A Rose

Here’s the thing about privilege – it can be used in a positive way.

Privilege has always been around.  Some people have forever had privilege.  We didn’t have a name for it when I was growing up, but it was there.  Those of us who had our own bedrooms as a kid – privilege.  Families who got to go out to eat at restaurants instead of eating tv dinners night after night – privilege.  Students who had their choice of university regardless of the cost – privilege.

And I think I have understood the concept of it for quite a while, before I had a label for it, but called it “luck”.  Like, “We are so lucky that we get to travel a lot”.  Or “It sure is lucky we have a hybrid car because gas is so expensive!”.  But now I understand that those things often don’t happen because of luck.  They happen because of privilege – something I have through no work of my own, but society has “gifted” me. 

So, whenever I can, I try to use my privilege in a positive way. 

Like today. 

 

It’s Veterans Day in the USA, a day to honor those who serve and have served in the Armed Forces.  My partner David’s father was in the military, so he and David’s mom are buried at Arlington National Cemetery (which, I could go off on a tangent here, is a privilege because the funeral services and burial are free there, but perhaps it is not privilege because the men and woman buried there certainly did sacrifice of themselves for the right to rest in that hallowed place).  Anyway, because we have relatives buried in Arlington National Cemetery (ANC), we have a driving pass that allows us to drive in and visit their gravesite.

 

But today, like I try to do on every Memorial and Veterans Day, we went to the cemetery not only to visit our loved ones’ gravesite, but to share our privilege of being able to drive our car there instead of walk.  ANC is huge – 639 acres and still growing.  If you are on foot you can easily put in a LOT of steps before you get to the place where your loved one is buried.  So, we drive in, then offer rides to people we see walking.  Sometimes people take us up on it (today we met a sweet woman and her daughter, the woman is in the Army and moving to Moscow next week for her next station), some people say no and keep walking.

 

Today I also bought a dozen red roses (using Kindness Activist funds) to share in the cemetery.  We placed one on a gravesite for a friend, and one on the gravesite of a stranger who I have only met online in a sibling grief group.  The woman from the group has a brother buried at ANC, but she does not live locally so cannot go visit this gravesite.  I was honored to be able to visit for her and send her photos. 

 

We also handed out roses to people going to gravesites empty handed.  Each and every one of them was very appreciative.  We gave roses to two men in full uniform walking through the cemetery and thanked them for their service.  And we laid a rose at the resting place of Senator Bob Dole.

 

But the rose that meant the most today, the one that reminded me that I was exactly where I was supposed to be at that moment, was this one.

 

We saw a man sitting on the ground, in front of a gravesite, under a black umbrella on this rainy, gray day.  The image was very touching – the contrast of his black umbrella with the white headstones, the green lawn and the leaves on the trees changing colors, the scene showing without words how important it was for him to be there – important enough to sit silently in the wet grass.  I selfishly wanted to take a photo (respectfully, of course, from behind).  We pulled over and I jumped out of the car with a red rose and my camera.  As I walked closer to him I debated which to do first – give him the rose or walk past him, snap a photo, then come back.  But as I neared, it became clear what I was meant to do.

 

“This rain won’t stop us!” he said to me.  “No sir, it won’t.  In fact, I think the rain has paused for a moment,” I replied.  He peeked his head out from under the umbrella and confirmed the sky was no longer weeping.

 

“Who are you visiting?” I asked him.  “My parents,” explained the grown man.  I placed a red rose on their tombstone, and he smiled.  He was very eager to talk, so I settled in for a conversation.  He grabbed his phone and pulled up a photo of an old woman, “This is my mom!!” he showed me.  “Oh, she is beautiful,” I cooed.  He flipped through the phone, showing me more photos and explaining how old his mom would be if she were still alive.  Looking at the pictures made him teary eyed. 

 

I noticed that the headstone had both parents’ names on it, but there was still a temporary marker from the cemetery as well.  I asked why that small marker hadn’t been taken down, and that is when he began to share more of his story.

 

His mom was the last surviving parent.  When his father died, he went with his mom to buy the beautiful gray headstone.  ANC gives veterans free white headstones, but families can purchase larger ones if they would like.  Both parents’ names were on the stone, but he showed me that his mother’s birth and death dates had not been added yet.  “My sister is the executor of the estate, and she is messing things up.  The engraver wants money to come and add the dates and she won’t pay it.  Until the dates are added, the temporary marker stays,” he explained. 

 

He told me how he had lost his house recently.  “Where are you staying??” I asked.  “In a garage,” he replied.  “I hope you have a BED in the garage, and a heater!” I said.  That’s when he told me that he has his brother’s bed, because his brother died of Covid.

 

This poor man.  His mother died.  His brother died.  It sounds like his sister and he are fighting.  He lost his job.  And now he lost his house. 

 

He cried as he told me his story.  Tears welled up in my eyes, too.  Eventually I asked if he would like me to use his phone to take a photo of him with his parents’ stone.  He happily said yes, and when he looked at the photos I took said the rose was beautiful and reminded him of the roses his parents grew in their yard. 

 

I started to make my leave and he put out his hand.  “I am Tommy,” he said.  I glanced at the grave and added his last name, the one engraved on the stone.  “Yes ma’am, that is my name,” he said proudly.  I told him my name, we shook hands, and I left him there.

 

I am thankful to have met Tommy.  To bear witness to his story.  To shake his hand. 

 

These moments happen often to me – the feeling of being in the exact right place at the exact right time.  Today – being in the rainy cemetery and being drawn to an image.  And being willing to stop. 

 

I left without the photo that I had imagined taking.  Instead of the photo I got the honor of being given a story. 

 

I would’ve called that luck years ago.  But is it luck?  Is it privilege? 

 

Whatever it is, I am thankful for it.

 

Happy Veterans Day.