The Unknown by D. Avery
The boss calls me Manuel, calls me Mexican. Manuel is not my name, Mexico is not the country I come from. I am Guatemalan. “What’s the difference?” he asks, but does not really want an answer.
Hundreds of people come every day to this cemetery where I do this work. These people honor their soldiers. They are awed by the endless rows of headstones, each engraved with a name.
My father, my mother, my brothers and sisters— they had names. My village had a name.
The boss says I am lucky to have this job. I know that’s true.
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So sad to not be seen, not heard, not recognised. Too true for far too many. Some just don’t want to know.
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In this case what is also not recognized is that his family, his village, were “disappeared”, their mass grave sites unknown and unmarked.
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That is very sad, D. What will it take for us to stop doing these things to each other.
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The boss is a… (this is a G-rated blog so be nice) not-nice person. Sadly, I think this: “he asks, but does not really want an answer.” is the norm nowadays.
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I suspect that attitude has been around a whole lot longer than “nowadays” In a whole lot of places.
I should also say that this is total fiction and does not represent or reflect on the grounds crew and management at Arlington Cemetery. I am sure they are all very nice.
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