Two years ago, one day after its opening ceremony, I went to the Pentagon Memorial, where I sat on Leslie Whittington’s wingseat and thought about her. Here’s my Inside Higher Ed post about that visit.
I’m here again, barely able to write for the wind. But the wind stirs the ponds under the wingseats, so there’s the sound of water (if you ignore the roaring George Washington Parkway traffic), and the wind makes currents that make ripply shadows along the grounded wings.
Four red roses and a lily lie in Leslie Whittington’s pond. I’m sitting on her husband’s seat just opposite hers, looking at the flowers in the water.
Big jets about to land at Reagan keep appearing above the Pentagon’s roof, each one a shuddering reminder. A big helicopter – looks presidential – just buzzed the memorial.
At the memorial’s entrance, there’s a plaque, and under the plaque someone’s propped a photo of Lady Liberty holding aloft the bleeding head of Bin Laden. WE GOT HIM, someone has written on the bottom of the picture. 5/1/11.
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Heat and wind and a cloudy sky. Already a tropical day. If you really want a meditative experience here, you’ll need to get the Pentagon to let you in at one AM. Otherwise it’s jets and helicopters and eight lanes of fast cars and all the daily activity of the Pentagon.
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Is there more security here than usual?
Who knows? It’s the Pentagon!
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Everyone’s assimilating the Bin Laden news in their own way. For me, it’s definitely about this second trip to Leslie Whittington’s wingseat, and some chat with her.
But I didn’t know her – I only feel an affinity with her – and I find that talking’s difficult. The way she died makes her rather unapproachable. I can’t – I won’t – imagine that. But I can’t think of her apart from it.
This impasse makes me dull and stupid on a hot day in the middle of – let’s face it – parking lots. The long walk from the metro stop to the memorial is all about the million miles of parking that surround the Pentagon. Once you get past that, you’re in a water garden hedged with grasses and herbs. You’re in a bounded place of 184 beige hillocks and illuminated basins. Your feet crunch on the gravel as you move from bench to bench, protecting your eyes from the sun as you squint at each engraved name.
Having found Leslie Whittington, I’m struggling against many forces – my fear of reckoning with the reality of what happened to her; the crazy wind and heat of a Washington afternoon; the distractions – in order to lose myself and find her.
The wind suddenly blows the yellow water lily out of the water. It scuds along the gravel. I go after it, pick it up, and float it back on the pond. The simple business of realigning it with the roses does the trick. I sit back down on her husband’s bench and reflect.