On the afternoon of September 17th I witnessed an imposing event held at the Blue Cross Arena in downtown Rochester . The program was highlighted by performances of patriotic music, dance, and drill teams from across North America – the 2006 Rochester International Marine Tattoo. It was more than the musical extravaganza I expected it to be as marching bands and bagpipe teams from Europe and Canada also showcased their own brand of music. Nothing, however, had prepared me for another event which happened before the drums rolled, the bagpipes belted out their distinctive sounds and the batons were waved.
The master of ceremonies requested all soldiers, Marines, airmen, sailors and Coast Guardsmen who came to attend the event to stand up and be recognized. I thought it would only be an enumeration of the United States ’ armed forces. A marching band played in the background, subtle at first then progressed into a tremolo. The lights were set to a serene brightness, enough to fill the huge arena and to identify the soldiers of America . As the emcee called on to them by group the drums thundered. There they were - the soldiers of America , composed and regal, like eagles perched on top of a cliff. The audience, numbering several thousand, roared. My eyes feasted on the multitude of proud men and women, old and young, some were dressed in civilian clothes while others resplendent in their uniforms, being cheered by their compatriots, congratulated by comrades and hugged by their families.
I was but a speck in the multitude, clapping and cheering these hometown heroes. There is a compelling happiness to witness such honor given to these valiant men. It may not be as formal as the other forms of ceremonies, there may not have been any politicians present or even the President but it was honorable enough as the soldiers’ presence was inimitable. They are the men and women who had gone to war, suffered wounds and the wrenching pains of killing their enemies who were really their brothers, sisters, sons and daughters.
A man in front of me stood up. He was frail and his hair was thin. The back of his hands were wrinkled and he looked tired. He was wearing a suit. He must have been 80 years old. His legs trembled as he balanced himself. Standing two rows below were younger men in civilian clothes, sturdy as a brick wall. Standing five rows away from us was a young woman dressed in military clothes, commanding and proud. She did not clap but stood tall and proud. The old man’s wife cheered and looked at her husband. Her smile was as brilliant as an atomic bomb explosion. His legs wobbled as he clapped willfully. It was then that I spoke to myself, in that little district of my mind where I am most comfortable, to witness the difference of time and space. In that multitude, the older soldiers had to keep their balance while the younger ones stood solid. Who was more proud – that old man who has served his land in the Vietnam War or the young soldier who went to Iraq ? I looked at the old man and realized that men, despite their age, skin color and beliefs are still created equal. While the crowd continued to cheer, I tried to capture the hefty economy of that moment that I should keep in my memory.
When the Marines were requested to stand, an old man in his sixties sitting three seats away from me laughed and said, “Will anyone help me stand up?” Nobody offered any help but he managed to lift his weight of some 250 pounds on a 6’2” frame. He did not clap; instead he put his right hand on his chest. I watched him intently, beaming with glee. I was moved by such gesture. His will proved to be humongous. I am moved by such men. I wanted to shake his hand but I was afraid I would break the litany of the moment. What if he was my father, would I have been proud or be ashamed that he had participated in the war? I imagined myself seeing him with a gun, his uniform tainted with blood, would I have been proud of what he had done? I looked at my hands but I cannot imagine myself going to war. There I was, a man amongst other men, not even an American, in a country considered to be the most powerful in the world, watching a soldier digest the intensity of the moment, being celebrated by his countrymen.
The American Soldier, chosen as Man of the Year in 2003 by Time Magazine, is an enigma. He is a structure to reckon with. Other nations see him as an arsenal to restore peace. But in that moment, amid the roar of the multitude, he is a creature of meaning – his body might be a battle machine but his heart is that of a human being. Under the lights of the auditorium everyone had to dissect him, to probe whether his heart is still with his country or has he given up the fight for freedom. And I, a mortal, wondered if he will continue to serve his country even if his heart has been ripped by the war. With the enormous responsibility to carry out his master’s commands, will he still be able to live as proud as he was when he first entered the academy? I thought of other men who are presently at war against ambiguity, who need not carry guns, who only have their voices as armaments, who need not go to the battlefield but carry the same passion for the liberation of mankind, to leave atrocity in the past and not be haunted by it, to savor the peace that their forebears had longed for.
After the momentous standing ovation subsided we all sat, content with the rapture of the event. Nothing, since my arrival in America in July, has given me such a feeling of riotous satisfaction like honoring the American soldier in the International Marine Tattoo.
(Published in Sun.Star Bacolod Oct. 16, 2006 under my column, The Mango Generation)
Thanks for writing this.
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