandon their vacation plans or to cancel the barbecue. Such requests would be unreasonable. Yet it is not unreasonable to suggest that perhaps we all devote a few minutes of our holiday to consider the carnage that war inflicts on the human body and the toll it takes on the human soul. Read a soldier’s account of his combat experiences. Even better, listen to the mother’s or brother’s recollections of his/her time in the field. But don’t just listen- really listen. And understand. Understand the fear, the chaos, the confusion, and the barbarism that define the battlefield experience for so many veterans. Understand that numerous Marines fighting the Japanese in the Pacific Theater would remove body parts from their vanquished foes and keep them as souvenirs. Understand that many soldiers deployed to Vietnam had to constantly decide whether a Vietnamese civilian was truly a noncombatant and not a Viet Cong guerilla fighter, with the wrong decision leading to their demise or to the death of an innocent person. Understand that the soldiers we have deployed (and redeployed) to Iraq and Afghanistan have returned with an alarmingly high rate of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Understand the consequences of war.

On the occasion of this Memorial Day, I will remember the lives that were lost and the lives that were indelibly altered in the course of our nation’s numerous military engagements. I will reminisce about my grandfather, who hid the ugly nature of his military experiences behind a wall of funny war stories, only to have the horrors seep out in the quiet darkness of night. Furthermore, I will recall the sad fate of my uncle, who left for Vietnam and whose soul got lost in the country’s dense and disorienting jungles.

Finally, I will reflect on the words of Vietnam veteran and author Tim O’Brien: “Now, war ended, all I am left with are simple, unprofound scraps of truths […] Can the foot soldier teach anything important about war, merely for having been there? I think not. He can tell war stories.”[2] Perhaps you cannot teach us anything, Mr. O’Brien. But if we are wise, we will listen anyway. And perhaps we will be more discerning when deciding whether to send our young men and women into combat. 

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[1] Sabrina Tavernise, “As Fewer Americans Serve, Growing Gap Is Found Between Civilians and Military,” The New York Times, 24 November 2011, A22.

[2] Tim O’Brien, If I Die in a Combat Zone, Box Me Up and Ship Me Home (New York: Broadway Books, 1975), 23.

A Postcard from “Post-Racial” America, Vol. 1: The Death of Trayvon Martin

I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids- and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination- indeed, everything and anything except me.  

-Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man

 

An ominous rainfall descended upon the city of Sanford, Florida, on the evening of February 26, 2012. The precipitation, however, did not dissuade Trayvon Martin from walking to a nearby 7-11 to satisfy a sugar craving. Martin, a seventeen-year-old African American, was visiting the Orlando suburb with his father, Tracy; they were in town to see the elder Martin’s fiancée. Around 7 P.M., Trayvon emerged from the convenience store and, armed with a package of Skittles and an Arizona Iced Tea, commenced his short return journey to the home of his father’s future bride.

George Zimmerman, a twenty-eight-year-old resident of Sanford, also sought sustenance when he departed from his home and hopped into his car on the evening of February 26. According to an interview with Fox News’ Sean Hannity, Zimmerman intended to drive to Target to purchase groceries.[1] Although Zimmerman was running a personal errand, he was ever-mindful of his duties as a volunteer neighborhood watchman. The area of Sanford in which he lived had experienced eight burglaries in the previous fourteen months; additionally, “Twin Lakes residents said dozens of reports of attempted break-ins and would be burglars casing homes had created an atmosphere of growing fear in the neighborhood.”[2] Therefore, Zimmerman did not hesitate to dial 911 when, in the course of his travels, he witnessed a meandering black teenager engaged in seemingly strange behavior. It was a scene he had witnessed before; over the past year, Zimmerman had registered five calls to 911 to report suspicious activity involving black males.[3]

“Hey, we’ve had some break-ins in my neighborhood and there’s a real suspicious guy,” Zimmerman intoned to the 911 operator. “This guy looks like he’s up to no good, or he’s on drugs or something.”[4] When the teenager began to run, Zimmerman pursued him despite the 911 operator’s caution to avoid such action. Once he lost sight of his target, Zimmerman endeavored to return to his vehicle to await the arrival of the police. Before he could arrive at his car, though, the neighborhood watchman was intercepted by the suspicious teen and, after a physical struggle, Zimmerman shot the young man once in the chest.

Since a bullet from George Zimmerman’s gun has forever silenced Trayvon Martin, we do not have access to his mindset during his brief encounter with Zimmerman. However, one might reasonably infer from his actions that the teen was perturbed by the man in the car who was tailing him. Understandably, he ran. Understandably, he initiated a physical confrontation when the man exited his vehicle to continue the pursuit. Without a doubt, Martin’s actions are perfectly justifiable in the context of self-defense.

Yet I am not interested in trying to justify the actions of Trayvon Martin on the night of his demise; nor do I intend to conduct a trial-by-blog of George Zimmerman. Rather, I would like to focus squarely on Zimmerman’s decision-making process on the fateful evening of February 26. Specifically, I would like to explore why Zimmerman deemed Martin suspect in the first place, for it exposes a dangerous racial dynamic that stubbornly continues to exist in American society.

According to a Reuters article, Zimmerman grew quite concerned about the rash of burglaries in his community, a number of which were committed by black males. Earlier in the month, Zimmerman had spotted a serial thief named Emmanuel Burgess “peering into the windows of a neighbor’s empty home.”[5] A few days later, a resident’s home was burglarized and Burgess was arrested as the culprit.[6] Consequently, the ambitious neighborhood watchman remained on heightened alert and reported any untoward behavior to the police. When he spotted Trayvon walking in the rain, Zimmerman had already rendered his judgment: this young man was up to no good. “These assholes, they always get away,” he lamented to the 911 dispatcher who fielded his call. Trayvon was already guilty in Zimmerman’s estimation, but why? Because he was wearing a hoodie? Because he was walking outside during a rainstorm? Because he was a teenager? Because he was black?

Zimmerman might not admit it, but Trayvon’s race played a significant role in the watchman’s decision to pursue the teen and call the police. Zimmerman’s perception of Trayvon and his behavior was informed by the actions of Burgess and the few other African American males who were engaged in illicit activities in Sanford. Sadly, Zimmerman’s rationale serves as a microcosm of a much larger problem: in the minds of a disconcerting number of American citizens, the entire African American race is defined by the actions of a few. An erroneous link has been established between blackness and criminality, as if the act of being black renders one more likely to commit crime. In a sense, we cannot blame Zimmerman for his error in judgment, for he has been conditioned to think in this fallacious way. If you disagree, simply watch a local newscast in a racially diverse media market. These local news reports fixate on crimes committed by minorities and unintentionally (at least one hopes) echo an ancient fear spouted by Southern racists at the conclusion of the Civil War: that black men, once freed from the chains of slavery, would pose an existential threat to civil society. It’s a fear that has generally dominated the white man’s perception of his black brother and has stunted the social and racial progress of our nation. Moreover, it is a fear that exposes the absurdity of the notion that America has entered a “post-racial” era.

We see what we want to see. And when George Zimmerman observed Trayvon walking in the rain, he saw a deviant. He saw Emmanuel Burgess. Thus began the chain of events that ended with Trayvon Martin lying on the ground, dead of a gunshot wound.

We ought to ask ourselves why Trayvon and other African Americans are not accorded the same privilege of individuality we extend to others. After all, I'm sure happy that people in my neighborhood don't base their impressions of me on the actions of some of the white guys my age who deal drugs, engage in fights, slash tires, and generally act like jackasses. Why am I able to transcend the actions of the few bad people in my neighborhood who share nothing in common with me except age and race while Trayvon Martin was forced to wear the actions of Emmanuel Burgess like an albatross?

If we truly seek to create a “post-racial” American utopia, we have much more work to do. Most importantly, we must begin to narrow the communication gap that exists between the white and black races. In order to accomplish such a feat, we must stop wilfully wallowing in ignorance and truly confront our troubled racial history (more on this topic in a future post). We must cease fearfully erecting fences and instead begin fearlessly building bridges. We must reject fear and embrace empathy. Above all, we must begin to truly see African Americans- as individuals, not as one menacing, monolithic mass. These actions might enable us to understand one another better and truly start healing the racial scars that have disfigured our nation.    

 
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[1] “Exclusive: George Zimmerman breaks silence on ‘Hannity’,” Fox News. Accessed 18 May 2013.   http://www.foxnews.com/on-air/hannity/2012/07/18/exclusive-george-zimmerman-breaks-silence-hannity?page=1.

 

[2] Chris Francescani, “George Zimmerman: Prelude to a shooting,” Reuters, 25 April 2012. http://www.reuters.com/article/2012/04/25/us-usa-florida-shooting-zimmerman-idUSBRE83O18H20120425

 

[3] Matthew DeLuca, “George Zimmerman’s History of 911 Calls: A Complete Log,” The Daily Beast, 22 March 2012. http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2012/03/22/george-zimmerman-s-history-of-911-calls-a-complete-log.html

 

[4] The audio of George Zimmerman’s February 26th 911 call can be accessed here: http://www.orlandosentinel.com/videogallery/68871920/News/George-Zimmerman-911-call-reporting-Trayvon-Martin

[5] Francescani, “George Zimmerman: Prelude to a shooting.”

[6] Ibid.

Dispatch from the New Lost Generation

Confession: I am a college graduate. Five years ago this May I graduated magna cum laude from the University of Pennsylvania. Now you might surmise from the previous sentence that I have parlayed my opportunity to study at a world-class institution like Penn into admission to a prestigious professional or graduate school. Or maybe I took my talents to Wall Street, where I am currently earning an exorbitant salary toiling for a megabank like Goldman Sachs or UBS. Perhaps I spent a few years traveling the world and am now at work composing the next great American novel. At any rate, you imagine, I have only just begun to turn my version of the American Dream into a beautiful reality. 

I wish I could say that I lived up to these hypothetical expectations; alas, I could not. 

It turns out that I reached the pinnacle of my life’s achievement when I arrived at the top of the stage to receive my college diploma (actually, it was a piece of paper that informed me my diploma would be in the mail in a few months). Since that time, my life has been marked by a series of failures. Immediately after college, I entered the education profession for want of a better option and, for the lesser part of two years, tried to forge an identity as a teacher in the crucible of a high school classroom. Although I possessed a comfortable level of knowledge about the subjects which I taught, I was never able to master the complicated art of classroom management. Needless to say, it was not long before some of my students were able to take advantage of my weaknesses as an educator and compromise my lessons. I abandoned my teaching career embittered, depressed, and humiliated. 

Let’s fast forward to the present. I am currently working at a small beer distributor, where I employ the intellectual skills I cultivated at an Ivy League institution to assist me in determining the best way to lower a keg of Pabst to the bottom of a deep basement. I can state candidly that I am no closer to finding, let alone navigating, my life’s path than I was when I began my course of studies at that august institution in University City nine years ago. Worse, I can no longer ward off the sinking feeling that my liberal arts degree has been rendered useless in an increasingly utilitarian job market. I wonder if the only benefit I have attained from my education is the ability to articulate more clearly just how lost I truly am.    

Mine is but one of many stories of desperation and struggle to emerge from a group which some have christened the new “Lost Generation,” whose membership includes anyone who was cursed with the misfortune of graduating in the midst of the Great Recession. Some, like me, continue to seek the elusive compass that will provide them with a direction in life. With a dearth of available jobs, there is little opportunity to experiment until we find our niche. Others know exactly what they want to do and possess the necessary educational credentials, but cannot overcome the anemic economy. Bartenders who have graduated from law school and passed the bar exam practice the art of mixology rather than law; waiters and waitresses with nursing degrees wait tables instead of waiting on patients; store clerks with education degrees stock the shelves rather than steer our children toward a better future.    

We are a generation adrift and astray. We have so much to offer to the world, but the world seems to lack the resources to exploit our potential. Rather than serving as keys which we can use to open the doors of opportunity, our diplomas and advanced degrees have become burdensome albatrosses that only remind us of our inability to find success. 

Perhaps as the economy improves so will our fortune. Or maybe we will be discarded in favor of more recent college graduates, in which case we can adopt a new appellation: the Forgotten Generation.    

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Welcome!

Welcome to my tiny corner of the Internet! This space, which I have christened Idle Observations, will serve as the outlet for the various ruminations that occasionally occupy my mind. It is my fervent hope that I can fashion these amorphous thoughts into coherent and cogent blog posts that possibly provoke thought.

Miscellany will be the order of the day for Idle Observations. I will explore any subject about which I feel moved to write, provided I possess enough knowledge to provide an informed opinion. My first post, for example, will address the plight of the college graduate. My next post will examine race through the lens of the Trayvon Martin case. Other topics I might address include religion, politics, (un)employment, adulthood, sports, and education.

I'm not sure why I've decided to add my voice to the silent cacophony of the blogosphere, but it probably has something to do with boredom and a desire to hone whatever writing skills I still possess from my college days. As I embark on this little enterprise, I harbor no delusions of grandeur. Maybe I'll attract a small cadre of readers; maybe I'll be the only person who ever reads this material. I don't care. I just want to write.

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