It used to be Robert E. Lee’s plantation (or at least, he was the custodian for a time). Lee left when Virginia became part of the Confederacy. Then, the Union began to bury dead soldiers there, rendering the property unusable should the Lee family ever come back to reclaim it.
Damn Yankees.
This is Arlington National Cemetery, of course, and it’s where I spent this past Friday – burying my cousin.
Christopher Loudon was killed in combat operations in Iraq on October 17, 2006. That was 13 months ago. At that time, my family and I attended the funeral services in Pennsylvania and paid our respects to his parents and brothers, as well as his young (suddenly widowed) wife.
The initial funeral felt foreign to me – mostly because it was a military affair. Marching soldiers, 21 shots, and “Taps” played out on a bugle. I was upset and deeply saddened. This was not the Chris I knew. The Chris I knew was a goofy, lanky guy – the first to crack a joke in an awkward situation. Perpetually picked on by his older brother, perpetually picking on his younger brother, Chris was a middle child. He was sweet to women, eternally playful, and yes, handsome in a quirky way. Chris was most definitely a catch.
But why am I writing about Chris in a design blog?
I am a visual person. I was upset by Chris’ death but destroyed when I saw the casket. I knew that his family was in the deepest pain, but I didn’t understand until I saw their faces. Likewise, it wasn’t until I was standing in Arlington Cemetery, with its neat and orderly rows of small, white headstones, that I grasped the enormity of the tragedy, and also the meaning of Chris’ life.
Washington is a city of monuments. I think a character from Angels in America calls Washington, D.C., a graveyard. It is. If Washington is like a ghost town (do people really live here?), Arlington is the city of the dead on the edge of a city filled with ghosts: the necropolis outside the ghost town.
I found myself struck dumb, and I felt physically unable to lift my head during the entire graveside ceremony at Arlington.
A surprise: Among the thousands of headstones, with the myriad religious symbols that mark them (mostly crosses, although some Stars of David peppered the field), I felt better, lighter, happier that my cousin was resting in such glorified company. Each grave seems unremarkable at first (Where are the tombstones made from imported marble? Where are the trumpeting cherubim and the gothic mausoleums?), yet, taken as a whole, Arlington overwhelmed and impressed me. Being there to bury a family member, especially one as young and sweet as Chris, pulled my attention outward, to the countless other small headstones. Who were these people? Were they as young and spirited as Chris?
The push and pull between the individual and the masses I experienced at Arlington made me think that this place is the perfect visual metaphor for the foundations of this country (no, silly fundamentalist, not Christianity, but the paradoxical nexus of Enlightenment individuality and nationhood).
Some impressions, and then an ending:
– I physically jumped when the first round of 21 shots was fired. I heard the command to fire, and yet, I still wasn’t prepared.
– On some of the gravestones, people had placed small stones. Portable yet hearty, the stones will last longer than any flowers placed graveside. I saw them as charged objects, imbued with reflection and memory. These stones will also outlast the bodies of the mourners who placed them there.
– Chris’ remains were carried by a horse-drawn casein. Like a king, president, or prince, Chris arrived in style. I hope we all will be carried to our graves in such grand manner. This kind of treatment, however, is reserved for officers only.
– As I walked through Arlington, my eyes concentrated on the shifting and chaotic “moving” patterns of the gravestones, until – there – they all lined up. Perfectly. Sudden and profound clarity.
Here’s the end of the story, although not the end of my trip. Later, members of my family drank pints at an Irish pub. The proprietor yelled at our table for being too loud, a guitarist played Irish folk songs (regulars clapped and sang along), and we all told stories; some were about Chris, but most were not.
My toast was silent (and I’m sure others thought it too): To Chris!
This article appears in November 16 • 2007.