Samuel Tanner
Linwood, New Jersey
2010 NJVVMF Scholarship Winner
The Man in the Black Granite
I remember a story my mom once told me. When she was a little girl, all the houses in her neighborhood had American flags on their front lawns except for hers. She asked her father why and he responded, “I show my patriotism by serving my country.”
There is a flag in my house that draped the casket of that patriot. My grandfather, Major Seymour R. Bass was killed in action when the F-105 he was piloting crashed into another plane while returning from a bombing mission over North Vietnam.
It happened so long ago – in a time I never knew, in a place I never walked, in a war that is part of the history of another country. But I still live with it. I still remember what my mother and grandmother have told me. And I honor that man who died in service to his country.
My family has taken many trips to Holmdel, NJ to honor my grandfather’s name on the Vietnam War Memorial. When I was younger, I always remembered this as the “serious” part of the trip. The monument does not have refreshment stands or colorful lights. It is instead somber panels set in a field.
How appropriate that the panels are shaped in a circle. Death and heartbreak was not confined to a certain group or season. Every day people died. Every day somebody needs to be remembered. Every day we mourn.
As I walk to my grandfather’s panel, I am overwhelmed by the visions of names. Every name is a story and life that is forever remembered on that wall. I walk slowly, careful that passing over someone’s day too fast would be a dishonorable act. Sometimes I pass a rose or picture leaning against the wall. They are reminders that these soldiers are still loved. Here, at the Memorial, they are lifted to their souls.
I frequently consider that we are born with breakable bodies. But our souls, like the hard rock of the wall, will forever endure.
Then I come to the panel of my grandfather, May 14th. When I look at his name, forever etched in that stone, I don’t see bombs and politics. There is no bloodshed. I see a reflection of me.
Perhaps my grandfather wanted it that way. He wouldn’t care too much about medals and ornate decorations. When I look at the wall, I feel that black granite capture my image in its deep and mysterious wonder and deliver it to him wherever he is. He then reflects my image back. I think that when I go to visit him he sends my image back to me to tell me that he’s proud of me. He tells me that the reason for all his sacrifices is that one-day I could have a future. I have not forgotten about him and he has not forgotten about me.
He fought with the faith that one day his grandchild could stand safely anywhere in our country. Now I stand safely in front of his name. I never met him and he never met me but I feel that at the wall he is with me. Not even war or time could break such a bond of love.