The Poppy
Wednesday, November 12, 2008 
I have always had a difficult relationship with November 11th.
I was raised a pacifist in a Mennonite church. Sunday School stressed turning the other cheek and loving your enemies. My great uncles who ran away to fight in World War II were our family's black sheep. Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi was held up as a hero of pacificism. These were the things that rattled around in my brain every year when the teachers handed out those flimsy, plastic poppy pins in honour of Remembrance Day.
I felt bad for all the soldiers who had fallen in foreign fields, and being a child in the nuclear reality of the 1980s with parents who had been children in the post-H-bomb 1950s, I could not forget the possibility of war. I lied awake nights staring into the sparkles embedded in my stippled bedroom ceiling, praying earnestly for men to do good things that would save all of our lives. The poppies, though, despite my solemn thoughts about the deaths of innocents and my visceral fear of war, were problematic for the ten-year-old me.
If wearing the poppy meant that I accepted the use of war against other nations, then I couldn't wear it. If it was worn only to remember the dead soldiers, then I thought I could do that, but I worried that it was still a token of support for war. I was a child caught in an earnest moral struggle between man and God. I hid the poppy in my pocket and showed it to my mother at lunch.
"What does the poppy mean? If I wear it, does that mean I support war?"
"It doesn't necessarily mean that."
"Do you ever wear a poppy?"
"No. If it makes you uncomfortable to wear it, you don't have to."
I went back to school with the poppy still in my pocket. I felt conspicuous without having one pinned over my heart like everyone else, but I was too confused about the overlap of its symbolism and my religious upbringing. I was terribly ashamed that my lack of a poppy might be construed as a silent statement against all those poor soldiers, and I felt as though each person in my class was silently judging me for my callousness.
At recess, a bunch of the kids folded their poppies in half and put them over their lips to make their mouths look full and kissy. I pulled my poppy from my back pocket, removed the pin, and folded the poppy against my mouth, too.
"Ook at ny ips," I said, pursing to hold the fuzzed over plastic in place. "I'n so yootiful."
Someone laughed while I closed my eyes and pretended to lean in for big smooch, but I could not feel the humour.
"Your ears are red," another kid pointed out.
"Yeah. I'm hot," I lied, pulling at my jacket collar. "This coat's really hot."
I had only played along so that the others would see my poppy, so they might believe that I was like them. I had made a mockery of a symbol that might be sacred just so that I could hide myself in sameness, and I felt such shame burning up the back of my neck.
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PS. I wrote "Who Knew That I Could Love Jennifer Aniston This Much?" over at MamaPop today.
I am a participant in NaBloPoMo 2008, a challenge to write 30 posts in 30 days during the month of November. "National Blog Posting Month is the epicenter of daily blogging!"
Reader Comments (22)
Ahhh the things we use to poke at our minds. You sound like a very good little catholic girl, or a browbeaten jewish child. ME? I was just born with a guilt complex.
I went to a Quaker school and had the same ambivalence. The Quakers had white poppies AND red poppies that they wore together as a peculiar compromise type thing.
Now enough of that, must go read about jennifer aniston. Much more important.
You dig deep. It's a real dilemma.
For me, anyway, memories like these signal the branching off into who I am versus who I could have been. And in a lot of cases remembering them makes me just as anxious as living them because I've still got the poppy in my mouth while I decide. Thanks for making me feel I'm not on my own!
I grew up in SK with the same Mennonite upbringing with a grandfather who was a conscientious objector. I was taught it was something to be proud of. I remember experiencing a small amount of conflict over the poppy as a kid but I decided that if it was a symbol to remind us not to let war happen again, then it fit nicely with my pacifist tradition. I am no longer so entrenched in the religious aspect, but I still feel quite strongly about pacifism - to the point that I canNOT bring myself to buy my son or daughter any clothes with camouflage on them.
I grew up on military bases. The poppy was not desecrated there. In fact, everything was supplied. School supplies, poppies, all part of the deal.
I have been living in France for 11 years and not once have I heard mention of the poppy in terms of Armistice Day. Not once. WWI was fought [largely] in France and to this day, large tracts of land are still closed off because shit might explode.
So what is it with the poppy?
Mrs. C, here is a run down of what the poppy is about:
http://www.defence.gov.au/army/history/InFlandersField.htm
Since the battle of Flanders took place in my area, and therefore the poem that was the root of the poppy's symbol written here, I wrote a short bout it:
http://mayou-bloggoergosum.blogspot.com/2008/07/coquelicots.html
and more recently another about the Nov 11 celebration for young men who never chose to die "for the country"
http://mayou-bloggoergosum.blogspot.com/2008/11/11-novembre.html
Thx!
I found some info too:
http://www.tolerance.ca/Article.aspx?ID=106&L=en&sc=1
How odd that the poppy started over here (France) and then disappeared...
I like your link better. Thank you again.
My grandparents fled the Bolsheviks, and I never wore the poppy either.
Mrs C, if you read my blog you could see that the poem that is the basis of the poppy as a symbol of WW1 has been written by a Canadian, so the poppy has never been a French tradition, it is a tradition of Commonwealth only, even though the poem was written in Belgium (not in France),. (in English)
I know the red ears. So many times I gave up on the inner conflict just to have a few minutes of fitting in.
What a wise girl you were, to recognize that conflict in yourself when you were so young.
This post was stunning. I could see you with your poppy lips, and your little girl shame that shouldn't. We have all been this guilty, but you had nothing to be ashamed of. You stood up for your convictions while even small. Those poppy lips did not take it away at the end.
You were Mennonite? I have a secret to tell you someday.
I adored this... what a wonderful post.
I heard once about a mennonite funeral/wake, and it sounded so incredibly fitting. It made me want to know more.
Geneviève,
I must have misinterpreted that tolerance.ca link when saying that it started in France.
In any case, I suppose that it doesn't matter. I just found it interesting that the French have no idea that Commonwealthers wear the poppy for a war fought on French soil (because I asked a couple of French colleagues about it).
Cheers,
Mrs C
P.S. I too remember the poppy lips growing up.
I loved this. BEAUTIFULLY written as always.
Excellent, excellent post. Personally, I'm still conflicted by poppies. I think they glorify war and I worry that young people will see some kind of nobility in making the ultimate sacrifice, ostensibly for their country. The current reality is that there's nothing noble about being used by your country as a pawn in an immoral, perpetual and unwinnable war.
Hmmm...maybe I'm not conflicted after all.
I hate those fucking poppies! They're everywhere over here. Make it stop!!!!
I never got a poppy in school. So I never had this dilemma. Since my parents were peace protesting hippies I grew up very much opposed to war and it wasn't until later that I found it in myself to respect the people who sign up for it.