I Hate Memorial Day

I hate the concept, first of all. As if one Monday a year even begins to honor the life sacrifices of all those who’ve died “for this country.” We’re supposed to take this day and “remember them,” whatever that means. Statement certainly can’t be taken literally. I mean, let’s do some math here:

There are only eighty six thousand four hundred seconds in a day. Even if one were to take the time to memorize the names of eight six thousand four hundred fallen soldiers and then spend the entire twenty-four hour period actively remembering them (being careful to think of nothing else—not even one’s need to pee—and thus sacrifice an irreplaceable instant or, worse, lose one’s place) that would still leave millions of people unremembered. Unsung, as it were…which is a fancy way of saying, “Just as dead, except nobody really cares about it.”

The problem is, there are plenty of U.S. military casualties who are just that: unsung, unmourned, unremembered. Their bodies lie strewn throughout history. We don’t even remember their wars. Have you ever heard of the First Seminole War? How about the Second? Or the Third? Do you have any idea what they was really about? Do you remember the name of a fallen soldier who died for our freedom to take Florida from some brown people? And don’t you just love how Wikipedia’s U.S. Casualties of War table is littered with question marks. Its as if the table itself is shrugging, throwing up its hands in defeat. Hey it seems to say, don’t look at me. I’m just a table. Hell if I know how many people died back then. It was 1818, for goddsakes. Two thirds of ‘em couldn’t read and the rest were getting shot. Call that an estimate.

So we don’t really remember the fallen on Memorial Day. The task is impossible. What to do then? We barbeque meat. We drink beer. We bullshit with the neighbors and pretend to care about their lives. We watch sports, read the news, and do all the narcissistic things we do anyway. On a Monday. The worst fucking day of the week. Go figure.

Some of us (a shrinking, but nonetheless existent percentage) get the day off from work. Many do not. And, sure, the guy who pumps my gas or sells me my cancer sticks is getting time and a half...but this time last year I was that guy. I know exactly how he feels and, brother…twelve bucks and hour just doesn’t make up. Only twelve because we live out here, in what the President’s father described as “Little Beirut.” In my birthstate, time and a half equals eight dollars and hour…unless you’re a waitress, in which case it’s four, plus the tips you’ll get from those too lazy to apply meat to hot charcoal.

Meanwhile, 2465 new American soldier souls have shuffled their way free of this mortal coil. At this rate we’ll hit 3000 before the year is out and by this time next year we’ll still be wondering just what to do about extracting our fighting men and women from what used to be called “The Fertile Crescent.” Should we wait until the Iraqi army is trained and in the field? Or until Iran invades through the already-far-too porous border, triggering the next Only One Vowel Removed? Because didn’t the last one just go so well?

Vote for Democrats in November. At this point, it is your only hope and mine. It doesn’t matter what they stand for. You don’t know anyway, and won’t remember by this time next year even if you do. Besides, deep in your heart you know they’re lying. But at least their lies don’t lead young people into body bags.

Except for that one time, back in the 1960s…but that’s just boring old history anyway. Like the True Meaning of Memorial Day. Much better to indulge in the Pie-and-Spareribs Memorial Day than worry about the piles of dead that old son of a bitch, Ares, has claimed for his own.