The Veterans’ Day Parade in Bangor, Maine
The Veterans’ Day Parade
November 27, 2012
The cook and waitress who served us breakfast said, “Bangor loves a parade. Everyone turns out and they are happy. Veterans from all over the state come to march and remember and be honored. If you have never been to a parade in Bangor, this is your chance.” The mystery of the blocked off Main Street was solved. Our morning was free and Malia and Noah, my grandchildren, begged me to take them to the Veteran’s Day parade. We staked out our places at the curb, right in front of the grandstand. We were surrounded by people of all ages awaiting the parade. The weather was balmy, almost spring-like, and people dressed in shorts and short-sleeved shirts and wore sunglasses.
Someone announced that the parade had crossed the bridge from Brewer to Bangor and we easily forgot our impatient thirty-minute wait. Fire trucks blasted their sirens, and police cars blinked their lights and turned the volume up on their radios, and ten bands added patriotic songs to the ninety-minute parade.
World War II veterans from all branches of the service led the procession and I marveled at how they all marched in step. Perhaps years had affected other aspects of their memories, but they all remembered how to march. They did not look tired from the two-mile march when they approached the grandstand. I watched their forward stares and my heart softened. Unexpectedly my eyes filled up with tears. I looked at the faces of the uniformed marchers and I appreciated how they had served our country. Then I felt flooded with grief as I realized thousands of young men and women had died in service. I had never felt a heart connection with the meaning of “service” men and women before. Buses transported wounded WW II veterans as well as those too feeble to march. The crowd erupted in hoots and cheers as the aging veterans hung their heads and arms out of the bus windows, waved small American flags and smiled. Spectators hugged any service person within reach and then hooted.
During the long parade I felt my personal history unraveling and my heart open. Patriotism is complicated for me. Love of country has felt synonymous with war and I feel like I was born with peace genes. All my life I have felt an inner split between patriotism and peace. My father was a WW II Veteran. When I was about five years old, he ordered me to place my right hand over my heart when the American flag passed by during a parade. I obeyed, but I was embarrassed because none of my friends had to do it. Today my grandchildren easily follow my lead, placing their hands over their hearts without resisting or questioning. My family of origin supports the military 100%. My brother and cousins volunteered and fought in the Vietnam War. My father and my uncles fought in World War II. My grandfathers fought in World War I.
For decades I have actively supported peace. For years I had a banner on my car, which read, “Arms are for hugging.” When I was a college student, I opposed the Vietnam War and drove conscientious objectors across the border from Maine into Canada. During the Iraq War, I marched for peace and participated in peace vigils in the sleepy town of Cayucos, on the central coast of California, dreading the thought of marching against future wars. Even when I intervene in a squabble between Malia and Noah, I ask, “Who is the peace keeper here.”
The ear-piercing 21-gun salute was a sharp contrast to the band music and the boisterous cheers of the crowd. Silently we honored veterans who died in service. Malia had never been present during the 21-gun salute.
She whispered, ”Why is everyone so quiet, Grand mom?” ”When will the guns stop?” “Do you think it is safe to fire guns in a parade?” “What about pollution?”
When I whispered short answers to her questions, my voice did not feel like mine. Malia leaned into my body and demanded to know why I was sad when everyone else was happy. Once again, I felt my heart trembled with emotion. I felt love and respect for all the military men and women marching in front of us. I imagined that they were remembering friends who died in service to our country.
A small group of Korean veterans marched by us. Like the WW II servicemen, they marched in unison and saluted other veterans on the curb. Next the Vietnam veterans marched before us. They are of my generation and looked older than I expected. Some smiled and waved. What a relief to see that at last they knew they were appreciated in spite of the war that divided families and our country.
A tall, slender man in his 80s dressed in an immaculate brown military uniform saluted each group that marched by. On second glance I noticed the front of his uniform was decorated with medals. A petite, white-haired woman stood beside him, her hand in his. Dozens of people approached him, saluted, and said, “Thank you for your service, sir.” I watched as he acknowledged each Cub Scout, Girl Scout, ROTC member, and other veterans with a full smile, a nod and a Thank You.
I tried unsuccessfully to swallow my tears. He looked over at me and said, “I am proud on this day, proud of the job I did, proud of these other servicemen and women, proud of our country, and proud of you for bringing your grandchildren here today and your tears.”
I nodded, not knowing what to say and a bit embarrassed that he had caught me crying.
Then a body memory of standing in the visitors’ tower in Nicosia, the capital of Cyprus, seized me. Eighteen years ago I visited the partitioned capital of Cyprus. I looked down at three horizontal trenches occupied by young soldiers with guns. Never before had I felt the fragility of peace so strongly in my body. Occupying the first row were young Cypriots, United Nations Peacekeeping Forces held the middle column, and Turkish teenagers occupied the third dugout. The trenches were within a broad reach of one another, close enough that someone could throw a box of cigarettes or a grenade to someone in the neighboring trench. I felt nauseous as I realized that one incendiary comment was enough to ignite a battle. I remember with precise details how my body shook as I knelt down within view of the potential combatants and said a prayer for peace.
This lifetime I was born a Pisces with six planets in the sixth house, which is known as the house of service. Throughout the decades, astrologers have cautioned me, “Rosalie, the theme of your life revolves around serve or suffer.” Service has seemed wedded to self-sacrifice and over giving. While watching the parade, with a wide-open heart, I felt like I was standing at a threshold of wrapping my arms around a different way of being of service.
In my heart, I know peace is joy resting. I also appreciate that I have lived many times before this present lifetime. Service is familiar to my soul. At this moment I feel as if I am ready to embrace an expanded meaning of service— one in which service is grounded in joy, peace, and well being for all. If I intentionally embody my inner values and express peace, joy, and well being in my relationships and actions, I am confident that I can heal my life long split between peace and patriotism. It is time.
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