Removing Statues and Evolving Communities

It seems to be impossible to scan social media, read a paper, listen to the news or even a radio without encountering some kind of discussion, debate or argument regarding removing offensive statues.

Some city workers of New Orleans took the statues of Robert E. Lee, Jefferson Davis, and Confederate General P.G.T. Beauregard, down under the shelter of darkness. They had been deemed a public nuisance by the City Council, so down they came.

Lately, it seems that we no longer bother with a democratic process, a bit of rope and some really pissed off people suffices. The latest, a woman in North Carolina pulled down a Confederate statue with many people, including police, looking on. From the looks of it, it was a really big statue — had I been anywhere near it, I would have run for the hills (or a brewery).

I have no idea what is inside of a statue, but I would guess that as it lands, parts go flying. Politics aside, an impulsive removal of a statue is really dangerous!

Should they be removed? I do not believe that by removing a statue, we erase history. That is nonsense. History is history, you can’t erase it (although the idea is tempting and I have had some parts of my history that I wouldn’t mind erasing). The intent of a statue is not to tell history, but to memorialize and honor it. They are monuments of honor and respect that a community feels and wishes to display. But here’s the deal — that community changes. 

That’s the really cool thing about a community, it evolves. People die and people are born and everyone forms opinions, tastes and preferences based in a large part upon the community, city, state or country one is a member of. Peers, media, family, etc all influence people and help shape every single individual into a unique person. The unique people of 2017 are quite different from the unique people of 1870. Perhaps the only things in common with the people of different generations, are that both are unique and the process of how they became the people they were or are, pretty much stays the same.

So, a statue that was extremely meaningful to a community in 1870, might not be as important to the community in the exact same geographic location but is a completely different community than the one that erected the statue.

Just as we remove buildings to create a park, or homes to build a freeway, or when a brewpub appears in an abandoned church, our community is constantly changing born of the ever changing needs and wants of the people that make up that community. Statues are no different.

A statue is kind of cool. I appreciate the artistic skill (some, not so much) that goes into creating a great monument. I respect the sentiment, usually. If I disagree, I simply mind my business, much like I do at an art gallery, and move on.

My point is, it is up to each community to decide what they want displayed in public areas. If something is deemed offensive by the majority, or by an elected body of people, then it can and should come down. It does not erase history, thankfully we have libraries and Wikipedia for that. It is just a reflection of an evolving community. A statue has no right to occupy a plot of land for the remainder of the world’s life, nonsense. So if New Orleans decides that it no longer wants  Robert E. Lee hanging out in a park and that he might be better off in a museum, office or garage, that is its prerogative. Thank goodness my community never erected a statue of Bill Cosby!

Personally, I feel that Confederate statues’ time has come to accept that their tenure of public real estate has passed and they should gracefully go to a museum, where their roles in history can be explained, for good or bad. It was a bad time, a bad thing and their existence is a painful reminder to many people of a painful past. It should never be forgotten, but it should also not be memorialized in a way that conveys respect — just my opinion. I don’t live in the South, but if I did, I would want the statues to be replaced.

I would also like to add, that no matter how awful a person, group or even community feels a statue is, it is anarchy to allow an individual or individuals to impulsively tear it down. This is how riots begin, emotions erupt, police respond… trust me, it usually does not end well. There are legitimate and safer ways to remove anything offensive from public property and I am on the side of “going through the channels.” 

I realize that the current and active movement to extract offensive articles, and rename parks, airports, and buildings in our community is a slippery slope — where does it stop (or should it)?  Recently, my community decided that the name of a popular lake needed to be changed because it was named after a slave owner. I actually have no problem with renaming a lake;  we renamed a mountain in Alaska from McKinley to Denali and that seemed to be fine, no rioting, no earthquakes, the sun still rose and set each day.

My problem with renaming our lake was that the name that was selected - Mde Maka Ska, which very few people can pronounce, or even remember (I had to look it up). Forget about even spelling it. It means Great White Lake, so why didn’t we call it that? I suspect what will happen to the new name, because few can say it much less remember, it will continue to be called Lake Calhoun, further ensuring that the offending name will be remembered forever.

A majority of our founding fathers owned slaves, lots of slaves! George Washington owned over 300. Jefferson, while a huge opponent of slavery and a champion of human rights, wasn’t such a “champ” back home. He owned many slaves. He even gave a moving speech against slavery, but also said that he couldn’t set his free because they could never take care of themselves…. So, as a nation should we rename all things Washington or Jefferson? Time to remove their monuments? I guess it depends on each community’s perception.

It is my opinion that we can only follow our hearts today and do what we believe to be just. Taking down a statue is not desecration, or an attempt to change history. It is a reflection of an evolving population that chooses to honor and respect people that exemplify their values. Sometimes, I agree, sometimes, I disagree, but people, such is life.

D Day - A Personal Perspective

D Day June 6, 1944

Imagine you are about 18 years old. You are on a boat, in the ocean, far from your home, in a foreign country. You know that you are about to participate in a world altering event - one that will mean life or death to many people, a number that you cannot even wrap around your brain (you are, after all,18). You are floating in almost silence as you and the people around you think about what is to come. Many are seasick, and the stench of vomit is incessant.

While waiting to embark on your voyage, you have listened to nonstop, unending air raids from an enemy determined to annihilate you. The raids were so frightening that you actually looked forward to embarking into the cold, dark waters to face an event that nothing in life had prepared you for. 

The following is an actual description from the memoirs of my father, John McLean. He landed the morning after the first wave of D Day at age 20. It is important to note that he was in the second wave of attack - he and the other soldiers had already learned of the fates of the soldiers in the first wave. The air raids they listened to before their departure, foretold a grim prognostication of their own future:

“We were unassigned at this time, in other words, replacements, some referred to us as cannon fodder. We boarded a ship on the evening of June 6 and sometime during the night, shoved off, and arrived the morning of June 7. We went over the side of the boat, down cargo nets, and into LCTs (as seen in the movie, Saving Private Ryan) and took off towards shore. The sailor operating our unit was somewhat shy (scared), didn’t want to get too close, and dropped the gate and I was first off, having been made a first scout by a Lieutenant, and dropped in over my head. I was loaded with a rifle, shells (bullets) and a full field pack of about 52 lbs.” 

What brave men they were. Most left comfortable lives and answered the call, and my father was one of them. He left college, friends, a great job and without a thought to what was ahead, enlisted in the infantry. He had spent a year at West Point and could have enlisted at a higher rank, and not have been “cannon fodder,” but he didn’t. Much to the deep trepidation of my grandmother, he wanted to fight.

I look at 18 year olds today and I see a different picture. Their biggest fears are getting pulled over for speeding, drinking or texting. Their biggest worry is getting a sufficient score on the ACT or SAT test to ensure acceptance at their dream college. At 18, their thoughts are with college applications, college essays and grad parties.

Don’t misunderstand me, I am not criticizing. Their worries are what every parent wishes for their children - because at 18, they are indeed, children. No parent wants their 18 year old to prematurely become an adult. No one wants to see them jump into 10 feet of water carrying 52 pounds - with a rifle, and let’s be honest, very few are eager to see their 18 year old voluntarily head into military service.

As a country, we had never faced this kind of fear and danger. These brave men had no idea of what they would encounter. I doubt they even fully understood the conflict beyond the fact that our soil had been violated. They understood what an enemy was, and that the enemy had dared to attack them, and their way of life, and that was enough. It was that simple…yet it was so complicated.

I recently was going through some old pictures I had collected after my mother died. I was looking for ancestors for my ancestry hobby (ok, obsession). They were not very chronological - photos from high school were mixed with photos of her great grandparents. Each one triggered a different reaction from me, smiles, frowns, laughs and curiosity (everyone, please write names on the back of every picture).

She had several from high school of her boy friends (not her boyfriends). On the back, she listed a name and she also noted that he had died in the war. There were about six perhaps, and it was overwhelming to me. I stared at each picture, and tried to memorize each face. They were just like any 18  year old boy today, with a goofy smile, posing in a comical way - almost like today’s “selfies.”  The sacrifice that each had made was so hard for me to fully appreciate. 

My mom met my father shortly before he shipped off. It was accidental meeting; he was at her house with a friend picking up her sister to go on a double date. My dad’s date was their next stop. They never picked up his date, instead, they talked and spent the evening playing bridge with my mom and her sister, my aunt. My mom was five years younger and still in high school.  During the next several years, and throughout my dad’s military service, they kept up a letter correspondence. Both often said that their letter writing really helped each other get to know each other in a way most couples don’t experience. My dad was injured and shipped stateside to many different hospitals. When he finally returned to Minnesota, my mom met his train and they were married shortly after - she was 20 and he was 25. What a leap of faith that was, and one that yielded 10 children and 60 plus years of marriage. 

The war made men out of children and it did it within mere weeks. It was a war that changed their lives in ways we simply can’t fathom; it is impossible to understand and appreciate what they faced and how they processed their fears. Honestly, to consider what they faced and to think of my son facing that, brings tears to me. As a mother, knowing your son, or daughter, faced that imminent and real fear of death, and faced it alone, thousands of miles from home is simply paralyzing. I don’t know how that generation did it. How did they put one foot in front of the other every single day following that telegram from the War Dept.? 

It was a generation filled with sacrifice. 

Today, D Day, is a day worthy of reflection, and a day worth acknowledging the sacrifices made by the men and women of World War II.

If you see a serviceman or woman, please take time to say thanks.

Volunteer

Earlier today I waited for my husband while he had rotator cuff surgery. The waiting room was in the lower level of a major hospital and, as waiting rooms go, it was pleasant. There was free coffee, and it was better than most free coffee one finds in a waiting room.  The chairs were comfortable and strategically placed to offer a moderate amount of privacy while accommodating several members of a patient’s family and friends. The Wifi was dependable, free and adequate for live streaming. It had two, functional televisions - one showed a game show (I had no idea that game shows were still on TV) and the other offered CNN. Both were attentively operated by a passionate, waiting room volunteer. Ah, the waiting room volunteer.

My husband was one of the first cases. We arrived at the hospital by 5:30 a.m. and he was in surgery a little over an hour later. I hadn't had breakfast so I ventured through the myriad of halls and down a few escalators to the cafeteria. When I returned, I asked someone if they knew where I should wait and I easily found the waiting room. I gave a glancing smile to the volunteer at the front desk and found a spot to settle in. Shortly after I fired up the computer and accessed the Wifi, I heard a voice calling, “Colleen?” I answered, “I’m Colleen.”  The volunteer summoned me to the front desk for an orientation.

I approached the desk, smiled and waited. Immediately I was reprimanded that I should have checked in with him, as he had important information to relay to me. I listened attentively. He went over how the texting worked, who would come find me when the surgery was completed, where John would go after surgery etc. Most of the information had already been disseminated to me when we checked in at admitting, but I listened anyway; I had nothing else to do and I appreciated his dedication as a volunteer. After a few minutes of politely listening, I was becoming concerned about my unattended laptop and purse, as a few more people came in to begin their waiting process. Unbelievably, he stopped them and told them to wait, that he had important information to impart to them and that he would now begin all over again so he wouldn't have to say it twice. Say, what? 

All I  wanted to do was go to my spot, connect to Netflix and make time pass; he had already taken up five minutes of my time and this was getting tedious. It was also definitely awkward, not to mention redundant. The new people entering the room, were not as attentive as me and slowly, they just ignored him, found their spots and the lecture ended. Volunteer did not look happy, but he stopped talking and moved on to other duties. 

Soon, I needed to use a restroom, which was “offsite,” meaning not within the confines of the waiting room. As I made my way past the desk, he raised his eyebrows, much like a teacher does when a student deliberately walks towards the exit door. I explained the purpose of my journey and he gave me a tight smile, as if to say, “If you must.” 

He seemed relieved when I returned.  A young woman approached him and asked if he knew where the cafeteria was. He answered robustly, with a smile, “Yes, I do!” She waited a bit and when he said nothing more, she looked perplexed and returned to her seat. Perhaps she realized that he was an eccentric fellow and that it might be better to leave him alone. He got up, emptied a waste basket then returned to her and said, “Do you want me to tell you where the cafeteria is?” She answered, “Yes?”  as if she thought this might be a trick question. He then explained that technically, she never asked him to tell her where it was, just that she asked if he knew where it was. And again, he said robustly, “And I do know where it is!” After which he smiled as if he had just told the most hysterical joke. She smiled weakly and waited. He gave her instructions and I can only imagine how happy she was to leave. I almost offered to show her the way myself, just to find an excuse to leave.

At some point, a physician came and began a discussion with Volunteer which I tuned out. It is funny how when you suddenly hear something odd (and you didn’t even know you were listening), your attention becomes intensely focused. I heard Volunteer raise his voice and say to the doctor, “I will tell you only if you allow me to talk!”  I thought surely he was joking. I took a peek around the corner and the doctor seemed irritated but unwilling to begin a battle with Volunteer. I’m not sure what they had been talking about, but the doctor left in haste. 

Things quieted down and I settled into a rhythm of watching Netflix, checking Facebook, listening to the drone of CNN, and I had an interesting conversation with someone regarding wolves. In the next cubicle over, I heard a wolf cry (I later learned it was from a computer) and asked a woman in my cubicle, “Is that a wolf?”  The man on the computer shouted over the wall, “Yes!” and that seemed to be his cue to come and chat. Turns out, he is really passionate about wolves and wanted to talk to me about them. He was nice, and since I like wolves as well (as much as the next person), we chatted about the differences between coyotes and wolves. It turns out that wolves eat the flesh of their prey and coyotes rip it apart. That conversation was thankfully short, as I continued to wait.

 After a few hours, I was called by Volunteer to meet with John’s doctor in a special waiting room. I admit, it did give me a start and I wondered if this is how they dole out bad news….. The doctor came in and just talked about the surgery and some of the difficulties they encountered and how he worked around them. It turns out that the special waiting room has a whiteboard which he needed to explain what he did to John’s shoulder. 

I returned to the waiting room and was soon asked by Volunteer to follow him. He led me back to the final room of a long hall, which obviously was John’s (because his name was on the whiteboard) but Volunteer stopped me before we walked in. He did a peek around the corner and asked me to gaze in and verify that this was my husband. Um, his name was on the wall … but OK, I went with it. John gave me a weak smile and I began to go in, and was again stopped by Volunteer. Volunteer asked, “Is this your husband?”  I answered (my patience was waning), “Ha ha, yes, this is him,” and I was allowed to pass. He made some reference to plastic surgery but I was really over humoring him, as I entered the room with no more thought to Volunteer.

Fortunately, that was the last I saw of Volunteer. In John’s recovery room we were surrounded by competent, knowledgeable and compassionate nursing staff. They had a refreshingly efficient way of communicating which was both welcome and appreciated.  We watched a video, and discussed signs of infection. I learned what the half life was of narcotics (my question), and how to remove the sling and ice pack (which we totally screwed up when we got home). We went through the various medications to take, when to take them, and what side effects he could expect from the surgery and the new medications. Time flew by and soon he was being wheeled to the car, and home to begin another period of waiting called recovery….