Not too long ago, I wrote about my frustration with teaching World War I. I had finished my teaching of the unit, in which I spent two weeks talking about strategies, conditions, battles, causes, and consequences of the First World War. Some of the days--particularly when we talk about shell shock/PTSD and the Armenian genocide--are heavy, dark, and depressing. One of my primary purposes is to shock the students out of complacency that "World War I was bad, I guess, but it was nothing compared to World War II, which is so much better." That sense of comparison frustrates me, which means I take it as a personal challenge to help my students understand that it's not a matter of which was worse, but instead a recognition of the tragedy that both were. And since they know comparatively little about the First World War, I take it upon myself to drive home the point.
It varies every year, but I always try to give a disclaimer like this: "I don't care if, after this unit, you're pro-war or anti-war. That isn't my point. All I care about is, if you're in favor of war, you know damn sure what it is you're sending people to do and how they'll be forever affected."
Now, for many of you, the fact that I used "the d-word" is probably not particularly shocking. That is because you do not attend school in Chapel Valley Utah, where squeaker language is used even by people who aren't LDS. (I think that phenomenon is more to be a part of the local culture, and, in some cases, respectful of the sensitivity of the Mormons, than because other people "don't swear", but it's been my experience that non-members say "Oh, my gosh!" while in class, just like their peers.) Nevertheless, using that word, with that emphasis, in that context sends almost an electric shock through the class. It's striking, actually, to see how my restraint in other parts of my teaching can come to such an effective head in that particular moment.
Word Choice
As I've said before, I'm not a big swearing guy. I try to be really conscientious of that in class, only using "swear words" when appropriate (for example, to quote Bart Simpson in context of teaching Dante's Inferno, "I sure as hell can't talk about hell without using the word hell!"). One of the reasons that I do that is so that I get a larger effect from when I teach about shell shock.It varies every year, but I always try to give a disclaimer like this: "I don't care if, after this unit, you're pro-war or anti-war. That isn't my point. All I care about is, if you're in favor of war, you know damn sure what it is you're sending people to do and how they'll be forever affected."
Now, for many of you, the fact that I used "the d-word" is probably not particularly shocking. That is because you do not attend school in Chapel Valley Utah, where squeaker language is used even by people who aren't LDS. (I think that phenomenon is more to be a part of the local culture, and, in some cases, respectful of the sensitivity of the Mormons, than because other people "don't swear", but it's been my experience that non-members say "Oh, my gosh!" while in class, just like their peers.) Nevertheless, using that word, with that emphasis, in that context sends almost an electric shock through the class. It's striking, actually, to see how my restraint in other parts of my teaching can come to such an effective head in that particular moment.
Lest We Forget
But I don't want to dwell on swears today, because today is once-in-a-life-time unique. Indeed, the last three years have all been special, in that they all mark a centenary of some sort. Almost two years ago, we commemorated the sinking of The Lusitania. Three years ago this November, London finished seeing the Tower of London's moat filled with ceramic poppies--one for every fallen soldier.
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| Each poppy sold for 45 quid. I would've bought one in a heartbeat. Source. |
Today, however, is special for America. Because one hundred years ago today, we changed.
Today is the day that Woodrow Wilson took America into the Great War.
Today is the day that 126,000 American soldiers set toward their path of death in a foreign land.
Today is the day that 234,000 American soldiers headed for life-changing injury.
Today is the day that began America's march toward deploying its largest armed force to date, with over 4.2 million people serving in some capacity.
Today is the day that Sergeant Henry Gunther lived, called upon by his country to eventually become the final American fatality of the war, dying one year, seven months, and five days later, taking a bullet to the skull one minute before armistice began.
What We Fought For
Perhaps the most frustrating thing I teach about WWI (aside from the wholesale slaughter of the last half-day of Armistice, in which we lost more American soldiers than we did on D-Day) is what a massive difference America was making outside of battle. This year, when I was teaching about the incredible, life-saving interventions of Herbert Hoover, I had some colleagues from another school come to observe my class. When I got to the history of Herbert Hoover, I noticed them collecting themselves a little, and I think I heard them say, "Did you know any of this? I had no idea!"
My point is, before "a hundred years ago today", America was making a difference. We were trying to help, trying to save lives. Hoover is the largest, most dramatic example, but it's a story of diplomacy, of organization, and of political tenacity. That's what makes the world move, but it doesn't move copy. So we tend not to focus on such incredible contributions as what Hoover* did.
"We went into WWII to stop the Nazis from killing the Jews!" is one common refrain, and is often used as the justification of preferring WWII over WWI.** Not only is that factually untrue--more of a happenstance and consequence of our fighting the war at all--but it's distorting. It's the narrative I was fed as a child, which made it much harder for me to actually process the war when I started to learn about it in depth. But even if that were the case, it still doesn't show why WWII gets all the attention and WWI is shoved aside. Because that war had a genocide (even if President Obama never did acknowledge it as such) that started this month, 102 years ago.
I'm not in the mood to document the atrocities of the Armenian genocide. I wish only to point out that American involvement helped save some of the Armenian lives that would have otherwise been lost. While America could definitely have helped more people (had Wilson not been so timid when it came to international relations during his first term), we were doing something to help alleviate the suffering of others, people for whom we had no direct obligation nor connection, save the ever-present and paramount one of the joined brother- and sisterhood of humanity. We knew more about the Armenian genocide than we did about the Holocaust on the eve of war, and though we didn't go to war to stop either atrocity, it is certainly one of the things about World War I that is not remembered well--or often--enough.
Love No War
There is no glory in a war. One hundred years ago today, America set out to learn that lesson for herself. We have yet to fully understand those lessons.
I will never be one to sing the glories of war, but I refuse to let those who died in conflict be unsung. I offer my gratitude to whomever dons the uniform of their country out of a sense of duty and responsibility, and heap my scorn, condemnation, and disgust on those who instigate warfare. I decry men like Assad who, this last week, bears the responsibility for additional war crimes. I defy the current President of the United States' campaign argument that the bombing of Middle Eastern civilians is a just action in war, instead saying such thinking is a crime against humanity. I resist the glorification of conflict. I disavow President Obama's use of drones and other war decisions that caused over 200,000 civilian deaths. I resist President Bush's declaration of war, not on a nation or state, but an idea, an ideal, a darkness inside humanity. I mourn for my killed, starved, tortured, and abused sisters and brothers throughout history who have been placed in the sharp teeth of war, chewed, and expelled. I appreciate the individual military people who make such sacrifice.
I condemn the hell that has been our constant companion over the last hundred years of war.
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* I'll admit, Hoover's presidency doesn't really help us remember him fondly. He was a catastrophic president--wrong man at the wrong time. But he also suffers from the same historical tendency of Nixon. I'm not defending Nixon's domestic policies entirely, but there were some beneficial things that he did (creating the EPA is one of them); not everything about Nixon is Watergate. And that's why Antony's quote, "The evil that men do lives after them;/The good is oft interred with their bones;" is so powerful. For what ought we to remember the movers of history? Should Hitler's economic policies that brought a swift end to the Great Depression in Germany be lauded? Or is everything he touched poisoned by association? Can Hoover be remembered for being one of the greatest philanthropists in American history? Or should we only remember the Hoover blankets, Hoover flags, and the use of tanks to remove veterans from in front of the White House? For what should anyone be remembered? That, I feel, is one of the most perplexing questions in historical studies.
** The more I think on it, the more I feel that it's simple a matter of movement. World War I was so comparatively static, particularly in the US's engagements. Grand total, we probably gained about 200 square miles of land through our eighteen months' worth of fighting. World War II saw us in North Africa, Italy, and tearing open the guts of the German war front across France as we raced to Berlin. That feels like a larger contribution. Of course, as we went, we liberated whichever camps we came across...but so did the Russians, whom we tend not to celebrate.