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Twenty-one Steps and Twenty-one Seconds
Mr. Kevin McDonald
American flag on campus

Teachers often discuss something called the “teachable moment.” These fleeting instances happen outside the curriculum or daily lesson wherein we take advantage of a coincidence or a happening outside our control.

A snake slithers across the courtyard. A student abruptly brings up something he witnessed on the way to school. A child has an embarrassing accident that leads to a lesson about compassion and empathy. Teachers love finding value in these moments, and I am no exception.

However, sometimes I cheat at finding them. One of these times is every year on November 11. Unlike many schools, Independence is open for learning on Veterans Day. This inevitably leads to many of my middle school students complaining about how their friends at other schools are at home sleeping or lost in video games. My response used to be to send the complainers on a guilt trip. “I’m sure our veterans would be happy to know we’re here learning. I consider it an honor,” I would say. Nowadays, I take a different approach.

As students enter my classroom on Veterans Day, I am sure to have playing on my big screen a video of the sentinels guarding the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at Arlington National Cemetery. It is a wonderful conversation starter; I say nothing at first. I’ve done this many times over the years, and the results vary, but it usually unfolds this way: 

Within a minute or two, a group of eighth graders will quiet down as they watch soldiers from the 3rd U.S. Infantry Regiment walk the narrow path in front of the marble tombstone that reads “Here Rests In Honored Glory An American Soldier Known But To God.” The precision and care these soldiers take to honor their fallen brothers is awe-inspiring. After about thirty seconds of quiet, they start asking questions. I do my best to answer. 

“Is this live?” someone asks.

“No, this is a recording. But soldiers are doing this right now,” I answer.

“Are their rifles loaded?”

“I don’t think so.” 

“What if someone accidentally stepped over the rope?”

“It happens sometimes. The soldiers shout at them to step back.” 

“How long do they guard the tomb?”

“All day every day. No matter what time. No matter the weather. Even in the middle of the night in the pouring rain.”

I look around to watch that sink in. The idea of doing something so precisely and thoroughly even when no one is there to see them do it. The teachable moment.

We continue watching, and the students begin to pick up on the rituals. March. Pause. March. Pause. Rifle inspection. Uniform inspection. March.

“Why do they guard the unknown soldier’s tomb?”

I do my best to explain that these men sacrificed all they had, even their identity, for their country. There are unknown soldiers from the First and Second World Wars and the Korean War. An empty tomb used to hold the remains of an American killed in the Vietnam War. However, in 1998 he was exhumed and identified as airforce pilot Lt. Michael Joseph Blassie, and his remains were returned to his family for burial. Because of modern DNA testing, we probably won’t have any more unknown fallen soldiers. 

Now that they’re watching closely, I challenge them to watch for the rituals within the rituals. In a few minutes, one or two students will notice that the sentinel takes 21 steps before turning and pausing for 21 seconds.

“What’s important about the number 21?” someone asks.

“There are many theories about why, but it’s a number that’s associated with honor in the military,” I answer.

“Like a 21-gun salute?”

“Exactly.”

When I tell them these young men and women spend hours polishing their medals and preparing their uniforms to walk a one-hour guard shift, some of them gasp in disbelief. 

It’s always interesting to observe the students as they begin to understand that they are seeing and hearing something even greater than the precise movements of impeccably uniformed soldiers, or the commanding voice of the relief sergeant who instructs the audience to stand silently for the changing of the guard. They begin to recognize that these soldiers have devoted their lives to honoring and protecting someone they don’t know. Someone no one knows. 

I tell them that Arlington National Cemetery is open for anyone to watch this great ceremony, and it is only a short trip across the Potomac from Washington, D.C. It’s well worth adding it to their agenda next time they’re in that area. 

And almost every year, I am surprised by what a student notices. For example, someone once pointed out that the tomb guard wasn’t wearing a rank insignia on his arm. We looked it up and learned that it was meant to honor the fallen by not wearing a higher rank than the deceased. Another time, someone noticed an elderly gentleman in the audience snap to attention and salute, and at the same moment, the sentinels saluted the tomb. “I bet he was in the war,” the student said quietly. 

After a few more minutes, I ask them if they still wish they were home playing video games. The answer is usually still yes, but they were glad to watch this. At that point, I offer a compromise. “How about we pause and honor our veterans, living and dead, with a moment of silence?”

Students agree to this, and some fold their hands or bow their heads.

Then I ask, “How long do you think we should pause?”

After a moment, someone always gets it.

"Twenty-one seconds?"

Thank you to all our veterans.

 

Headshot of Kevin McDonald

Kevin McDonald has been an Independence Middle School English teacher since 2011. He is also a published author of various novels.


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