Easily one of the best moments of John Adams, the HBO miniseries with Paul Giamatti, is the scene in which he turns down the sought approval of the painter of the Signing of the Declaration of Independence. Adams enters, old and beat from his previous years of politics and presidency and refuses to acknowledge the picture. The true genius of the scene is what we take with us: that in fact, history, is lived by those in it and our repetitions of the subject do little to its authenticity. The key word is authenticity, and with that word brings a heated debate amongst historians and fans alike about how we should approach those that lived through incredible moments.
I no doubt thought of this as I gazed with my eyes for the first time The Alamo Friday morning, and got a self tour throughout the remainder of the complex Saturday morning. It was heavy with tourists, of all designs and shapes. Regardless of origin, everyone was beat red, obliterated by a continuous heat that burned the early morning clouds rather quickly. The long barracks wall and the Alamo complex followed by some back area was all that was left. That Saturday after a light breakfast, I took as many pictures as I could before being told to put away my father's digital camera. It was all I could do to prevent myself from taking more stealthily. At first, I was awe inspired. In total, I must have spent over 24 hours of my life learning about the Texas Revolution and the Alamo specifically. There's messages everywhere: storyboards outside the north side of the Alamo tracking the event with writing and print. The Sun rises and strikes the storyboards and glow for the benches closer to the complex. There's a gift shop out back where you can pay for William B. Travis's letter, all bent and scrabbled just like...old paper. There's a model inside that glorifies the scene with incredible detail. Thousands of soldiers, frozen forever, are still cascading over that north wall. The defenders in gray and brownish undistinguished uniforms fight the good fight. Buoy may already be dead.
There's even a memorial made in stone given from a Japanese gentlemen who honored the Alamo with his time and effort. It sits in the shade at the far north end. And in absolute hilarity, you can pay three dollars to go across the street and see another diorama that's fifteen feet. Above it there's stage lighting that's synchronized to the dictation of a recording by Phil Collins, yes Phil Collins himself. Those who know his enthusiasm with The Alamo and Texas History will not be surprised by this. Our family went and listened to the whole fifteen minute presentation. It was eloquently told, except for the constant drumming that was sound-byted in by God only knows. It was constant, and completely unnecessary. Even before this we had heard an older, more credible historian give the exact same details and more with before and after tails of Gonzales and Goliad and San Jacinto.
But the more I listened, the more the rejection of the Declaration of the Signing of the Independence crept into my thought. Across the street, families can enjoy the wonders of Ripley's Believe it Or Not, Haunted Mansion, a wax museum, a gift shop, a t-shirt shop, and the Guiness World Record Museum. It's only 20 dollars per person. And while it's not Field of Dreams and it's not offering reincarnated baseball players, the families are in the moment. It's the Alamo, and it's the weekend. The Sun is hot outside, and it's this or going back through history.
Needless to say, they make a lot of money.
Outside of this ring is the Riverwalk: full of astounding tourist friendly history like moving hotels on giant rollers, hotels pieced together from separate parts of America, Cypress trees, a never flooding water system, restaurants that will murder a wallet, and other festive moments. Near it is the River Center Mall, which after its loss of a bookstore fell from grace in my eye. And outside this is the market square, where one can indulge in sizzling fajitas, spend more money on debatable merchandise or beautiful John Wayne paintings.
And outside of that is the rest of the city, but it all seems to revolve around the historical monument that is The Alamo. It is a confusing and wondrous thought, because in the end what was it? It was a bunch of po-dunk fighters who bunkered in and hoped to God hope would arrive. They all died, yes even Crockett, and never thought they would be remembered. Surprisingly they have. The wife leaver and gambler William B. Travis has streets named after him and is on the memorial. Crockett, the failed politician but renowned hunter went for the next big thing. He thought he could hit it big, and the truth was he did, but not in the way he thought. Everyone else died so fast they hardly understood what happened. Shot by their own cannons, massacred by Santa Anna, and left without a proper burial until Juan Seguin was the only one with enough balls to go back and do the job.
Why not Bunker Hill? Lexington and Concord? Why not the Battle of Eylau fought by Napolean? Custard made his last stand, and not many give him the credit. In the end, Santa Anna continued forth toward Louisiana, pushing the runaway scrape. History may always be bigger than necessary, but when does it become unbearable? Is it unbearable? Is it just me trying to cope with a life long question? Why are they remembered? Dying for the cause? There are literally thousands of moments like this, but yet the Alamo defense with 189 men ended up being one of the most important international history tales ever.
That about sums up my thoughts on such a historical landmark, and my visit of it. I of course always respect historical learning, but to see what it was all leading to, was something I had to question. If someone had survived, maybe they could've pulled a John Adams and told everyone to calm the hell down.
