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Any one attending the September opening of the National Museum of the American Indian in Washington, D.C., might have made the association that the ending of one era of Manifest Destiny linked with yet another era of similar brutal disasters. The Iraq quagmire now, the Vietnam war then, Manifest Destiny in the 19th century - and later.
Walk around our nation's war memorials on the Washington mall: The Lincoln Memorial with its grave, compassionate Gettysburg and Second Inaugural addresses; the Vietnam Wall, with its unfolding painful list of names in alphabetical order; the Korean War Memorial, with its armed vulnerable soldiers wearing ponchos, easy targets for enemy soldiers. The emotionally bonding Vietnam Women's Memorial, the statue by Texas native Glenna Goodacre, of an army nurse cradling a dying soldier, another praying, a third looking up for help. The World War II memorial, with fifty states and territories lined up in a semi-circle of monumental Greek and Roman derivative design; cold, monolithic. Like tall gravestones named for the states, surrounding a reflecting pool filled with quietly cascading water. Listening to the water, at least, has a soothing effect.
How is it possible to remember all the names of those who died in wars past or present? There is only so much grief human beings can take. Unless names are prominently listed in the media, kept in old attics and scrap books, noticed by a passerby, or an eternal torch is lit for them, the names of the killed fade away. One thing is clear: the generals names are remembered. He led this battle, he led the other; he won, he lost. As if winning and losing can be measured in numbers killed. We remember the big name generals, even the most awful ones, with a sneaking suspicion of awe, and stunned curiosity about the huge amount of killing that went on. And on.And on. All nations, whatever side they take – in spite of the flag waving - lose wars.
Our Lives, Our Peoples, Our Universe, these three themes headlined the opening of the National Museum of the American Indian. Originally Smithsonian officials resisted the attempt to return 23,000 Native American remains and skulls, lifted out of their graves by the military, and handed over to forgotten anthropologists and phrenologists. Later, threatened with law suits, the Smithsonian sent back to the tribes involved the remains of their dead. And finally, under pressure, again by tribes, their lawyers and sympathetic politicians, the Smithsonian officials consented to a museum that reflects and celebrates years of integrating the historical survival and creativity of native peoples throughout the Americas – north, south, east and west – with over 600 tribes notated. Those who survived the genocidal wars and disease, and those who didn't.
The museum's impressive curvilinear design, a flowing "wind-sculpted rock formation", with its garden of corn, squash and beans – and an active creek bed flowing from the site, and a dome that leads up to the sky - turns heads. Visitors were warmly invited into the museum free. They were faced with multiple tribal contrasting realities (not enough cried the critics), with multiple contrasting artifacts (not enough cried the critics). But this is a living museum; not a dead one. The National Museum of the American Indian is not only a monument to the lives of the dead; it is also, most importantly, a confirmation of the occupations of the living. Perhaps the first step towards a memorial to peace.Whatever the commercial implications of that kind of memorial may be. http://www.nmai.si.edu/
Ned Bobkoff is a director/playwright who has worked with performers from all walks of life, throughout the United States and abroad.
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