Revisiting a Tragedy
“This was supposed to be a fun day.” “This is a waste of my time.” “ I can't wait till it’s over.” These were just a few of the thoughts that raced through my mind as I approached the sandstone building that is the Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C. It was the summer of my senior year, and my only motivation for entering this sure-to-be boring building was the promise that air conditioning would lend me refuge from the muggy heat. I’d like to clarify, in case you can’t tell by now, that my respect for the tragedy that was the Holocaust and my ability to grasp its full meaning and implications was limited at best. I was by no means, appreciative or seriously anticipating the museum. I’m ashamed to say, I somehow found Holocaust jokes appropriate accompaniment for the day. I was narrow-minded and failed to understand that the people who suffered through the Holocaust deserved respect from me. My time in the Holocaust Museum would both change my views of the Holocaust and affect my character in a way few other experiences can.
I entered through the glass doors of the museum, sighing in relief as I was met by a wave of air conditioning. I was on an FCCLA
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We proceeded down a flight of stairs that brought us to the second floor. It was dim and eerie just as on the top floor and I was suddenly struck by a stomach churning sight. On my left I beheld a long platform covered with hundreds of shoes. Upon further inspection, I discovered the shoes belonged to Jews in the concentration camps. Shoes were among the first things confiscated from prisoners and were then put to use by the Nazis. When the concentration camps were liberated there would often be massive piles of shoes to attest to the mass genocide that had taken place. The sight and smell of murdered Jews’ shoes left an impression in my mind and where an inanimate testament to the horrors of the