JOEL'S REMARKS AT MEDAL CEREMONY
FEB. 2003The horror of war is not a boy’s game. Yet so often we call upon our children to rid the world of the evil we have allowed to fester. Perhaps this is so because the young still cling to their cloak of innocence and preserve the power to care about the future each will bring to their own progeny.
My father was such a child, thrown into a maelstrom the likes of which the world had never seen, and has yet to see since. Barely out of high school, he awoke to the whine of Pratt & Whitney engines, his heart matched beat for beat the burst of Nazi flak, and his spirit relaxed to the haunting promises of bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover. Yet even after the engines became silent and the birds had
come and gone, the conflict was still not over for my father.
How does one relinquish the memories of brothers-in-arms who had fallen by your side? How does a boy recover the lost years that are meant for proms and parades and passion, but were replaced by bombs and parachutes and destruction?
In my father’s case, it was to attack life with the same intensity that he launched against the enemy in battle. He did not go to just any college; he went to Columbia University. He did not just graduate with a bachelor’s degree; he pressed on to receive a doctorial degree summa cum laude. He didn’t just get married and have a child; he had four children – of which, by the way, I turned out to be the best looking.
He became an English teacher. Just a teacher? No, he became the chairman of the English Department. He was a sports coach -- of championship teams, and president of the coaches association. He became a referee -- and president of the referees’ association.
This was the hero that my siblings and I grew up with. He used the same fervor that won him sports championships and perfect test scores to become the best father that he could be. He taught me to kick a soccer ball, and I was offered sports scholarships. He bought a dog for my younger sister to care for, and now she owns a pet shop. He ran alongside my brother as he careened on his first bicycle, and my brother went on to build his own Harley-Davidson. He helped my older sister learn to read and write, and to this day… she can still read and write. That is to say, she is a published author. He also taught us all how to mow the lawn and shovel snow and keep our rooms clean, but those lessons were not learned -- only because we feigned ignorance.
Yet in spite of all this enthusiasm for life and achievement and success, there was a dark light behind my father’s eyes. “The war” was never discussed at home, even though we would sometimes catch a glimpse of some old aviator’s goggles and helmet, along with a brittle logbook. We also knew that he had a couple of medals, but those were kept hidden away in a closet. We heard rumors that there had been “incidents” during the war and that his pain and sorrow still played tricks with his mind, bringing to him during the dead of night reminders that the souls of his brothers were left in foreign lands while he was allowed to lead a normal life. The tears were unbearable, and his “normal” life haunted him to silence.
In recent years, you all probably have noticed a resurgence in interest regarding the men and women who fought and won the Second World War – many of whom I see are here today in the audience. “The Greatest Generation” has now become a catchphrase. I believe that the well publicized acknowledgement that even the simplest participation in that war was extraordinary began a healing that allowed my father to lift his head and see that what he did as a teenager was as difficult a task as he thought it was, and far more important than he could have imagined. In an ironic testament to how he helped the world to change, his eldest grandchild will set foot in Germany two days from now on his way to study in Europe. As Petty Officer Norman Rosenberg’s aircraft took off to drop ordinance nearly 60 years ago, could he ever have imagined that his actions would eventually allow him, as Dr. Norman Ross, to bid a proud bon voyage to a grandchild’s aircraft heading for the same ground below?
We are here today to honor my father for the risks he took to make this a better world for all of us. But we are also here to honor much more. He and his medals are but symbols for all who participated in that same great endeavor. And even more so, the exemplary life he led since his survival and return was his own personal way to honor his fallen comrades whose own options faded away in the glare of their mortal sacrifices.
I believe that they would also thank him today for rendering their final efforts worthwhile, for fulfilling his duty to them to live the kind of life that would make them all proud to have served with him and for him. And I can tell you this, Dad, first-hand:
Even without your medals and awards, even in the absence of your heralds and accolades, you have always been a hero to your children. Your heart, heavy with loss; your mind, conflicted with grief; and your soul, battered by circumstance, still were able to provide the desire, intelligence, and love for all those who know you to find the strength to measure up to the standards you have set for us all. And my proudest statement of all is to say to all who would listen:
I am the son of Norman Ross, a hero of our times.
