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Holiday story
This morning I woke up and thought back on something that happened to me a few years ago. I wrote the story in Dutch then, so I spent this afternoon translating it into English. It was Thanksgiving weekend, but somehow I feel there is a christmas message in there. Anyway, read it yourself.
Sunday afternoon in Washington D.C.
On my way from Vienna, VA to Columbia MD, I have to go through Washington DC, capital of the modern world. I had spent a handful of days there a few years before, yet I still took the subway early, which allowed me to spend a couple of hours during the afternoon in a city that has fascinated me for a while now.
I didn’t bring a map, but I though I recognize things from five years ago. Back above the ground this seemed a bit more complicated than I had anticipated. Yet, soon I find myself on the edge of the Mall. Everywhere else in this country the Mall is a place where people do their shopping, only in DC it is an area, near the White House, where you can find most attractions of the city.
The Mall on a Sunday afternoon is an oasis of tranquillity. From the Capitol at 1st street until the Vietnam memorial near 21st you do not feel the rush of a big city, nor the buzz of a tourist attraction. You can see the quietness by watching the people who spend their afternoon there. Obviously, first you see tourists, with their trademark habit of posing in front of everything that might be worth taking a picture from. Next to that there are the day trippers. These Americans, mostly families, come to sniff a bit of American culture (with European arrogance I’d almost added the impossibility of this). Their children look bored; they are not interested in politics, modern art or wars from the distant past.
In between the strangers you’ll find the citizens of the country capital. They use the Mall as their recreational area. One group is playing with a Frisbee, several kites hang in the air, cyclists do their circuit, while runners use the edge of the grass as their track.
The stage is beautiful. Everything is spacious, it feels like you’re out in the country. There are few amenities. A few snack cars selling soda and hot dogs, a few benches which are being used gratefully, just for a rest, to watch some group playing touch-football, which seems the civilized variety of American Football to an outsider like myself. People are studying, sitting in the sun or are just resting from a heavy week, preparing for another difficult week, inevitably ahead of them.
Only on the sides one can spot some cars, while garbage is being collected separately, which means you have to make sure you do not use just any bin. The squirrels are very visible, like pigeons in Amsterdam or London. Modern city rats, on a continuous quest for food and even cheekier than the cartoon version of them.
During my previous visit the Vietnam Memorial impressed me deeply. The endless list of names and soldiers missing in action, to be read in black marble, is for me the living proof that war is useless. Also this time it gets me very silent, I even feel a bit of a lump in my throat. Perhaps a bit exaggerated, as I am not an American, nor do I know any of these soldiers, not even indirectly, yet this place really hits the spot for me. 140 panels, 58.000 names. From the very first soldier (Dale R. Buis, from Pender Nebraska, aged 37) who died on July 8th 1959 until the very last one (Richard Vande Geer, Columbus Ohio, 27) on May the 15th 1975, this list tells the story of hundreds of thousands of broken families. The book with all the names in it is bigger than the biggest phone directory I know. I walk past the monument and get a bit annoyed by the lack of respect other people show this place. Children scream. With a camera in his hand a father tells his family to smile for the picture. A group of Asian tourists seem to shoot a whole film over here. A cynical American could make a remark about it, but it would be inappropriate. To me, the Vietnam War is a war in which innocents lost their lives. Complete villages of surprised Vietnamese, ships full of ignorant 19 year old American soldiers.
Perhaps it should be this way. The screaming child will return in ten years time and will for the first time think about this war. The photographer will see the result of his picture. A smiling family in front of names of hundreds of families who will never laugh freely anymore. Somewhere in Japan people will realise that America is not just responsible for the death of millions of their country men, but hasn’t spared their own youth either. A bit outside the busy part there is a lady with a handkerchief in her hand. She doesn’t cry, yet it is clear that she is touched. Judging from her age, I guess she has lost her husband or fiancée. Perhaps a brother. She stops at a certain point and uses the white paper on her right chin once more. I would love to talk to her, yet I don’t dare. I wouldn’t know how. I go back to the subway.
Two blocks into town and the quietness has gone. Not that it is busy, it is still Sunday after all, but the solemnity of the Mall is different from the rest of town. On the side of one of the huge government buildings (suddenly the Python sketch Ministry of Silly Walks springs to mind) someone is sleeping under a blanket. On top of the blanket a squirrel is watching the world go by. It has look has a bit of arrogance in it. ‘Go on then, tell me I can’t stand here’ it seems to tell us. In front of the white house it is quiet. A few cyclists are discussing the route from here. Some skaters on rollerblades do a little show in between the orange pylons they obviously had put there themselves earlier. A very American family not only take pictures (mother) but has also taken a video camera that would put the regional TV-channel to shame. All different angles are taped. The children are not very happy. Not only are they supposed to pay attention now, they already know that back home the whole story will be told a second time.
Directly opposite the house of the mightiest man in the world is Conchita. She has been sitting there for nearly 20 years. One day in 1980 she saw the light, concluded that protesting occasionally doesn’t really help, so she decided to sit opposite the White House 24 hours per day. She is advocating peace, justice and freedom. She is against war, NATO and nuclear weapons. A simple message and she’s willing to explain her message to anyone curious enough to stop near her seat. If you still don’t get it, she has a bag full of leaflets in several languages to hand out. I get a paper with a copy of an article from a Dutch opinion magazine. I read about police violence, muggings and threats and in the meantime she tells me that she is not a very popular neighbour. She taps on the scarf on her head and I hear a solid noise. It appears she is wearing a helmet, afraid for microwaves coming from the other side of the road. It seems a bit paranoid to me, yet I can imagine that train of thought after sitting there for two decades. As long as a world wide treaty against nuclear weapons hasn’t been signed, she plans on staying here. ‘But first I have to make it to the year 2000’ she adds. I wish her good luck, knowing that the new millennium is only a month away; I put a few dollars in her coffee cup and walk on.
On the other side of park Lafayette a mini van stops. From all different corners homeless appear. From the van people distribute food and cans of drink. They are putting out clothes as well, on a park bench. For those who need it. Some of them put on an extra layer; it does get cold at night. I do not dare to get closer. I’m not afraid, but I feel some sort of shame, guilt, should I decide to look from upfront. A group of tourists has fewer problems with that idea. The man takes several pictures of homeless accepting food, while in the meantime his wife gets in the crowd and manages to obtain a bag with two sandwiches and a tangerine. Proudly she poses in front of the camera. I am still looking for the subway, to get to the Greyhound station where my bus leaves the end of the afternoon.
On my way to the subway station one of the homeless overtakes me. As said before, I was not afraid, but I have to admit that I was looking over my shoulder a few times before he walked passed me. As he does so, he gives me a friendly smile, two blocks further he sits down on a bench. As I walk past him, he asks me if I wanted some food as well. I’m shocked. Do I look that bad, that he confuses me with another homeless person? Thinking about though, I notice there is hardly any visible difference. I have a little backpack with me, have a beard that is nearly a week old and could easily be one of them. I told him that I am ‘only’ a traveller on my way to the Greyhound station. While finishing his late lunch, he asks plenty of questions and talks a lot about himself. He appears to be homeless (“living in a shelter”), but he does have a job. He is saving for a roof over his head. The distribution of food happens several times a day, in different parks everywhere in the city. He is not touching drugs or alcohol anymore (“wrong friends man, they ain’t even friends”) and does see his ex-wife again on occasion. Unfortunately his 4 children not anymore. Dennis is 41 now, he tells me. Contrary to most people on the street, he looks younger than his age. He has a son that is 21 already. He wants to know if I have a camera (“want to take a picture of a black man?”) and I use the last picture of this film for a picture of him. I feel comfortable enough to make a joke about me not being able to send him a copy, since he has no address. He laughs and tells me not to bother anyway. After that he tells me how I can walk all the way to the Greyhound station and wishes me all the best. “You take care of yourself man. Take care!”
I walk the 14 blocks to the station and see homeless everywhere. In every park and in front of every office building, one sees them hanging around. I can’t remember that ever before in any city I have seen so many of them before. Though perhaps you ignore them subconsciously, which is much easier for your conscience anyway. If you don’t see them, you can’t feel guilty. At least Dennis took away some prejudice. Homeless people are not just some annoying leeches who keep asking for money on every occasion, they can be persons as well, friendly ones at that. They might have had some bad luck and therefore no bed to sleep in.
At the end of the long Thanksgiving weekend the Greyhound station is crowded. This does have its advantages though. Before I had the chance to finish my cheeseburgers, I sit in an extra service on my way to Baltimore. I wish the Dutch railways were so flexible...
Sunday afternoon in Washington D.C.
On my way from Vienna, VA to Columbia MD, I have to go through Washington DC, capital of the modern world. I had spent a handful of days there a few years before, yet I still took the subway early, which allowed me to spend a couple of hours during the afternoon in a city that has fascinated me for a while now.
I didn’t bring a map, but I though I recognize things from five years ago. Back above the ground this seemed a bit more complicated than I had anticipated. Yet, soon I find myself on the edge of the Mall. Everywhere else in this country the Mall is a place where people do their shopping, only in DC it is an area, near the White House, where you can find most attractions of the city.
The Mall on a Sunday afternoon is an oasis of tranquillity. From the Capitol at 1st street until the Vietnam memorial near 21st you do not feel the rush of a big city, nor the buzz of a tourist attraction. You can see the quietness by watching the people who spend their afternoon there. Obviously, first you see tourists, with their trademark habit of posing in front of everything that might be worth taking a picture from. Next to that there are the day trippers. These Americans, mostly families, come to sniff a bit of American culture (with European arrogance I’d almost added the impossibility of this). Their children look bored; they are not interested in politics, modern art or wars from the distant past.
In between the strangers you’ll find the citizens of the country capital. They use the Mall as their recreational area. One group is playing with a Frisbee, several kites hang in the air, cyclists do their circuit, while runners use the edge of the grass as their track.
The stage is beautiful. Everything is spacious, it feels like you’re out in the country. There are few amenities. A few snack cars selling soda and hot dogs, a few benches which are being used gratefully, just for a rest, to watch some group playing touch-football, which seems the civilized variety of American Football to an outsider like myself. People are studying, sitting in the sun or are just resting from a heavy week, preparing for another difficult week, inevitably ahead of them.
Only on the sides one can spot some cars, while garbage is being collected separately, which means you have to make sure you do not use just any bin. The squirrels are very visible, like pigeons in Amsterdam or London. Modern city rats, on a continuous quest for food and even cheekier than the cartoon version of them.
During my previous visit the Vietnam Memorial impressed me deeply. The endless list of names and soldiers missing in action, to be read in black marble, is for me the living proof that war is useless. Also this time it gets me very silent, I even feel a bit of a lump in my throat. Perhaps a bit exaggerated, as I am not an American, nor do I know any of these soldiers, not even indirectly, yet this place really hits the spot for me. 140 panels, 58.000 names. From the very first soldier (Dale R. Buis, from Pender Nebraska, aged 37) who died on July 8th 1959 until the very last one (Richard Vande Geer, Columbus Ohio, 27) on May the 15th 1975, this list tells the story of hundreds of thousands of broken families. The book with all the names in it is bigger than the biggest phone directory I know. I walk past the monument and get a bit annoyed by the lack of respect other people show this place. Children scream. With a camera in his hand a father tells his family to smile for the picture. A group of Asian tourists seem to shoot a whole film over here. A cynical American could make a remark about it, but it would be inappropriate. To me, the Vietnam War is a war in which innocents lost their lives. Complete villages of surprised Vietnamese, ships full of ignorant 19 year old American soldiers.
Perhaps it should be this way. The screaming child will return in ten years time and will for the first time think about this war. The photographer will see the result of his picture. A smiling family in front of names of hundreds of families who will never laugh freely anymore. Somewhere in Japan people will realise that America is not just responsible for the death of millions of their country men, but hasn’t spared their own youth either. A bit outside the busy part there is a lady with a handkerchief in her hand. She doesn’t cry, yet it is clear that she is touched. Judging from her age, I guess she has lost her husband or fiancée. Perhaps a brother. She stops at a certain point and uses the white paper on her right chin once more. I would love to talk to her, yet I don’t dare. I wouldn’t know how. I go back to the subway.
Two blocks into town and the quietness has gone. Not that it is busy, it is still Sunday after all, but the solemnity of the Mall is different from the rest of town. On the side of one of the huge government buildings (suddenly the Python sketch Ministry of Silly Walks springs to mind) someone is sleeping under a blanket. On top of the blanket a squirrel is watching the world go by. It has look has a bit of arrogance in it. ‘Go on then, tell me I can’t stand here’ it seems to tell us. In front of the white house it is quiet. A few cyclists are discussing the route from here. Some skaters on rollerblades do a little show in between the orange pylons they obviously had put there themselves earlier. A very American family not only take pictures (mother) but has also taken a video camera that would put the regional TV-channel to shame. All different angles are taped. The children are not very happy. Not only are they supposed to pay attention now, they already know that back home the whole story will be told a second time.
Directly opposite the house of the mightiest man in the world is Conchita. She has been sitting there for nearly 20 years. One day in 1980 she saw the light, concluded that protesting occasionally doesn’t really help, so she decided to sit opposite the White House 24 hours per day. She is advocating peace, justice and freedom. She is against war, NATO and nuclear weapons. A simple message and she’s willing to explain her message to anyone curious enough to stop near her seat. If you still don’t get it, she has a bag full of leaflets in several languages to hand out. I get a paper with a copy of an article from a Dutch opinion magazine. I read about police violence, muggings and threats and in the meantime she tells me that she is not a very popular neighbour. She taps on the scarf on her head and I hear a solid noise. It appears she is wearing a helmet, afraid for microwaves coming from the other side of the road. It seems a bit paranoid to me, yet I can imagine that train of thought after sitting there for two decades. As long as a world wide treaty against nuclear weapons hasn’t been signed, she plans on staying here. ‘But first I have to make it to the year 2000’ she adds. I wish her good luck, knowing that the new millennium is only a month away; I put a few dollars in her coffee cup and walk on.
On the other side of park Lafayette a mini van stops. From all different corners homeless appear. From the van people distribute food and cans of drink. They are putting out clothes as well, on a park bench. For those who need it. Some of them put on an extra layer; it does get cold at night. I do not dare to get closer. I’m not afraid, but I feel some sort of shame, guilt, should I decide to look from upfront. A group of tourists has fewer problems with that idea. The man takes several pictures of homeless accepting food, while in the meantime his wife gets in the crowd and manages to obtain a bag with two sandwiches and a tangerine. Proudly she poses in front of the camera. I am still looking for the subway, to get to the Greyhound station where my bus leaves the end of the afternoon.
On my way to the subway station one of the homeless overtakes me. As said before, I was not afraid, but I have to admit that I was looking over my shoulder a few times before he walked passed me. As he does so, he gives me a friendly smile, two blocks further he sits down on a bench. As I walk past him, he asks me if I wanted some food as well. I’m shocked. Do I look that bad, that he confuses me with another homeless person? Thinking about though, I notice there is hardly any visible difference. I have a little backpack with me, have a beard that is nearly a week old and could easily be one of them. I told him that I am ‘only’ a traveller on my way to the Greyhound station. While finishing his late lunch, he asks plenty of questions and talks a lot about himself. He appears to be homeless (“living in a shelter”), but he does have a job. He is saving for a roof over his head. The distribution of food happens several times a day, in different parks everywhere in the city. He is not touching drugs or alcohol anymore (“wrong friends man, they ain’t even friends”) and does see his ex-wife again on occasion. Unfortunately his 4 children not anymore. Dennis is 41 now, he tells me. Contrary to most people on the street, he looks younger than his age. He has a son that is 21 already. He wants to know if I have a camera (“want to take a picture of a black man?”) and I use the last picture of this film for a picture of him. I feel comfortable enough to make a joke about me not being able to send him a copy, since he has no address. He laughs and tells me not to bother anyway. After that he tells me how I can walk all the way to the Greyhound station and wishes me all the best. “You take care of yourself man. Take care!”
I walk the 14 blocks to the station and see homeless everywhere. In every park and in front of every office building, one sees them hanging around. I can’t remember that ever before in any city I have seen so many of them before. Though perhaps you ignore them subconsciously, which is much easier for your conscience anyway. If you don’t see them, you can’t feel guilty. At least Dennis took away some prejudice. Homeless people are not just some annoying leeches who keep asking for money on every occasion, they can be persons as well, friendly ones at that. They might have had some bad luck and therefore no bed to sleep in.
At the end of the long Thanksgiving weekend the Greyhound station is crowded. This does have its advantages though. Before I had the chance to finish my cheeseburgers, I sit in an extra service on my way to Baltimore. I wish the Dutch railways were so flexible...
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