I meant to post this yesterday. This was an especially important date in our family because my mother lost a brother she worshiped there (later naming my brother after him). She never got to visit the memorial, which I did in her stead some years ago. The experience inspired this passage from my novel Kerouac's Scroll:
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?
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