Memorial Day

Memorial Day in America began as Decoration Day after the Civil War. The first Memorial Day was observed in 1868 in honor of the 600,000 men who gave their lives in the War Between The States, at a time when the United States was so much smaller, and more casualties than all the wars since combined.

"The 30th of May, 1868, is designated for the purpose of strewing with flowers, or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie in almost every city, village, and hamlet churchyard in the land." (From the History Channel)

Flags are an important part of the celebration. So here is Eli, at the Paseo Art Festival, with his flag on his shirt, enjoying the holiday, though he doesn't understand it yet. But he loves the American flag, and someday he will understand.

The days following the bombing on April 19th, 1995 here in Oklahoma City, journalists and networks from around the world descended on our city. One of the most moving articles written was by Mike Barnicle who was with The Boston Globe at the time. He wrote an article "The Flag of Hope in Oklahoma" for the April 23,1995 edition. You may have seen him with his best friend, the late Tim Russert or seen him on Morning Joe on MSNBC.

FLAG OF HOPE IN OKLAHOMA

Mike Barnicle

As rain, hail and a bitter wind pummeled the shell of a battered federal building in Oklahoma City yesterday, an American flag, attached to the steel arm of a huge crane, rippled in chalky air that grows increasingly heavier by the moment with the stench of death. On TV, you could see the weighted rubble swaying dangerously above rescue workers intent on lifting the bulk of a concrete burial ground off babies and many others who lie dead in the bombed- out debris created by the insanity of madmen. Here was the picture of the country: At one moment, a horrible explosion, its triggering device lurking in the individual madness and collective violence that prospers among us. And in the next, the incredible bravery of ordinary citizens -- strangers to themselves -- thrown together in a common bond of compassion for a town and its residents, scarred forever by terrorists.

For months now, television has brought us the absurdity of a double-murder trial from Los Angeles. The cast has been accorded cheap celebrity and lives with the prospect of money to be gained from its tawdry participation.

Then, suddenly, you see Jon Hansen. He is the 43-year-old assistant fire chief of Oklahoma City. He is unfailingly polite and responsive to all questions, and as soon as he steps off the stage he retreats into the tangled chasm of a man-made coffin that could collapse at any second.

But Hansen sure does have company. Firefighters from across the land converged on Oklahoma to take turns stepping into the abyss, peeling back layers of stone that sit like ghoulish monuments in the lifeless air.

With slight regard for their own safety, they crawl in darkness among dangling cables and crossed beams toward grotesque sights and a stench that can never be washed out of your soul. Unlike the lawyers in California, the firefighters -- averaging perhaps $40,000 per year -- are spurred forward only by duty.

This is the true America. These are the people -- rescue workers removing corpses, police and federal investigators pushing on tirelessly toward suspects as well as a solution, ordinary folks praying in chapels, synagogues and churches coast-to-coast -- who symbolize the enduring spirit of the land.

Not the bombers. Not those who rumble among us with diseased minds, infecting others with the simple curse of hate. And not any of the prime-time fools who pollute our culture for goals of profit, personal ambition or a fleeting fame.

"You see the American flag in the middle of all these pictures and it gives you hope," Phillip Shouneyia was saying yesterday. "You cry for those dead children and then you're proud of what everybody does to help. And someone like me, it makes me glad to see the nuts who did it are not Arab."

Shouneyia was on the phone from his home in Cass Lake, Mich., about 40 miles from a farm surrounded by FBI and ATF agents looking for accomplices of Timothy James McVeigh, the 27-year-old white lunatic accused of shattering the life of a whole country. Shouneyia is a 54-year-old Vietnam veteran who came to America in 1947 from his native Iraq. He was one of eight children born of Catholic parents in a Moslem land.

"I know what it is to be a minority," he declared. "And I know what it is to be the object of hate. I saw it happen to me during the Gulf War. I own a grocery store -- the Joslyn Deli -- and my business suffered then simply because I came from the Middle East.

"My son Phillip, he was 12 then and he was at a parochial school -- St. Hugo's -- and some kids chased him and beat him one day. They tore his coat because they didn't like the way he looked. You'd think they'd know better.

"This is still a great country, though. But the things that go on are crazy. You have people with no money, no futures and a lot of hate and they are allowed to do almost anything.

"We have lost our sense of respect for others, for the police, for teachers and priests and even! family. Everybody has a chip on their shoulder today. The country has changed so much since my dad brought us here. He gave us a beautiful life but today we let about 2 percent of the people bring the rest of us down. Everybody ought to be on their knees thanking Christ for the opportunity to be here and everybody ought to be thankful we have so many who try and help strangers; just look at the fire men in Oklahoma."

Savor the faces and voices of the anonymous heroes this weekend. They represent the wonderful mixed bloodline of America while this McVeigh, with the narrow, spiteful eyes of the bigot, represents only our darkest impulses, allowed to flourish in a land perilously close to suicide by silence."


The fireman served our country well during that time. They, like the Rescue Dogs, became despondent when they found no survivors. They also were the recipients of thousands upon thousands of letters, drawings and teddy bears from children around the world. Those letters and drawings were so instrumental in helping the fireman get through that time, there is a special Children Exhibit at the
Oklahoma City National Memorial.

There is a wall of tiles that border the children's part of the Memorial. Tiles of children's handprints representing and honoring the fireman's hands who did so much work. Helping hands. Then there are tiles of children's drawings sent to the rescue workers during those long, hard, dark, days.

In front of that tile wall is a large area with sidewalk chalk for children of all ages to come and write their own letters today. So tender. So touching. So beautiful. So hopeful.

I had forgotten, until reading Mike Barnicle's article again, that it rained almost every day after the bombing and it was cold. Miserable conditions for the Rescue Workers. It was like the Heavens themselves were crying. Dark days. It was like that until May 23, 1995 when they imploded what remained of the Federal Building.

What started as a blip for Friday, and then Saturday, and then Sunday and now today has reminded me of how important remembering is for a person, for a city, for a state, for a country and for the world.