On a cool early spring morning in Washington, D.C., I spent the better part of a Saturday playing dead inside the United States House of Representatives. I was not there for a tour nor any official posting. Rather, I was roleplaying, along with several dozen other soldiers.
It was a drill for a biochemical attack -slash- mass casualty event.
At the time, roundabout 2004, post-Invasion of Iraq, I was stationed prettily at Fort Myer, Virginia, which comprises the upper lip of Arlington National Cemetery, more or less. As member of the 3rd US Infantry Regiment, "The Old Guard", it was our duty to conduct funeral ceremonies in Arlington Cemetery, as well as other military ceremonies and parades within the District, and to also provide bodies for details such as the one which found me within the august interiors of the US Capitol Building.
My battle buddies and I wore civilian attire (because it was a "day off" after all) and we were assigned seating in the upper gallery, which is the balcony above where all of the Representatives sit. I remember watching another member of my company roleplaying as the Chief Justice down on the floor and another who was given the tedious honor of pretending to be the President. They had to stand at that podium down in front for the entire exercise, repeating something like George Washington's First State of the Union address over and over again, ad nauseam.
Then the "attack" happened and everyone was either rushed out by the Secret Service, "panicking" for the doors or—as was my particular luck—playing dead.
That's when the professionals—the D.C. Police, Capitol Police, EMS, firefighters, etc.—for whom this Saturday morning exercise was actually staged made their entrance. They were a long time getting around to everyone. While lying in the seats waiting for the paramedics to come get us, and in between the fart jokes necessary to ease the boredom of any and every group of young men that ever existed, I recall glancing heavenwards...
It was perhaps in the lighting, or in the color of the House Chamber's ceiling—a cream, if I remember correctly—or perhaps it was in the architecture, in the way the semicircle of seating focused attention not only to the central podium but to each other—to other Representatives on the other side of the room even if they be a whole continent away. It was, as was and still is its purpose, a gathering place. A place for the people's business to be done.
Even when the paramedics finally arrived in the upper gallery and asked me in no uncertain terms to stand up and lie down on the sled because they sure as shit were not picking me up and commenced sliding me headfirst down the buffed marble staircases—my prone "gas-attacked" body passing under the busts and vacant gazes of one great statesmen after the next—then proceeded to plop me outside in the grass in a row with all of the other "casualties" before catching their breath and sauntering off for another load—I can recall feeling something magnanimous.
It's the feeling you might get, if you're of the religious bent, when you step into a grand mosque or an incredible cathedral, or maybe—if of the naturalist bent—of walking under the boughs of an old growth forest, of perhaps breathing in the crisp mountain air while gazing upon a series of icy peaks and glaciers, or perhaps of walking into any temple of any sort, be it ancient Greek, Egyptian, Persian or Mesopotamian—they all made ample use of grand designs and endless colonnades. Whatever it is, it is a magnanimity. The sense that there exists something which is greater than thyself.
That's the feeling I felt that cool early spring morning inside the National Capitol Building.
Even after I was shuttled through the decon tent and pooped out the other side and told thank you for your participation and made to go off and wait with the rest of my battle buddies for the bus back to Fort Myer, the feeling stayed with me, and it remains to this day.
I remember that feeling, most keenly and sharply, when I think of what happened in the Capitol this past Wednesday. Of the protest-turned-riot. Of the mob egged on by a Mob-Leader-In-Chief. Of the broken windows, bullet holes and death threats. Of people ducking for cover. Of people dying both protecting and vandalizing that building... and I can think of no other words for it than it was a desecration.
Much attention, even days—and God knows it'll be weeks and years—later, is still on the mob, on the people who stormed the building, on the spectacle of it, the violence. The cable news channels and social media apps keep spinning and spinning video of the spectacle—just like they did on and after 9/11—when, in truth, you really only need to see it once.
(Or at least that's all I needed, to be reminded that whitelash in the form of mobs and election rigging and voter suppression is a thing that's come before in America, that's come again, and that in all unfortunate likelihood will continue to rear its ugly head in some form or another for as long as I am alive.)
Less attention is being paid to the fact that the Building itself still stands and, perhaps most importantly, the people who do the people's business inside still showed up for work the next day and are continuing to show up for work. That includes the people who keep the place running, from the janitor who changes light bulbs up to the Architect of the Capitol. From the landscapers to the security guards. From the aides and assistants and interns to the Congressmembers and Senators themselves.
My heart dropped when I saw pictures of the mess being cleaned up. The spent pepper spray canisters. The empty water bottles. The protest signs discarded. Everything being picked up by hand and put in a garbage bag. These are the people putting our Capitol back together for us. Cleaning it up. Keeping it safe. Restoring it. Going back to work, to do what they do every day: the people's business.
They deserve all of the attention and recognition in the world, not the mob.
And I think I'll end it there tonight. Thanks for reading and come back next time I've got an article posted.
That's all from the end of the river that empties into another river for now. In the words of Edward R. Murrow: "Good night, and good luck."