On Forgetting

Today is the 65th aniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor, and if I hadn't pulled up the local paper on my computer this morning I would have had no idea. Sure, I probably would have heard something on the radio later today, but the date itself is something I never remember, the event a minor blip on my radar, if even that. I'm guessing that it's that way for a lot of Americans — especially those of us who weren't alive in 1941 — and it is just plain wrong. Whatever happened to the day that was supposed to live in infamy? Does the same fate await September 11th? Already the pain and the shock has diminished, the date invoking more of a dull ache instead of a sharp chill up my spine. And that's natural, I suppose — all trauma fades with time, and we would be in tough straits as humans if it didn't. But we shouldn't forget these things, shouldn't let the raw truth of history get swept under the rug while we debate celebrity misdoings and plan vacations for long weekends meant to mark solemn occassions. Which brings me to my next question — how do we remember? Making a day a national holiday merely creates a vacation day, a day with the kids home from school and parents shuffling child care, a day when those employed by the service industry have to not only work, but work harder to fill the demand of the vacationing middle class. Can you imagine what kind of shopping day Pearl Harbor Day would become? Only 18 days until Christmas — I can see the sales fliers now. So what do we do? How can the lives lost be unforgettable, how can these things become sacred? How can we never forget?