The scans from my last day on the East Coast, a day I spent on this war machine turned war memorial, just came back as the drums of global conflagration have reached a deafening crescendo, making this eerie space look even creepier.
I’ve never enjoyed shows of military might. I don’t rejoice in fire power. I don’t even particularly like fireworks. But I will always cheer when the mighty fall. And I will always mourn the innocent devoured by the hungry maw of imperial expansionism. Do not ask me to take any other sides.
When I walked aboard, I was greeted by an older gentleman that I assumed was a retired officer spending his sunset years honoring his time and memories of this vessel. He explained how I should find my way around the ship, following colored stripes on the floor; he warned me to watch my step – to only take photos when both my feet were firmly planted beneath me, as there’s plenty to trip over here. He encouraged me to check out the gunner’s room, but to be very careful when getting in and out; several tons of steel would end my visit prematurely if I were to stand up too quickly and bash my head in.
He also asked me where I was from. I said “Seattle,” which surprised him. “You came all the way here to visit this place?” I dissimulated: “well, I was in Philly and saw this and thought ‘that could be cool.'” That seemed to satisfy him. No further questions asked.
What I could have said was: “This ship has been anchored in my memory since I could remember. I think I’m owed a tour.”
My mother would often tell me the story of how this ship let her comrades down, and how she had to listen to them die one by one over the airwaves as the night turned to dawn. That’s the cost of war, I suppose. That’s what comes from deals with the devil.
But it’s left me with a complicated relationship with geopolitics. It’s so easy to sweep our hands over the map and make loud pronouncements about NATO and Russia and Iran and the United States and forget the heavy cost of war. The working class is always the victim, irrespective of the flags it may be waving. Families are always torn apart, no matter what side of the border their chips landed.
I’m not advocating for false parities; this is not a “pox on both houses” moment. There are clear acts of aggression and clear acts of defense and resistance. No, this is not the time for smarm and pabulum; spit out the lukewarm! And yet, I still lament war and will never celebrate it.