Memorialized

When I was a senior in high school band, we lost one of our flute players in a tragic car accident. Our director came out of his office, pale as snow, to tell us the news. He broke down in a way I'd never seen from a grown person. His knees buckled and he fell to the ground, sobbing. My heart went out to the girl's family and to him, this troubled man with whom I'd recently had some disagreements. An hour or so later, though I'm not sure what was motivating my steps, I walked up to him and put my hand firmly on his shoulder. I'd lost my dad to cancer not long before. I looked this man in the eyes and said nothing. He knew I understood how he was feeling.

We suited up in our band uniforms and filed into an annexed room of the funeral home. We listened to the service over the p.a., sniffs and sobs to punctuate the solemn event. When the service concluded, we headed outside and lined either side of the drive. We were called to attention and we stood there, winter wind chilling our cheeks, as the family drove through followed by the hearse. I was the leader of the low brass section, a girl to corral the rough and rude boys. I was never more proud of their composure as I was that day.

When I look back on it now, I can't imagine a more fitting tribute. This girl was one of us and no one at that service was there for any other reason than to remember her. The stark black pavement flanked by regal band members in white-legged uniforms must have been almost military, giving her the sendoff she deserved.

The 'memorial' service that occurred last night in Tucson, Arizona was nothing like this. The crowd was unruly and loud, the roster of speakers a bit confounding, and they even passed out t-shirts for the event. Though President Obama's speech was something that pleased a number of people, it was nothing more than a seasoned speaker doing what he does best: reading. I felt no emotion from him, no connection whatsoever to what had happened. And why was that? Well, because he wasn't connected.

A memorial is just that, an event to remember something or someone who was dear to you. Though a great number of people didn't know the six victims personally, they could find ways to identify with them enough to properly memorialize them. A parent could immediately understand the grief of losing a young child. A grandchild could understand how painful it must be to say goodbye to a grandparent. A person with a close friend would know the separation of never seeing their friend again. But politics, there is no place for politics in this situation. I'm sure Obama has friends and I know he's a grandchild and parent, but he has an unnatural aura of politics that never leaves him. Politics knows no emotion save the use of it for manipulation.

Presidents have always made speeches in times of triumph and tragedy; that's nothing new. But in both triumph and tragedy, the attitude must not be one of personal gain or desire for the spotlight. In this case, I must say it was both of those things. This was no memorial, it was a political rally on the backs of the grieving. It was a show of support not for the families who had lost loved ones, but for a stumbling president. It was an excuse for a hollow orator to flex his speaking muscles; a trial-run for 2012.

In the aftermath of the Arizona shootings, one thing was clear: the left will stop at nothing, hold nothing sacred except the profane, to take down their enemies. In an ironic twist, Sarah Palin has seen an uptick in the death threats she receives. What better time to call for the murder of a political figure than immediately after the attempted murder of another. Strangely, the White House has been silent on these matters of accusation and 'blood libel'. Last night's shill held no relief.

After the burial of my bandmate, I visited the girl's home with my director. I had drawn a portrait of the girl, smiling and hopeful in her colorguard uniform. A local frame shop had mounted it in a stunning frame for free. I wasn't present when it was given to the family, but at the home, the girl's step-father (whom I had never met) walked up to me and hugged me tight. He thanked me through tears and I nodded with a comforting smile, happy to have brought a tiny bit of solace. I may not have known this girl as a close friend, but I knew the events of her memorial were about her, not me. I did what I could to comfort the family, to keep the focus on them as they grieved and attempted to heal. Had I not been able to do that, I would have removed myself from the situation. I feel this would have been the best route for Obama. He should have visited the grieving alone, said his peace, and left the circus for a more appropriate time and place.

My heart goes out to the victims and I hope they will heal from the pain. I hope they can eventually drown the echoes of whoops and yells from the rally last night with the memory of their loved ones laughter. God bless you Tucson, and God bless America.