Poppies

Today is Remembrance Sunday in the UK. For the last two weeks, every time I turned around there have been soldiers and veterans everywhere selling the traditional paper poppy flower to pin on your lapel. Already understanding the cultural significance, my sister encouraged me to donate and take one and wear the poppy. I’ve noticed everyone, even the people  It’s been an emotionally charged experience wearing the poppy, especially once I open my mouth and people realize I’m not British. I’m going to take this space to share a few of my favorite stories from this last week as I’ve worn the poppy. 

The first happened as I was donating to obtain a poppy in the Westgate shopping center. There were three older gentlemen standing together. When they figured out I was an American, I had to explain why I wanted one. I told them that yes, we do it at home, it’s not as big of a thing, but we do observe a Veteran’s Day. And then I talked about all three of my grandfathers, who all fought in World War II, especially my mom’s dad, who was a career Army man. The men then shared their stories with me, and it was very touching to see the pride they had in fighting for their country during their various service times. 

Another wonderful moments was the elderly woman (is that PC?) I sat next to on the bus on the way home from city centre the other day. She told me her first love had died fighting in WWII, but she had ended up happy with her husband, so she supposed it was alright. She was wonderful and sweet, and again, wanted to know why an American would wear a poppy. 

My last favorite story is from this afternoon. After the 9:45 service at my church (in which we had a special Remembrance Day Act) I ran into the Sainsbury’s. On my way out, a cheerful young man asked me if I wanted a copy of The Big Issue. Now normally, I don’t buy it, but this man was cheerful despite the cold and rainy day, and the lack of luck he was having selling, even though the spot outside of Sainsbury’s is regarded as prime real estate. I stopped to talk for a moment, and bought one. While I was digging my change out of my pocket, he remarked on my accent, and then like every other person so far, my poppy. We had a good discussion, as I noticed he was wearing one as well. He explained some of the local Oxford-style traditions surrounding today and then November 11th as well. So today was special for two reasons, this young homeless man touched me in a slightly odd way, he was much less grumpy about the weather than I had been, and I had a warm and cozy house to go home to, and he was interested in more than just making a quid, he was interested in talking and human contact. I also gained some insight into the traditions that are local to Oxford. 

But here’s my complaint: why do the British think America doesn’t care? We have the largest number of armed forces, shouldn’t we care the most about them? I’ve been astonished to see people who would normally be considered the fringes of society openly wearing their poppies on their jackets and coats. Even the homeless wear them. America’s biggest display of Remembrance for the people who have fought for us includes taking a federal holiday. Somehow, I think the British have it figured out. That little mental reminder that rides on your coat somehow means more than a federal holiday where the meaning gets lost half of the time. I had many American people ask me why I wore one, “I mean, you’re not British”. So what? I care about anyone who has had the courage to stand up and fight for their country, to give their life fighting for a greater good. And I think it's fairly odd that I should be considered an oddity, just because I wore a poppy this week. 

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

— Lt.-Col. John McCrae (1872 - 1918)