From this River, When I Was a Child, I Used to Drink
by: Mary Oliver
But when I came back I found
that the body of the river was drying.
"Did it speak?"
Yes, it sang out the old songs, but faintly.
"What will you do?"
I will grieve of course, but that's nothing.
"What, precisely, will you grieve for?"
For the river. For myself, my lost
joyfulness. For the children who will not
know what a river can be--a friend, a
companion, a hint of heaven.
"Isn't this somewhat overplayed?"
I said: it can be a friend. A companion. A
hint of heaven.
I spent a good deal of time this morning and afternoon at cemeteries. It's Memorial Day in the United States. That's a day set aside to honor members of the country's armed forces who died in combat. There are parades and concerts and VFW services all over the land, including my little piece of Michigan's Upper Peninsula.
I am well aware that I live a pretty privileged life. I can write blog posts and poems and essays, freely expressing my opinions about MAGA hat-wearing bigots, pandemic deniers, homophobes, xenophobes, gun rights advocates, and misogynists (in short, Trump supporters). I don't have to worry about being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night to be shot or thrown in prison for my beliefs. Because there are individuals who sacrificed their lives to protect my freedom.
Some people in the United States think that criticizing the government and elected officials is unpatriotic. I'm here today to say the exact opposite. When I say we need sensible gun laws in this country--when I speak out against censorship in libraries and schools--when I point out evidence of systemic racism--when I defend the rights of LGTBQIA+ friends and family members--when I call out people as traitors who violently storm the U. S. Capitol--when I want my daughter to be able to make her own decisions about her body and life--when I do any of these things, I am honoring those men and women who fought and died for my independence.
My father was ultra-conservative his whole life. Staunch Catholic. John Wayne was his hero. He was a member of the John Birch Society and thought Joseph McCarthy was a great patriot. The only Democrat my father ever voted for was John F. Kennedy. Aside from that, he was a diehard Republican, right down to Donald Trump.
From a pretty young age, I was the exact opposite of my father, politically and socially. He knew this. I may have even said to Dad on more than one occasion that Jesus Christ was a socialist, not a capitalist. We didn't agree on a whole lot of anything. Yet, my father respected my right to hold opinions that were in direct conflict with his. (He may have even appreciated me a little bit for disagreeing with him, although he would never admit it.)
So, on this Memorial Day, I want to thank all of the people who fought and died in battle so that I can be a free-thinking, antigun, prochoice, borderline socialist. John F. Kennedy, my father's favorite president, once said, "As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter the words, but to live by them."
Saint Marty tries to live out this gratitude every day of his life.
