While reading kuulray's diary: Peace on Earth - There is Hope I was reminded of impressions that still reverberate inside of me. When the bells on churches slip into song, the sound reaches far beneath the gloom of bootsteps on ashened snow, strikes through the coats that layer out the icy wind, and settles into a snug core connecting disjointed times.
Churches surrounded my every move when I attended a Catholic high school in McKeesport, PA. It was a city that was settled by immigrants--drawn by the coal mines and steel mills--from anywhere that the world could not sustain them. There were holy buildings scattered, and sometimes side-by-side, throughout the area. Their names proclaimed the patronage with adjectives such as St. Mary's Polish, Saint John the Baptist Ukrainian, or Blessed Virgin Mary Russian Orthodox.
These weakened immigrant bodies with strong spirits built beautiful churches not just as a way to worship, but as a way to welcome the many who followed them. They held events that were filled with familiar dancing and food, traditional customs and costumes, and shared stories and lore. Gatherings were often announced with the tumbling and tugging of the roped bronze castings atop the holy structures.
The skyline of steepled bells would call loudly to the community, the peals would echo in the alleys, gain lift from the walls, build tone across the rivers, and bounce from the barren hillsides. Each family knew not only the particular inflection of their own call to a gathering, but, the meaning behind their neighbors' bells.
So, when the sullen funeral song rang out for a lost Vietnam soldier, the mourning was shared by all -- the grief sank deep into the heartbeat of a city feeling the toll of war. It was in the gloom of death that the community began to break apart.
I remember spending time with the young Community College men who spoke of their 'draft number' based on birthdays and how soon they would be called to fight. Their choice of career depended on the lottery number assigned to them. The conversations surrounded the options of college majors that may be exempt, whether to marry and have children to avoid their call to service, the option of enlisting so as to have the advantage of choosing their own path, or to quit school altogether and work in the factories fulltime in weapons support for their country.
How odd that the order of days that mothers had given birth would determine their sons' fates, their daughters' pregnancies, and their grandchildren's existence.
The elders of the community had fought battles and escaped wars, had defended homelands and abandoned them, had won and lost, had built and destroyed. There was a disconnect of what the word 'patriotic' meant to each of them and whether or not the Vietnam war was worth the loss of children, because the alternative was the loss of jobs and livelihood.
How strange that a mass of heroes would argue against each other about the worth of rich, red blood spent across the world set against the value of sweat dripping into vats of molten steel. The mobs fractured and stood oppossed while proclaiming righteousness.
My ideals were born from the confusion of those cobbled and asphalted streets. There are blends forged inside of me of both courage to join and bravery to resist, of both understanding the past and accepting it's ambiguity, and of both holding onto the myth and letting go of the lore.
I enlisted in the service after the Vietnam war had wound down. My battles were fought not on a physical battlefield, but in a mind beset with the constants of uncertain, quiet truths that desired to be heard. I was a single woman who was pregnant in a man's world. There were many arguments awaiting me -- from within and without. But a lifetime would not settle them.
When I marched in the early morning on the dark, foggy paths of an Illinois air base I could hear the vibrations of bells emanating from the rocking cadence of movement. And, I could feel inside of me, a baby being rocked by the sway of the steps and stilled by the lullabye of bootsong. While crawling through the belly of a B52, I could feel my son kick against my own belly from inside. The metal on metal sound of tools on the airframe would startle us both and alert us to the industry of our place.
I remember wondering if his life would be bound by my choice of day to give him birth.
All of my children are grown now and a war again calls on the nation's young. Once again we face our ancestors -- this time, all the way back to Mesopotamia and the birth of civilization itself. It is as though mankind is still searching for the meaning that lies in shallow graves and deepened crypts.
The bells of McKeesport resound in me still and I hear the funeral wail. I remember the sorrow that eked from a saturated atmosphere of clouded mist penetrated by conversations of bronze.
But I also remember the excitement of a moment of joy when the bells all peeled in unison on a clear, spring day. My spirit drifted on a carpet of gelled sound where I could feel the voices of my ancestors beseeching me to rise and meld with them.
Now I ponder upon the messages and wonder if I am worthy to carry their burden onward. I will not allow my children's blood to be spilled for this Iraq war, for this paper facade, for this sound of lies. With all of the ironies that exist within my muddled mind, I am certain of at least one fact -- that this Iraq war is wrong. I cannot take my last breath until I know that I have given air to the screams of my heritage -- this war must be stopped.