The Parade of Shame.
An army out of step.
When a soldier marches in a parade, he or she become the symbols of their nation. In perfect lines, in step to the beat of marching tunes, they are proud to be there with their regiments. Brothers and sisters in arms, wearing uniform and medals before their people, before the world.
The people adore them, because they represent them; the best of them as examples of the courage, discipline, smartness, strength, and dignity that they admire. Warriors and people united, they are a tribe, celebrating their unity, their love for one another; for their nation, flag, and beliefs.
When the band begins to play and the commander gives the order to march, the feet begin to move together, the heels hitting the floor to the beat of the drum. The chin up, chest forward, shoulders and arms start to swing. There is a swagger in that movement, something emotional that comes from the heart. A welling up inside, a warmth, a feeling of safety, of belonging, a knowledge that you belong there.
Up on the risers and in the windows thousands cheers and clap. The old recall days when they had their parades, the mothers weep as they watch their offspring march before them and remember them as babies. The children wish they were soldiers. One day they want to be out there protecting the people, making them safe, wearing those uniforms, and being held up as the epitome of everything worthwhile.
Military parades are a demonstration of drill and discipline. The standards and qualities of the men and women are on display. Perfect straight lines, everyone in step, eyes to the front, shining boots, creased trousers, perfect ties, hats, helmets, berets. They are perfect!
So, when none of the above are visible in a parade, then none of the above exist. I watched the troops in Trump’s birthday extravaganza. I asked myself whether they were professional soldiers or actors, whether they wanted to be there. Their faces were a picture of misery, their gait had no swagger, the empty risers and quiet watchers did not engender any enthusiasm. The only sounds were the squeak of the WWII Sherman tanks and the voiceover on the speakers providing an Epcot (Figment of imagination?) version of the spectacle unfolding on Pennsylvania Avenue. The weather also matched the marcher’s attitude, - damp and grey.
In Trump’s parade there were men and women who would have rather been anywhere else but here. It was Sunday and Father’s Day and here they were ambling along, out of step, being forced to salute an individual who had avoided military service and present him with a folded national flag as a gift he had purchased for himself with their money.
There was no pride in this parade, only embarrassment and humiliation, tinged with a wave of sadness. Poor America, look at what you have become. Poor soldiers, look what your Commander in Chief and his generals have reduced you to. This wasn’t Patton returning from victory, this was cringing, like a blunt fork scraped over glass.
However, out there across the great rivers and plains of the United States, in every town and city of the USA there were other parades and other heroes. There was music, cheering, children carrying placards and voices raised in protest. The real America, the proud, dignified, noble USA, whose people, who still believe in decency, courage, and freedom.
It was there for all to see. It just wasn’t on Pennsylvania Avenue.
Who Dares Shares!
Robin Horsfall
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