Crossroads to Somewhere
Memorial Day It Ain’t
By W T Wimpy Hiroto
Saturday, May 31, 2008

What do you call a person who is forever looking backward, as if life is a rear view mirror?
If you’re into name-calling, such an ingrate is a conservative regressive; if you like the guy he is a historian. CR2S falls somewhere between a flat world cynic and wannabe Frank Sinatra.

As another Memorial Day approaches, it dawned on me that I have never attended a service at JACCC; and it has been years since I gathered with fellow veterans at Evergreen Cemetery. Respect and esteem for the fallen has never been a personal shortcoming. I’ve written dozens of 100th/442nd war stories of every ilk: many heroic, too many tragic, a few very honest accounts of fright and panic. Paeans to the Killed In Action are worthy and needed, to remind us how fortunate we are.

We listen to soaring oratory by politicians, military brass and civilian authorities, sincere in their praise and recognition of the fallen soldier.

We stand at attention and silent gratitude as a mournful bugle pierces the silence. To a few the names etched in stone are a reminder of what might have been; to most, exemplars of sacrifice impossible to comprehend.

I remember Tom Nishimoto, a genial young man from Imperial Valley; a Block 53-1-D Poston neighbor who always had a smile and a good morning greeting for the youngest of nondescripts. Suddenly one day he is gone, volunteering to fight a war in Europe, sans flag-waving and parade. Another day he is truly gone, never having a chance to fulfill his dream of someday becoming a photographer. I remember Mitch Teshima, a Riversider who was the epitome of cool: personable, goodlooking, athletic, openly admired by old and young alike; the exact someone you wanted to grow up to be. He died in the mud and muck of Italy. Wouldn’t it be a fair question to ask why?

Memorial Day came into being to commemorate World War I, a feel-good reminder that the U.S. of A. had become a world power. A hiccup and a war later, we had become The World Leader. A day to truly commemorate.

And then a funny thing happened en route to further greatness. In less than five years after WWII, Emperor MacArthur lost his clothes and a rag-tag army of communists fought us to a standstill. But that was okay, it was only a police action, not a war to remember. [Anyone keeping score also tends to disparage The Falklands, Greneda and other nondescripts.
Mere skirmishes.] It’s pretty hard to overlook Viet Nam but let’s try; we’ll certainly feel better. Rapidly overlooking other minor frays, we segue to Desert Storm (G.H.W. Bush) and The Great Embarrassment (G. Dubya).

Do you notice the trend? After the feel-good war* of all time, every conflict that followed has been a downer, a disappointment, an example something gone wrong. (*How a war can be called “good”, is beyond me. While we mourn the loss of more than 4,000 American lives in Iraq after five years, how easily we’ve forgotten the hundreds of thousands lost during WWII, and the residual civilian millions!?!? )

I honestly don’t know where I’m going with this, except to explain why
I no longer attend public Memorial Day services. The holiday was launched to commemorate the war to end all wars. Since it was only a rehearsal for WWII, that conflict became the standard to remember and I find no reason to object. But why remember? What is there to memorialize? The deaths of brave, young men? Okay. But I can do without the pomp and circumstance, hollow words about honor and patriotism.

Death by sniper, grenade or machine gun does not translate to brass band and Yankee Doodle Dandy. Mea culpa.

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My only sister, Martha, is buried at Oliveview Cemetary in Riverside. The prewar Japanese deceased were all crammed into a wayward corner section with the Mexicans, furthest from the imposing entryway. Today, in delicious irony, that area now boasts the finest view of the city and environs. Location, location, oops . . . .

My mother and father, parents-in-law, three brothers-in-law and wife, Margaret, are buried at Evergreen. Her headstone also carries my name but lacks a certain important date. It’s blank every time I drop by for a visit . . . .

JA funerals have run the gamut from lengthy evening services many years ago to shortened daytime versions or none at all. There are often celebrations. As an old-fashioned busy-body I have one of those prearranged thingamajigs, everything taken care of. But now I’m
entertaining second thoughts: what’s the sense in a dirge if there are no friends to cry over you? Yeah, I duly confess, there are just too many pre-deceased to suit me. No tears, no fears, remember there’s no tomorrow . . . .

Which reminds me, I don’t have a Bucket List. You know, a menu of things to do before you kick the bucket. I gave up smoking (28 years ago) and drinking (more recently). I am now (practically) vice-less since my desire to gamble has waned . . . like everything else.
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W.T. Wimpy Hiroto can be reached at wimpyhiroto@msn.com Opinions expressed in this column are not necessarily those of The Rafu Shimpo.