Wearing red

We cherish too, the Poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led,
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies.

Hence the tradition of wearing red on Memorial Day.

There's also a realpolitik version, a cynical version. of this sentiment but I haven't been able to track it down.

My mother's brother, whom she said I take after and my brother was named after, was killed at Pearl Harbor, so in my family Memorial Day was an important holiday.

In Kerouac's Scroll, I write a scene based on the unsettling experience of my first trip to the U.S.S. Arizona Memorial at Pearl:

Gathered on the dock was a long line of Japanese tourists waiting to board the small boat to the memorial, which was built around the partially exposed hulk of the sunken battleship. Mary and I took our place at the end of the line.

I leaned close to Mary.

“I didn’t realize so many Japanese would be here.”

“Some Chinese, too, I think. Koreans.”

“And so many cameras.”

“It’s a major tourist attraction.”

“This feels weird. They sunk the ship, a lot of ships, and here they are. Are they gloating?”

“Do we gloat when we go to Hiroshima? I think not. You’re here for a reason, Robert. Focus on that.”

I tried to but it was difficult. Staring at the name of Hooker’s father on a large bronze plaque, I realized that flashbulbs were going off all around me. The cramped quarters of the ship’s deck resounded with chatting in a language I didn’t understand, and I wondered what these visitors, these Japanese tourists, were talking about. Were they gloating?