Emily in a class about war, really?

Spring semester I took an English class analyzing the effects of war in American culture. I was both scared and intrigued by the subject of study. Luckily, my intrigue won over and I remained in the class. During the semester we studied The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien and Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut. O'Brien's book follows his journey as a solider through the dark, horrific jungles that housed the Vietnam War. Slaughterhouse Five details experiences during World War Two, including the devastating bombing of the city of Dresden. Both books are graphic, painful and brutally honest. The dark, unglamorous, pride-stripping, well kept secrets of war are pushed before your eyes with such blatant clarity that it is both shocking and disturbing. And the horror doesn't end when the men return home to their families. Each feels completely isolated and misunderstood by the people they once loved. Lingering effects of post traumatic stress disorder leave forever unraveling ends in their lives. These books testify that war is nothing like the heroism and bravery we intoxicate ourselves with in the movie theaters. Yet I loved every page.

Now before I get labeled a monster, let me explain. I have been blessed with a life completely void of violence, death and fighting. It is likely that I will never taste of the horror of combat, and for that I am extremely grateful. But through the glories of literature, I can read my way to a semblance of understanding. These gifted authors can transport me to a jungle, or bomb shelter where I can feel a sliver of what they went through. This transferal of feelings and experiences is the most beautiful jewel of literature I have yet to discover. I read these books not to judge the actions of an 18 year old hiding in a dug out, but to understand. Because of these novels I feel greater sympathy towards war veterans and why some may act the way they do. Because of these books I no longer judge where it is not my place to.

For our final project in the class, we were to find a primary resource relating to war, analyze it and present some sort of product about it. I think my professor prided himself on being vague. After a few days of looking, and a panicked phone call to my mom, we found the perfect source. I'll let the paper I turned in along with my project explain:

Emily Abel

April 27, 2016

English 2630

Dustin Crawford

Jacoba Luttmer Hemphill

            When I was eight years old, my family purchased a new home in a cul-de-sac. We soon learned that that the other six houses on the street were inhabited by elderly couples, all of whom had mixed feelings about a family with five noisy kids and one on the way disturbing their peaceful retirement. All were respectful and kind as they came over to welcome, or rather investigate, the new neighbors. Except Jacoba. As a matter of fact, everyone warned us about the grouchy, mean, lonely old lady we had just gained as a next door neighbor. They advised us to keep the kids out of her yard and not expect any hospitality from that side of the fence. A bit bewildered by the outright contempt and suspicion these otherwise gentle people had for their neighbor, we proceeded with caution.

            Over the next few years we had many ‘encounters’ with Jacoba. I can distinctly remember all the times she marched over to our front door in a fit about something, or handing the phone to my mom saying, “It’s Jacoba. She’s mad again.” We just couldn’t seem to keep the chickens out of her yard, the chalk off her driveway, or the four year old from asking for cookies. At first it seemed that all forewarnings we had received were accurate. Jacoba was cynical, short-tempered, and always read for a fight. With time, however, my parents began to discover what all the other neighbors seemed to have missed in the twenty or so years they had all lived there: all Jacoba needed was a friend, someone who would listen and take her concerns seriously. Once we realized that, tempers dissipated with ease as my Dad learned to nod and agree with everything Jacoba said, a quiet smile always twinkling in his eyes. All you had to do was listen.

            And what a treat listening became. We soon learned that Jacoba had grown up in Groningen, Holland during the German occupation of World War Two, a fun fact that had evidently slipped everyone else’s mind when they divulged the secrets of Edgehill Circle. As we learned more about what our neighbor had gone through, her feisty and resilient nature began to make sense. Direct confrontation with starvation, war, and genocide can make a person seem a little rough around the edges. It was her hardheaded, fiery, spunk that kept her alive and fighting during the war. The great lengths, at the expense her own life, that she went through to ease others’ suffering was inspiring. This woman was someone who deserved our respect and even admiration, not the over- the-flowerbed gossip she’d been receiving.

            Looking back on this experience of my childhood, my new-found American culture radar is sending up sparks. We all speak in high praise of those who suffered through World War Two. American’s love a good Anne Frank or Von Trapp story—people risking the next beat of their heart for a just, innocent cause. But when that person becomes your ornery, know-it-all, always-in-your-face neighbor, it suddenly doesn’t matter what they’ve been through. Forget the times she snuck milk to starving babies, or nursed broken 18 year old prisoners, Jacoba is just a hardened, sneering old woman who has chucked your squawking chicken over the fence one too many times. Even the fact that we called her Jacoba rather than Sister Hemphill as we did the rest of the neighbors is telling.

            It seems to be quite the challenge to recognize the effects of war when they are living a normal life in the house with the green porch. But as my parents discovered, an open and patient mind was all that was required to unlock a trove of quiet heroism. Jacoba, with her fluffy white hair and painted green eyebrows, was just too different from the norm to be worth exploring. I wrote this blog to reveal just how worth it Jacoba really was. Through talking with her daughter and diving into her history, I came to see just what a privilege it was to share a street corner with Jacoba Luttmer Hemphill. She has since passed away, but I empathize with Tim O’Brien in wanting to keep my friend alive with her stories. America should understand what life was like not just for combat soldiers and hiding Jews, but normal civilians (after all that is what they themselves are). I hope they will learn from my experience that their proud understanding of war is but a shadow of the truth, and that everyone they meet is worth it.

here is a link to the blog I wrote as if I were Jacoba. Every story comes from a tape recording of Jacoba retelling the events herself. All of them are true, and many of the lines come straight from the tape. I suggest you read from the oldest post onward, as there is some chronological order. And if anyone actually read this far....Thanks! You're a champ! ;)

I only share these comments to say that taking the extra step to try and make something great, is always worth it.