Now We Can Wear White

I know the one rule of our culture these days seems to be there are no rules, at least regarding what we wear, and I know it’s old-fashioned, but I still wait until after Memorial Day before donning white.

But of course Memorial Day is more than just a transition day for fashion or even a great day for sales. Memorial Day was first called Decoration Day, since after the Civil War widows and others who lost loved ones during the conflict would decorate the grave site of their fallen soldier. So the day grew out of what was already happening in the South and the North—a need to remember the sacrifices of so many men and their families.

I grew up during the Vietnam War, which was anything but popular, at least during the second half of the 60s. I recall “discussions” after dinner between my oldest brother and my dad when the two of them—equally opinionated and hardheaded—would argue about what was going on. My father, who served in the Navy before, during, and after World War II, knew what duty meant. My brother, on the other hand, was young and passionate and was against the war for all the reasons young people protested the ongoing conflict across the country.

I think those are the hardest disagreements, when both sides have reasons to claim being right. My dad had given a lot to this country, having volunteered for service when he was just 17. He did get to see much of the world, which was why he joined the Navy in the first place. But not long after Pearl Harbor was attacked, he was sent to help defend the Philippines. A defense he and thousands of soldiers lost when Japan invaded and conquered the entire area. My dad was taken in a second wave of the death march, then held prisoner for almost three and a half years. He survived more than I can imagine, but sometimes remembering all he endured still amazes me.

In the 60s, when my brother didn’t like the idea of being drafted into a war to protect democracy in some far, far away place, my dad only saw the idea of resisting the draft as resisting duty—a duty that had demanded several years of my father’s life, filled with hard work, a starvation diet, abominable medical testing, and physical and mental abuse most of us never know (thank God!). He even survived a friendly-fire bombing when Allied forces targeted a nearby ammunition plant and ended up hitting their camp instead. He may not have gone into the Navy knowing what duty meant, but he learned along the way just how much might be demanded—which was why he couldn’t accept that my brother didn’t want to answer the call if his country needed him. My brother ended up going into the National Guard, a compromise of sorts, and eventually their arguments subsided.

So as I consider wearing the white items in my closet today, memories of my dad come to mind. I can’t help but thank God again for allowing me to be his daughter.