Of Poppies and Preconceptions

Every year, I choose to wear a white poppy. Even though I place it alongside a red poppy, I know that some people seem to think that somehow, it detracts from the respect and the compassion that I have for people who have lost their lives in wars. As though I’m somehow saying that I don’t care, that I want to be perverse about things. Miss Contrary.

If people are genuinely interested enough – I sometimes try to explain why I choose to wear a white poppy. Often, I find that once you get talking, folk are surprised at what the motivations are behind it. I’ve also found too, that an awful lot of younger people – those I don’t already know, I mean – stop me and ask me where I got it from. I’m always interested to hear why they might want one and their answer tends to be along the lines of ‘they never taught us about this sort of thing at school and I know a bit more about it now’ and ‘because we keep talking about wars and we’re not doing enough to stop them!’

Which is a little bit similar to my own reasoning. And wearing a white poppy certainly means that you have to be prepared for a bit of a discussion on issues such as war and arms etc – which is why I don’t expect anyone else in my household to wear one, just because I do; and certainly when it comes to children, not as some sort of ‘badge’ to show that you belong to a particular sort of ‘club.’ Issues of war and peace are far too serious to be trivialised as a ‘which team/side do you belong to then’ chat (oh…the irony of that statement.)

Still, I cringe at the thought of anyone feeling upset at the sight of a white poppy – even if (as they usually are) they are simply just not aware of the meaning behind it, and my own – very personal – reasons for wearing it. I sometimes think … what’s the point? I sometimes hope that the white poppy might go missing in my pig-pen of a house, where nearly anything and everything goes missing on a daily basis. But it doesn’t. From one year to the next.  Strangely. And something compels me to wear it. ***

Either way, I had my very own preconceptions about poppy-wearing challenged a few weeks ago when I got chatting to a very elderly chappie from the Salvation Army. Normally, I run away from people hanging outside shops, who are wearing uniforms and rattling tins. But it was raining and he was still managing to look chipper. We got talking about homelessness and then ‘the belief thing’ … and where I happened to nail my own colours with regards to all of that. And then because of that, he asked me “so, where’s your white poppy then?” I cringed inwardly, because … he was wearing a red poppy. And he was Sally Army.  And I didn’t want to upset the old fella, or for him to think that I was being disrespectful by being part of the white poppy brigade. But then he said;

“I’ve got mine on this side – you see?” I hadn’t. I hadn’t noticed that he had a red poppy on one side of his tunic and a white one on the other (yes, I know – should have gone to Specsavers.) I told him that I was really quite surprised that he was wearing one. “Why?” he asked. “Because I’m old and I remember the last war … and how the one before it affected everyone?” I said, no. I had just presumed that Sally Army folk might not hold any truck with the white poppy stuff. He laughed and said “Well, I’m sorry you thought that. And I’m sorry too – that people have a bad reaction to what the white poppy is all about …. Because that’s what we were told we were fighting these wars for. Being allowed to think differently.”

I still do feel a bit concerned that me wearing both poppies might offend or upset someone. Despite what the fella said. But perhaps that – me actually giving a toss about the thoughts and lives and feelings of others – means that I should continue with wearing it. That I’m doing it for the right reasons. I dunno.

But either way, on this very special centenary, I’m choosing not just to Remember. But to try to Prevent. And I guess that’s not always an easy path to take. But then, what the heck is a bit of discomfort – in comparison to what so many have suffered, for their beliefs.

*** There was this kid that lived in our house – he went to our local school and played in the fields outside, like my two do. He was forever tinkering with stuff in the back yard – inventing new contraptions – like my little lad does. He grew up (only a bit) and his parents were over the moon, when he achieved a prestigious apprenticeship – to be a young engineer – with one of the country’s top firms in Birkby.

Arthur was killed in action after serving 8 months on the Front. Seven months before the Armistice was signed. He was 19.

—With thanks to South Crosland’s Holy Trinity Church for all the work that they have done in relation to researching the background of each local lad killed during World War One. And in remembering them every Sunday that each one was killed, for four years.  Superb efforts, by superb people—