I began a three-week travel cycle with a work trip to Oklahoma City. I can’t say as I’ve ever imagined going there as a matter of personal choice. I can say that about a number of places I’ve visited during my time on this job. And, as with nearly all of those other locales, it was a surprise and blessing to discover that I liked this middle American city and its people.
This, even though I was unnerved by a show of unfettered patriotism as we made our way from Atlanta. The pilot came out of the flight deck and announced there were several soldiers and veterans onboard — and that, speaking as a veteran, he wanted us to give them all a hand to thank them for ‘keeping us free.’ I, too, am a patriot; but more in the spirit of liberty, virtue, and values. The applause that erupted in the plane seemed painfully at odds with our mutilation of civil liberties and our contradiction of nearly every value we have espoused. Will we, I wonder, some day go through a national repentance — as the Germans have — that will make us shy to wave flags, celebrate the military, and speak of imperial ventures as ‘keeping us free?’ I hope we will one day turn back to our values and spare ourselves the applause. Better to quietly live out a collective life of virtue.
The Oklahoma City airport was similarly cheering of soldiers; with lighted posters and welcome banners strewn about. I have nothing against the soldiers. Indeed, my heart is nearly torn in two every time I see a young woman or man heading to or from war. There will come a time in the life of each of these when the cheering and the applause will end and they will be left with the private horrors of their experiences turned to nightmares in which they relive — for the rest of their lives — the worst of what humans can do to each other. I remember my own grandfather thrashing about on his bed; fighting a war long over (in this case, World War II in the Pacific). One of my early childhood memories was of going to wake him from a nap and having him lunge at me, squeezing my neck because I had triggered a self-defence behaviour that had saved him, at least once, from being ambushed by his foe (who had already cut the throats of everyone else in his company of soldiers). He burst into tears when he realized he was seconds away from killing me — then his only grandson. He admonished me never to get close to him when he was sleeping. Getting close to him in his dreams was to get close to him in war. And the young woman standing by the baggage claim, and the young man seated not far from it, carried battles, fears, and griefs inside them that no flag-waving patriotism would ever soothe. As I waited for my luggage, I looked at each of them and I prayed silently that they will, as much as possible, heal from the wounds they carry inside. I did not applaud when the passengers on the plane followed the cue of our captain. My patriotism was carried on petitions in prayer.
The conference I attended was held at the Skirvin Hilton. It is a fully renovated early 20th century structure that is among my favourite hotels I’ve visited. The main common areas have been restored to their early glory (with modernized lighting and environmental controls). The guest rooms have been completely redone to make them spacious and modern. It was the most effective compromise I’ve seen between preserving the old and making it new. The effect was marvelous. It was a pleasure to walk down halls, step into ballrooms, sit in meeting rooms, and retire for a night’s rest. Even more wonderful were the staff. They were among the most courteous and welcoming I’ve encountered in my long pilgrimage from place to place.
One of the great blessings of these past two years has been getting to know one of my colleagues from Boston University better. When we were working together, the odd formalities of the Mediaeval Academic social structures living out their anachronisms in our present-day world meant that there was a reserve between us. She was my institutional superior and I was a new professor. Since then, however, we have met as people at least somewhat removed from some of those confining pressures. Intermittently, we have encountered one another again at meetings and conferences — and we have become real friends. I cherish this development and I delight in knowing her better. She is a fine human being.
My friend and I had a couple of occasions on this trip to visit with one another. We shared a humble meal and then walked a few blocks to find the Oklahoma City Memorial. She wanted to see it and to take pictures. I’m not sure I would have gone if she’d not been there. I am glad she led the way.
To me, the most striking thing about the memorial is its beauty. We make magnificent temples in places of human suffering. In my late teens and twenties, I used to travel with friends to see Civil War battlefields. So many of them are now beautiful spots. Were they such before blood was spilt? One of the most hauntingly beautiful places I’ve ever been was the Droop Mountain battle memorial. If memory serves (and it may not exactly) some three-thousand or so soldiers lost their lives there. Many of them were buried on the battlefield itself — Union and Confederate together. The view from that tree-lined mountain-top is amazing. It has an aesthetic power that affects you as you stand there. So it is with the Oklahoma City Memorial. What was once a fairly unattractive pair of city blocks has been transformed into one of the most beautiful public spaces I’ve seen.
The space is dominated by two gates and a reflecting pool in between. The reflecting pool now fills what had once been the street in front of the building brought to ruin. Where the courthouse once stood, there are 168 steel and glass chairs on a perfectly flat and manicured green lawn. Each chair represents a person who died as a result of the mass murder committed on that spot. Big chairs represent adults. Small chairs represent children.
It seemed to me that the architect was drawing upon aesthetics from Ancient Egypt. They’d turned to space into a temple complex. Since my dad taught about (and loves) ancient civilizations, I’d grown up making frequent trips to museums and special exhibitions. I felt the echo as soon as I saw it.
In that space there is also a great tree (now over a hundred years old) that they have named the ‘Survivors’ Tree.’ It withstood the blast and stands in silent witness to the suffering and the remembrance. It’s spirit fills the space.
I went back to the memorial a couple times on my own, seeing it in different light, at different times of day. Sometimes I was virtually alone there — except for the birds that loudly called and flitted from one tree to another. This, ultimately, was now their domain . . . And it was my privilege to be their as a guest. I spoke to them when they drew near. They were the sort of birds that were curious about human companions. We spoke at each other; communicating in our babble that we regarded one another and were happy to spend time in each other’s presence. Whether in bright sunlight, at sunset, or at night, that space was beautiful — and the birds were always talking.
On the day before we were to leave, my friend and I made a return to the memorial so we might also see the museum. It was a beautifully done series of exhibits. It begins with Oklahoma City before the explosion. Then, you enter a room where you hear a recording of the blast. Then, on to news footage and photographs. My friend noticed — I did not — that they have discretely placed tissue boxes throughout the museum.
For me, the hardest part was the room in which they had a portrait picture of each of the 168. Each picture was heartbreaking . . . Accompanied by some token of remembrance. Often, with the babies, it was a pair of shoes.
Later that evening, I walked the streets of the city on my own. I’d had numerous conversations with people native to the place on my prior walks. I found them to be kind and engaging. As the sun went down that evening, however, I was all alone. I watched the sunset reflected in the glass of the skyscrapers at the center of town, as I heard the crickets begin to chirp in empty lots as big as small fields. On my way back to the hotel, I paused again at the memorial, now theatrically lit for nighttime meditations. I thought of the 168. I thought of Timothy — who’d also been a soldier before he carried his personal war to this place. I grieved them all. But more than that, I grieved that we make a sacrifice of human joys, liberties, and lives in the madness of violence for our causes and complaints against each other.
When this place, like the temples of Egypt, has turned to ruins (as all places must), the conflicts will be forgotten. Whatever humans or other creatures find the remnants of this space will only know the gates and the mysteries they enclose.
g2travels 