My letter to Arlington National Cemetery

 

On hearing of the demise of the Wilson Center in Washington, DC

I had an internship with _The Wilson Quarterly_ for a summer after college. Hardly a site of radical activity, it was a place where people gathered to think and do journalism. I ended up writing an essay on Marianne Moore and Elizabeth Bishop, which was published in 1989, a year before I moved to Hawai`i. Here: https://www.wilsonquarterly.com/quarterly/undefined/marianne-moore-and-elizabeth-bishop

This archive is likely to disappear, as the current administration just announced the elimination of the Wilson Center: https://www.whitehouse.gov/presidential-actions/2025/03/continuing-the-reduction-of-the-federal-bureaucracy/

Today also brings news of websites being "scrubbed" that reflect on American diversity, including those devoted to African Americans, Asian Americans and Women (Americans) at Arlington Cemetery. And elsewhere.

So, I put this long ago essay of mine up to preserve something of my archive. But it, too, will likely disappear.

Lilith balks

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Lilith is a dog of qualities. One of them is not obedience. Truth be told, I don't demand it of her, though I keep her on a leash to avoid mad dashes at chickens, or dashes into traffic after chickens, or lurches toward mongooses. When we walk, one of her "words" is "balk." (Other words are "pirouette," "stare with big dark eyes," "snuggle.") I'll be striding along, when suddenly there's a jolt on the leash. Were I fishing, this would be a good sign. With Lilith, it's evidence that she's smelled something, or wants to pee, or that she simply wants to look me in the eye and announce her volition. A woman was driving by at the cemetery office when Lilith balked today. "Oh he doesn't want to walk!" She had a wide open face and smile, a flower tucked behind her ear, and was going to a funeral. "Oh, she smelled something," I said. She balked several more times before our walk ended.

On the hill, Journey roared toward us on his John Deere vehicle and stopped. Said he was going to his great grandmother's funeral today. When I told him about a woman who'd stopped to comment on Lilith's obstinance, he said, "that's my grandmother! Was she wearing orange?" I had not noticed. "I'm excited," said Journey. "I won't have to be at work."

 

As we left the cemetery I saw a group of people wearing orange gathering outside the main building. "What's it about orange?" I asked Journey. He didn't know but he did say she liked to be flashy.

 

My review of Deborah Meadows's BUMBLEBEES

 Please find the review here. Deborah Meadows is a very fine, very smart, poet. https://www.ronslate.com/on-bumblebees-poems-by-deborah-meadows/

Social Security checks for the dead

I nearly ran over the man and his dog a few weeks back. He started to curse, then saw me, and said "oh, it's you." I was horrified. Today, he yelled across the street from me on Hui Iwa that his side of the street was "spooky." Lilith and I went over to inquire as to why. "The traffic goes so fast down the hill, and the buses make the sidewalk shake," he said. Cosmo liked to go up there (overgrown, choke full of smells) and was pulling in that direction. We chatted a bit, then I asked how the man is handling "the apocalypse." 

 

"Oh it's a bunch of Koreans!" he said. I wondered what Koreans had to do with the apocalypse and indicated that I meant the current political situation. "My wife's Korean, and we're having a large family reunion on Maui. I like her brother-in-law, who's Indian, but the Koreans touch you, put their arms around you." He doesn't like that. "There's nothing to do on Maui, either," he added. "They're all doctors and dentists, lots of moolah."

 

As for Social Security, there are lots of dead people getting checks, he told me. "Urban legend," said I. Not true. "You just don't know what to believe now," he responded. Clearly, he didn't believe me either.

 

The death of the cemetery walker

S lets me in on all the conspiracy theories, not because they're good stories, but because he believes in them. We haven't talked much since the election, and after the inauguration, he's rubbed it in from afar. So, when he descended a cemetery hill in his John Deere vehicle the other day and swept across the road to pull up next to me and Lilith, I wondered. "Remember Renn, who turned out to be Rand?" he asked. Yes, the walker who had recurring cancers and hobbled a lot at the end. "He died. You can find his obituary on the cemetery webpage." The last time I saw Rand on my street, he said things had been rough but he was planning a trip to Paris. 

 

Today, I followed S to his battered green van. He was sitting in the driver's seat, attending to his phone. He wasn't sure he wanted to see me, that much was clear. So I pulled up to his open window and told him that I'd emailed Rand's widow. That she'd emailed back. I read him the message. Yes, they'd gone to Europe ("Yay! He made it!"), enjoyed food and the Alhambra, despite the neuropathy in Rand's feet.

The last time he walked in our area (after 30 years of it!), he and his daughter had gone to the cemetery, but S wasn't there. Must have been his day off. "He was thinking of you," I told S, whose eyes had softened. "That made my day."

 

I never talked much to Rand, who had great purpose in his gait. But I wish I had. His obit is chronicle of a life very well lived. He was a Vietnam vet, an early childhood expert, a psychologist, a tai chi master, devoted poker player. "He was the least judgmental person I ever met," wrote his wife of over 50 years.

 https://www.valley-of-the-temples.com/obituaries/rand-berkline/obituary

Lilith at Tesla, Kalakaua Avenue

 

Lilith and I walked in Waikiki yesterday evening, she with her sandwich sign "DOGE" (with the E crossed out) and I in my Jack Smith fan club shirt (though it was my Cards cap that earned me a fist bump from a deluded tourist, who thinks they'll be good this year). We were mostly older people who remember. In response to a sign welcoming Canadian tourists, a couple stopped to talk about tariffs and to say they feel for us in the USA. An Australian woman who missed her dog, displayed on her phone, said she's sorry for us. 

 

And then: the tall young white man who walked down the line of protesters yelling "pussy" in their faces. 

 

More young men, telling us to clear off the sidewalk as the police came, at least a dozen of them. "How many policemen does it take to change a light bulb in Waikiki? All of them." The young ones, and they were mostly young, look like my son. I want to hug them.

 

A woman who looked at Joe's sign, which included an image of Musk saluting fascistically, and said he'd done that out of love. Her face wrinkled with concern. She'd seen it on tv. (Joe said he had, too.) When we got to her claim that Obama had done it, too, we knew we were in deep--nay, shallow--water, and she wandered off.

 

A man who yelled at us about government fraud and waste. When I told him it was my turn to speak and said, "Musk is just taking our money," he responded, "Musk doesn't need your money." "Oh yes he does," said Joe.

 

A woman with a red-capped husband and small blonde child, dressed in a red wrap of some sort, who chanted "TRUMP" and waved her fist in the air. She tried to get her child to do same, but the little girl did not. I saw her from the back, this confused child, and felt some tenderness toward her (as I do for Musk's small boy).

 

A man who said Trump is wonderful (two shakas worth) and makes America strong in the world. I said "Europe doesn't seem to think so." "I'm European he said; you should try living there. It's turning Muslim." "I live here," I said.

 

The security guard who told A. there should be no cussing, because children were around.

 

A, who at dinner said of the woman who served us burgers, "she didn't vote. She can't. She was a felon."