It was a crowded trip – two days of work on the front end in Florida, two days of work on the back end in Virginia. That left one day in the middle for playing tourist in Washington, D.C. … my favorite place to play tourist.
A particular friend texted to ask me why.
I was still thinking on that when I boarded the flight home, and promptly met a remarkable young lady. All of 14, and one of dozens of eighth-graders crowded onto our flight, she was surprisingly courteous (thanking me when I stood to let her slip into the middle seat), conversational (“May I ask what you’re reading?”), and curious. Telling me how much she’d enjoyed her field trip to the capital, she actually asked what I’d seen and enjoyed. And why.
When two people ask me the same question in such short order, I'm nudged to contemplation. I retraced my recent steps, trying to decide for myself what had made this detour important enough for me to invest some time and money revisiting scenes I already know so well.
The Voyage Of Life, by Thomas Cole. Left to right, top row: Childhood, Youth. Left to right, second row: Manhood, Old Age.
My first stop, touring, had been the National Gallery, the nation’s great collection of paintings and sculptures. Most of the American works I was interested in were tucked away for cleaning. Happily, the paintings I yearned most to see – Thomas Cole’s quartet of The Voyage Of Life – were still accessible.
A profound, haunting study in the stages of human existence, Cole's paintings show a man as the Great River of time carries him from the innocence of “Childhood” into the glory of “Youth,” through the trials of “Manhood,” and to the end of “Old Age.” When I first visited the gallery, I was deep in the third stage; now I’m floating uncomfortably closer to the fourth. Think I might say the same about my country.
Nearby, a tour guide was explaining the intricacies of various pieces to a crowd of young students – perhaps including the girl I’d meet later, on the plane. Some yawned and drifted on, but here and there, others stood, like me, transfixed by a given painting … seeing things, likely, no one else will never see.
Having come for the art myself, I was surprised, as always, how much more interesting the people were, milling quietly around me. As they gazed on faces forever frozen in their poses of decades and centuries ago, I stole my own glances of these strangers ... their watching eyes still bright, their faces shining in the soft lights, their minds and hearts alive with dreams yet possible.
I saw something similar in the faces shadowed by the twilight of the National Archives, home to the great treasures: the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution.
But the Archives were also where the new world crept in. Parents guided their children through the founding documents of our country, while an overhead p.a. piped in hip-hop music and “Call Me, Maybe.” I wandered through a gift shop that devoted one small shelf apiece to Lincoln and Washington keepsakes, but whole walls to superheroes and Vice President Harris and the transexual political movement.
Crossing to the National Mall, I followed the broad, dusty trail past the Washington Monument and the World War II memorial. Pausing at the latter, I suddenly became aware of half a hundred Japanese tourists all around me, snapping their pictures but keeping a respectful silence.
They’re most welcome, of course, but what does the irony tell us, when the descendants of those who launched a war to destroy us now gather, this cloudy late afternoon, in greater numbers, and with more obvious respect, than the grandchildren of those who fought to defend us?
Finally, Lincoln. I marvel at the great spectrum of ages and ethnicities that climb eagerly up those last, high steps to huff and puff and stand in his sanctum. Some, to have their picture snapped with the tall man looming behind them; some, simply to stare into those unfathomable marble eyes.
A surprising number drift to one side or another, to read his two most famous speeches, carved high into the walls, north and south. I stood for a while in the shadows, eavesdropping, as a middle-aged man read aloud the Gettysburg Address, his wife leaning against his shoulder, following the words.
Coming down the steps minutes later, I came upon soldiers completing a swearing-in ceremony for a newly promoted officer, pledging anew to “support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic.” It’s a formidable promise. There are so many of both, right now.
Despite several trips to Washington, I’ve never been inside the White House, or sat in the Senate gallery. I haven’t yet visited the Library of Congress. In the too-brief time I usually have, it’s these same, other places that I most want to re-visit … for what I want most to see are the faces.
The wondering eyes … the lips parted in concentration … the foreheads creased at the meaning of the words of truth honed by time.
Back home, I follow the latest news commentaries and listen to the breaking reports, trying to grasp what is happening to my country. I see so much that’s so bad, the enemies of freedom pouring over the walls from every direction. I gaze in horror on the swelling corruption, on the contempt so many in and out of power feel for our nation, its history, its traditions, its people.
My soul grows tired, and my heart slides toward despair.
A friend of mine who once worked in a bank told how the bosses trained her to spot counterfeits. Not, as one might expect, by having her study counterfeits. But by having her study actual currency. Looking on genuine bills, day after day, made the fake ones stand out all the more clearly. And ensured that she knew, instinctively, the real thing when she saw it.
Standing in the quiet halls of the Gallery, amid the shadows of the Archives, on the hallowed grounds of the monuments, I see the immortal faces of men and women who understood America to the depths of their souls. Who brought their extraordinary gifts and ordinary frailties to bear on the great challenges of their crowded moments in time.
And then made the sacrifices, great and small, that commitment requires.
I look on those famous faces … and then, on the more ordinary ones, all around me, who have come so far to gaze, for a few moments, on those who came before.
Somewhere inside, the flame rekindles. The hope is reborn.
I see the imitations now, with so much greater clarity. And I know the reality again, when I see it. On an airplane, for instance … glowing in the eyes of a girl, telling me about Mr. Lincoln.
Top: Allies Day, May 1917, by Childe Hassam.
Lower: John Adams, by Gilbert Stuart.
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