LAST summer, tears poured down my face while attending the 55th anniversary reunion of the 100th Infantry Battalion at the Pacific Beach Hotel. But why, I asked myself trying to analyze the waterworks. I didn't have relatives or close friends in attendance. I had only read of wars, and about the heroics of these and other veterans. Gratitude to those
who fought in warsSo, technically speaking, I couldn't relate. I shouldn't be able to relate.
Only yesterday, after seeing the stunning Steven Spielberg movie, "Saving Private Ryan," did I finally comprehend my crying jag. It was a humbling experience.
Last year's 100th battalion reunion drew about 800 survivors of the first segregated unit of Japanese-American soldiers to serve in World War II. For them and their families, camaraderie and reminiscings were the order of the day.
The highlight of the program came when the aged warriors made their way to the stage, some needing canes. And as they launched into their fight song, "One Puka Puka," I did my impression of Akaka Falls.
Maybe it was because, of the 2,500 strapping young servicemen from Hawaii who joined the 100th to prove their loyalty to America, only 800 were still around and had made it to the reunion.
Or maybe the surge of emotion was caused by their somber expressions, as they no doubt remembered their now absent comrades.
No, no. Now I know better.
I realize, after seeing "Saving Private Ryan," that I cried that day in mourning for them -- for their irrevocable loss of innocence and humanism; for the terrible things they saw and probably had to do in battle; for their pain and suffering, both inside and out; and in grateful appreciation for the sacrifices they and every other military man and woman have made on our behalf.
Even if, like me, you shun war movies or gratuitous violence in films, you will be moved and haunted by Spielberg's latest offering.
It follows Captain Miller (Tom Hanks) and his men, as they are dispatched into enemy territory to find and send home Private Ryan (Matt Damon), because three of his brothers have been killed in combat.
Watching the audience in the packed theater was almost as compelling as staring at the screen. Some held fingertips over the lips, as if to suppress a scream or a whimper. There were moans of dismay during the graphically gory parts, and jittery laughter at the few moments of comic relief. There was a lot of sniffling at the end, so bring Kleenex.
And when the credits rolled, people got up and exited immediately, in the comfort of the dark, quietly and almost reverently. It might have been shellshock.
But for this particular movie-goer, it was a great revelation.
NEVER again will I see a veteran of any war, or a current member of the military, in the same way. I'm somewhat embarrassed that it took a Spielberg movie to show me the light, but a glimmer did appear at that 100th battalion reunion.
That's when I bawled in recognition of the selflessness of individuals I had never met and would never know. I was incredibly moved because my generation and those after us are spoiled little crybabies, whining about superfluous things in comparison to the blood-and-guts concerns of those who served our country during huge-scale confrontations.
Thank you, veterans. Thank you, Steven Spielberg.
Diane Yukihiro Chang's column runs Monday and Friday.
She can be reached by phone at 525-8607, via e-mail at
DianeChang@aol.com, or by fax at 523-7863.