Arlington West: A Bunch of Guys
You’ll see them again this Sunday and Monday, Memorial Day weekend, down there at the junction of Stearns Wharf and West Beach.
Maybe not so spry any more, but alert ... nimble when it counts.
And though I talk of guys, they’re women, too ... women who are proud to be thought of as guys, because they hold much of Arlington West together.
This bunch learned the hard way. Back then, they answered The Call, whether they liked it or not. Some went to war because they knew what they were fighting for, and knew they were needed.
More recently, some were lied to so the military could get control of their bodies, if not their minds. They did what they had to do. Some came home on stretchers; some were spat upon.
Now, they’re doing something else here ... because they have to. No one tells them to. They ask nothing in return for what they do.
Just a handful of guys who put in long, long hours of their own volition. No manual, no chain of command. No fund-raisers. No posing.
They pay for almost everything out of their own pocket and don’t ask for a receipt.
If something needs to be done, someone does it. No one gives orders. Conscience is command.
Every Day of Rest since November, some of them get up before dawn. They haul the crosses from storage to Stearns Wharf, then they set the grid, carefully aligning and planting the memorials in their stark, ever-growing rows, before people waken and stroll out for Sunday brunch. If one of them can’t make it, or can’t stay through the long Sunday hours, no sweat, no anger.
The rest of the day, they hand out postcards of the site, sometimes even stamped and ready for mailing, without imposing themselves. If you ask a question, or look like you want to, but are a bit shy, they’ll talk with you courteously, not pushily, to see if they can answer your question, share your grief, or tell you why they’re here. They don’t worry about your race or religion, or looks askance at the clothes you wear, or the styling of your hair ...
They’ve learned how to deal with tears, and with that frequent question ...“Why?”
Sometimes, too, they help to find a particular cross.
And at the end of the long day, they carefully uproot the crosses, stack them and take them away. They don’t get home till well after dark.
Making new crosses and keeping up to date with the ever-growing numbers and names of the fallen takes a lot of weekday time, too.
Last winter, the night of the Harbor Lights, they were thrilled with the effect of each cross ... There were only 500-odd then, each lit by a sputtering candle in a red plastic cup. It took a lot of experimenting and practice ... but so well worth it.
A photograph of that night taken by one of them has gone round the world.
Their intent is simply to honor the perished and to gain support for the troops, those that come home, yet alive.
A Bunch of Guys willing to give up their hours ... for what? The idea that maybe they can help make this a better world because they’ve seen the worst and don’t want a repeat, more virulently, more violently.
Because they recognize that others misinterpret the memorial, they sublimate their partisanship for the greater good. Sure, they find it hard to be apolitical, because most of them have pretty strong views on what’s going on in this country and overseas, but they are sensitive to the opinions of others. This is not a platform.
What makes it so worthwhile?
The solemn moment, a break in the day’s pleasure-seeking, as some ... not all ... of the Sunday visitors pause, then realize what Arlington West is.
The grim soul-questioning, brought home by Taps and the fluttering flags and the lonesome flowers. The sometimes-teary questions passersby hesitantly ask.
One Sunday, they got a real kick when they heard even foreign visitors these days ask at the Tourist Information kiosk up Cabrillo Boulevard where Arlington West is. And they are now used to people from other lands express surprise, even muffled delight, at their example of American sensitivity.
Then there was the now-widow who came all the way from Visalia with her children. A grieving mother who came down from Santa Maria and promised to return. A third bereaved woman from out in the Desert ... all of them had heard or read about Arlington West and felt they had to come to see it. To find their cross.
A sober, touching display put on and maintained by a Bunch of Guys who go to any necessary lengths ... who give of themselves unstintingly ... to memorialize the dead of the newest war.
They don’t ask for donations, but some visitors offer to contribute to the memorial. Everyone’s dollar bills go into the same jar.
And they hope, devoutly, that what they experienced will not be the lot of those who return this time from wasted battle. But that the new guys will be greeted back home with warm understanding and loving welcome.
There are countless groups in the vicinity working quietly for various worthwhile purposes, whose members don’t flaunt their truly good works. This is one.
This, too, is Santa Barbara, on Memorial Day 2004.
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