Remember

On Memorial Day 1998, I was 12 days away from my high school graduation.  I was 15 days away from boarding an airplane to Philadelphia, PA.  The only thing I was thinking about was getting my hair done for graduation and the most flattering $6 pair of sunglasses I could find and KMART to hide my hangover during commencement.  Getting on that airplane was the furthest thing from my mind.  I didn’t want to think about the flight to Philadelphia or the bus ride that inevitably would ensue, from Philadelphia to Cape May, NJ.  I most certainly didn’t want to think about what would happen after I got to Cape May.  So, on that balmy Monday, 15 days before my life would be changed forever, I thought about graduation.  I sat with my friends and laughed and celebrated our accomplishments.  You know, because when you are 18, you are convinced that the greatest achievement of your life is graduating from high school.  I look back now and think “Wow.  Nobody knew how real shit was going to get.” 

Candidly speaking, shit got real for me a lot sooner than it did for most of my classmates.  We graduated on a Friday.  The following Monday I was on that plane.  Oakland.  Minneapolis.  Philadelphia.  Then a bus to Cape May.  Hello Coast Guard.  We got off the bus.  There was so much yelling.  There were so many push-ups.  There were so many rules.  The fear that came with breaking the rules was even more terrifying than the actual rules.  First night there was this guy screaming:   “If you did drugs EVER in your LIFE, WE.  WILL.  FIND.  OUT!”  Another guy screaming:  “WHY DON’T YOU KNOW YOUR BLOOD TYPE???”  And my personal favorite, the guy who guaranteed the certain death of 86 people: “IF YOU CLEAN THAT SHOWER WITH BLEACH AND COMET…YOU.  WILL.  DIE!!!!”  Oh my, I am going to kill all of these people by cleaning a shower.  I just want to make the grout white again.   Shit was real.  But in hindsight, it was the furthest I’d ever been from real. 

After the eight weeks in boot camp, I went on to five more years of service.  Station BELLINGHAM, QM “A” school, CGC SHERMAN, CGC MUNRO, housing office (please read: get me the fuck out of here.) That was my service.   All of which was, clearly, very glamorous.  Scrubbing brains out of the taft rail on a 41’ utility boat.  High seas drift netters in the Bearing Sea.  Chasing “go-fasts” off of Mexico.  Pulling dead bodies out of the water on Christmas Day.  Writing wills.  Watching hostile fishing boats flagged from Ecuador, crewed by Chinese nationals fight with us over who had the biggest guns.  For the record, that was us, we had the biggest guns.  After all, that’s what we do in this country.  We have big guns.  It wasn’t until I left the service, however, that I learned the meaning of Memorial Day. 

You may be thinking:  “But Angela, you grew up in a military family.  For the last five generations, your family has served this country.  How could you not understand the meaning of Memorial Day until you, yourself, had served?”  Well…The reason is because I also come from a family of pacifists; a family of good Samaritans.  They didn’t fight just to fight.  The people in my family who served before me, served because they believed in the greater good.  They didn’t necessarily believe in the reason for the fight, but more, they believed in the people they could serve in the fight. It’s called service.  Service isn’t just about sacrificing yourself, unquestioningly, to the arbitrary and the unknown.  Service is also about sacrificing yourself to make sure that others don’t feel like their sacrifice is arbitrary an unknown. 

The reason that I didn’t understand the reason for Memorial Day until after I had served is because I had never seen anyone serve before. I knew that they had served, but I had never seen them serve.   It’s also because the people who had served before me considered their service part of their citizenship.  They had all seen atrocities more heinous than I could ever have imagined.  They never spoke of the dead, because it was too painful to discuss.   We live in a different time though.  We live in an era that we would be remiss if we didn’t speak of the dead.  We also live in a time when those who have survived deserve a voice as well.  So, here, tonight, I would like to recognize the people who save lives, the people who heal the lost, the people who make sense of the unknown. 

After 16 years of watching this service evolve, I have watched people serve without recognition.  I have learned the value of servitude.  I have seen selflessness bare its soul to the helpless.  I have had the opportunity to watch the most magnificent servants turn in the most magnificent leaders.  The most remarkable part about those people, is that even as leaders, they still consider themselves servants.  These are the people who stand the watch night and day.  Then they stand the watch into the next night.  These are the people who get underway, in heavy weather, on boats that may or may not be fit for the weather.  They are the people who take responsibility, not only for the crew they travel with, but also for the people they embark to assist.  They are the people who don’t point fingers at another guy for the indiscretions of the people who work for them.  Instead, they take full responsibility for the shortcomings of the people they are responsible for.  They respect their craft. They honor their trade.  They know that saving lives is their business.  Not just the lives that ask for their assistance.  They are also in the business of saving those who have been appointed to their attention. 

Memorial Day is about the fallen.  Even in this peace keeping, sea going service.  We have lost many to the perils of the job.  I guess that’s part of why I am uncomfortable when people thank me for my service.  Because in my mind, I didn’t serve.  I collected a paycheck at the tax payer’s expense.  It was a job that I should have done, without pay, for the betterment of our society.  My service is arbitrary. There are so many who have given so much, and done it without expectation.   But even more than those we have lost, we need to remember those who have survived.  We need to remember those who take ownership of the fallen.  We need to remember that for every lost soul, there is another who will take the responsibility of the loss to the grave.

-Inner Peas