Memorials. We build them to remember; to honor.
But what if you do not want to remember? What if you feel as if there is nothing to honor? I used to feel that way.
I grew up never calling any place home. I have never lived anywhere more than three consecutive years. When someone asks me where I am from, I hesitate and need at least 30 seconds to adequately respond.
The school district from which I graduated was a 3A school, on the 5A scale. Medium sized. Diverse for Waco. Socioeconomically below the predominantly white schools in the area.
I graduated Salutatorian and was involved in many clubs and extracurriculars. However, that critical voice in the back of my head taunted, “You’d never make it at a competitive school.” And, “You’re only smart for Waco.”
I am an achiever. I achieved but detested most of junior high and high school.
I only went to college for three reasons:
1. At 18, my best friend’s mother, Mrs. Sue Hurst, threatened to spank me if I did not go.
2. Mrs. Robin Dyer-Newman, the Communities in School coordinator, held my hand through every step of the entire application and financial aid process.
3. It was free. (A story for a later time.)
I constantly felt like an imposter attending Baylor. I was terrified of being found out to be: poor, unintelligent, a bad Christian, unconnected, not enough and too much.
After all, I was from Bellmead, “the armpit of Waco.” I was a transfer from community college. I was no legacy. I knew no other white first generation college students.
I excelled despite feeling worthless and pointless. I completed my degree with honors despite stubbornly pursuing intermediate Greek as my foreign language requirement. (Thank you, Prof. Dr. Heckenlively.)
I even possess a framed paper monument as evidence. It hangs on the “Baylor” wall of my bedroom amongst photos of collegiate memories and other swag bedecked in my alma mater’s colors.
Because even if finishing school was not difficult for me and even if it was an “easy” fine arts degree, society says you are supposed graduate college with good grades.
So I did. Mostly on my own. And, as far as I knew, no one in my family attended university. Quietly I was proud.
But I did not stop to erect an altar of remembrance or even throw a party or take grad portraits in my cap and gown because it was not something I found worth passing down.
At least not until I met my dead great-grandfather. Here we are at the Arlington National Cemetery.
I visited a former roommate working her last semester in grad school in D.C. She graciously acquiesced my dictating half the trip to doing sentimental things to find my heritage.
Internally, I yearned to feel like Harry Potter when he observes his father’s name on the Quidditch trophy at Hogwarts. I wanted to feel connected to something bigger than myself. Something other than the brokenness that was the family I knew.
George and Marian Robertie were extraordinary humans. My G.Gpa’s life was well documented. For which I am grateful because he died in a car accident when my grandmother was three years old. Then Marian passed when my grandmother was 16. All my Gma had were photos and news articles about her father.
She had to hear from relatives about his character and the three universities (Boston College, Maryland where he also taught and Georgetown) he attended.
She had to read about how he was the first person to voluntarily enlist to fight in WWII after Japan attacked Pearl Harbor.
She never heard from him why after he was initially denied the job because they had enough Lieutenant Colonels serving, my great-grandfather asked to take a demotion in rank to serve in the Nuremberg Trials. (His rank was posthumously reinstated.)
He did not get to tell her what it was it was like that his wife was a total bad ass. How they met. How she was educated at three universities as well and was one of the few women allowed in the trials prosecuting the Nazis for their crimes.
Or what flight school was like and how it felt to operate a plane.
Despite secondhand accounts, my grandmother and I know he lived a life worth living. He acted with conviction.
George Robertie may never get a movie about him standing up for what is right like Winston Churchill. However, we treasure his life and legacy and are able to do so because someone erected a memorial in the form of a dissertation about his achievements. AND there is a gravestone under a giant shade tree, on the tops of a hill overlooking the Pentagon in the national cemetery. AND there are news articles and photos.
My trip to the Capitol affected me greatly in ways of which I am still unaware.
It is inspiring that there is good in my family line. I feel connected. I am inspired to continue fighting for what is noble.
I want to help destroy the problems and tyrannies those who shaped our country began fighting against so long ago. I understand I can choose to be a part of that legacy and pass the torch.
I am not resigned to be some kid from a ghetto high school who never made it to the middle class or the woman with a broken family or whatever else doubt sings over me.
It is encouraging that I did not have to reach far into the past. It is also sobering how quickly unfortunate circumstances beyond control can affect generations of a family.
While I may never reach the level of bad-assery my G.Gparents attained, I will strive to live a life worthy of the calling. Something worth memorials just incase I am unable to personally tell my offspring my story. Something that will simultaneously inspire and warn.
I vow to strive to perfect my craft to help others build worthy monuments for themselves in the form of pixels. I want to enable others to pass down awe instilling mementos to their descendants.
I also vow to erect monuments of my own. To throw off false humility and revel in the accomplishments I achieve.
Small practical steps to attain these goals include, being generous with my praise and affection in order to edify myself and others. Expanding my knowledge through watching documentaries and experimenting with edits. And lastly, resting and helping others rest.
With love,
The J-Bomb Artist.