
No one could ever accuse me of being patriotic. I’m not especially proud of my countries history. I don’t salute the flag. I’m generally apathetic towards the monarchy. The only thing I’m passionate about when it comes to this “United” Kingdom, is the prevailing contempt for the government and its critical underfunding of the NHS and overt negligence towards those that aren’t part of the wealthy elite. I guess I’m just cynical about a nation that makes such a concerted effort to ostracise itself from the rest of the world, then blame other countries for not being subservient to our needs. It’s like expecting your ex to remain loyal to you after you’ve rebuffed them. We are a country identified by our dubious history and the cultural derivation of other nations. Fish and chips. Tea. Sid James. All distinctive British archetypes, that originate or have more accurately been appropriated from other countries. But there’s one British symbol I’ve always been rather ambivalent towards: the Poppy.
The poppy for those unaware, is a flower that is meant to symbolise Rememberance and hope for peace in the aftermath of the First World War. Serving men and women of the military distribute these poppy shaped brooches or pins in exchange for charitable donations, that contribute to the royal British Legion, with the general public encouraged to display these commemorative insignias, so that others can identify them as fellow proponents. Now my issue with this whole publicity isn’t the superficiality of the Poppy, and certainly not the charitable result. But rather the explicit pressure and public scrutiny of having to be seen to wear one. Whether you’ve contributed to the charity is almost insignificant, to the actual display of the poppy on your person. It’s almost cohersion by conformity. Overshadowing the very real commemorative aspect of Remembrance. The sacrifices of those that endured miserable torment most of us can’t realistically comprehend. All to defend their nations. Not necessarily because they wanted too, but because they had too.
There’s a humbling nobility in honouring those that fought so valiantly. A grudging reminder of just how destructive we are as a species. But as a parent of a very spirited 6 year old, it’s also difficult to rationalize the intricacies of such an event. Not that I’d want too. To truly grasp the significance of observing a 2 minute silence to honour the sacrifice of soldiers, during conflicts that occurred years before she was even born. Let alone comprehend the irrational concept of war. It’s even more difficult to get her to comply with these arbitrary commemorations, with any ruminative lamentation, such as the 2 minute silence. Particularly when a child’s inherent proclivities are to make as much noise as possible. Have you ever tried telling a 6 year old to stop talking? That’s like telling Zack Snyder to be subtle. But a rambunctious child is only further reason to avoid such melancholy occasions. But I digress.
By all means wear a Poppy because you want too, not because society dictates that you should. I respect the gesture, but also reserve the right not to affix one to my person. Just don’t presume I don’t care.

