To figure out how short writing helps us honor and remember, think about the word “enshrine.”
It often begins with a simple list of the dead, like the 3,000 names of men, women and children enshrined on the bronze parapets that surround the new, twin 9/11 memorial pools at ground zero.
I remember my surprise when I discovered that a young man with my name had been enshrined on the black marble wall of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Years later, I found his sister and would learn that Roy E. Clark, who wanted to repair air conditioners, was among the 242 dead soldiers memorialized in the June 27, 1969, issue of Life magazine. Under what looks like a high school picture rests his name, age, rank and hometown: Roy E. Clark, 23, Army Pfc., Culloden, W. Va.
The title of this now famous edition of Life was: “The Faces of the American Dead in Vietnam / One Week’s Toll.” A brief text (283 words) introduces the 11-page gallery of fallen soldiers:
The faces shown on the next pages are the faces of American men killed — in the words of the official announcement of their deaths — “in connection with the conflict in Vietnam.” The names, 242 of them, were released by the Pentagon during the week of May 28 through June 3, a span of no special significance except that it includes Memorial Day. The numbers of the dead are average for any seven-day-period during this stage of the war.
It is not the intention of this article to speak for the dead. We cannot tell with any precision what they thought of the political currents which drew them across the world. From the letters of some, it is possible to tell they felt strongly that they should be in Vietnam, that they had great sympathy for the Vietnamese people and were appalled at their enormous suffering. Some had voluntarily extended their tours of combat duty; some were desperate to come home.
Their families provided most of these photographs, and many expressed their own feelings that their sons and husbands died in a necessary cause. Yet in a time when the number of Americans killed in this war — 36,000 — though far less than the Vietnamese losses, have exceeded the dead in the Korean War, when the nation continues week after week to be numbed by the three-digit statistic which is translated to direct anguish in hundreds of homes all over the county, we must pause to look into the faces. More than we must know how many, we must know who. The faces of one week’s dead, unknown but to families and friends, are suddenly recognized by all in this gallery of young American eyes.
Let’s consider, for a moment, what might be called “the gallery effect,” the ways in which tiles of short writing can be joined to form a much larger mosaic of message and meaning. A special issue of Rolling Stone is devoted to a catalog of 70 of Bob Dylan’s best songs, with brief commentary from various artists, on the occasion of Dylan’s 70th birthday. To use the language of online production, the editors had to curate the artist’s discography and then aggregate the individual commentaries into some significant whole.
In moments of enshrinement, even the shortest text can have a big effect. Make that BIG EFFECT. When you see a photograph of the Statue of Liberty, you are unlikely to make out the inscription carved onto the tablet she holds in her left hand: “JULY IV MDCCLXXVI” — (July 4, 1776), the date of the Declaration of Independence, the birthday of the United States of America.
Others may remember a fragment of the words mounted inside the pedestal of the statue:
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…
These 13 famous words are actually an excerpt from a longer short work, Emma Lazarus’ sonnet titled “The New Colossus.” It concludes with:
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
Such words carry more than their dedicatory weight. They may honor the statue of Lady Liberty and the nation she represents. They also can be used to explain the current political battles on illegal immigration, a reminder of the values of tolerance and generosity, especially when immigrants become scapegoats for America’s problems as fences rise on our southern border.
Any catalog of famous inscriptions — across cultures and languages, some historical, some literary — would include:
- INRI: Roman initials placed mockingly atop Christ’s cross: “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.”
- Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate: Italian poet Dante places the sign above the entrance to hell: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”
- Arbeit Macht Frei: The Nazis placed this horrible lie above the gates of Auschwitz concentration camp: “Work Makes You Free.”
- “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” The inscription across the top of the main post office building in New York.
In an age when the American newspaper is shrinking in size, resources and ambitions, it’s easy to forget the importance of the newspaper — story, page, headline, photo — to the tasks of honoring and remembering. Think of newspaper items taped to refrigerator doors, then saved, passed down through generations, sometimes excavated from precious family archives.
The assassination of John F. Kennedy, the landing of men on the moon, the Challenger disaster, a Super Bowl or World Series victory, the death of a pope or a princess, the attacks of 9/11, the election of Barack Obama. For families, the occasion need not be so celebrated or newsworthy. Think of the newspaper photo of an engaged couple, a headline announcing a state soccer championship for your daughter’s high school team, Uncle Albert’s obit.
After 9/11, The New York Times published short feature obituaries — now featured in an interactive presentation — of the more than 2,000 killed in terrorist attacks on the twin towers. Most striking was the language of these brief Portraits of Grief, an understated recognition of human life lived at its most ordinary, a sacred common daily existence that, in most cases, protects us from violence and hate:
Stacey S. McGowan was known for her hugs — just part of a comfortable feeling she engendered that a friend chose to call “Staciness.”
“Hers was a hug that would essentially render every other hug you’ll ever receive in your life as a complete insult to hugging,” said the friend, Patrick Corry, in a eulogy. [from a feature of about 250 words]
The language of honor and memory can be put into action every day, not just at moments of death or loss. I recently heard a story about a friend whose grandmother had suffered from ALS, or Lou Gehrig’s disease. The granddaughter was getting ready for her prom and emerged to model her gorgeous dress for the family. By this time her grandmother could no longer speak, barely able to move her hand enough to write. “Doesn’t she look beautiful?” mother asked grandmother, who scratched out a simple message on her pad: “Always beautiful.”
This is the second story in a two-part series about the value of writing short. You can read the first story here.
We have made it easy to comment on posts, however we require civility and encourage full names to that end (first initial, last name is OK). Please read our guidelines here before commenting.