Last week, during school vacation week, my wife and I took our boys on a great trip to Washington D.C. If you ever have the chance to go, I would highly recommend it, especially if you have children. 

While there is much to do and many things to see, one of the places that we all wanted to visit was the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. My sons are of an age, 13 and 15, to understand the significance of the information contained in the museum and we talked to them as we were planning the itinerary. They knew going into the museum that the atmosphere would be unlike most everything else that we experienced in the nation’s capital. They said they were ready for it. 

As we entered the museum’s great hall and found our way to the permanent exhibits, we had this sense of knowing, yet not knowing exactly what to expect. Fifteen or 20 visitors entered the elevator on our way to the start of the exhibits. Then the doors of the elevators opened on the fourth floor and we were immediately transported to 1930s Germany. 

The museum did a masterful job of putting many different pieces together. The struggle of Jewish people and others was set against the backdrop of what was going on in Europe and in the United States. No punches were pulled. 

Many of the exhibits were difficult. On one floor sat a railcar that was used to transport people to the death camps. Walking through the car there was a sense of the terror that must have overcome people as they were stuffed in the car. The size, the darkness, the lack of windows, all made the car seem smaller than it actually was. 

There was a casting of a door from one of the many death chambers. Next to the door sat many of the canisters that contained the deadly gas that was responsible for millions of the deaths. In another room there was a set of bunks that came from one of the camps. Silent now but screaming with history and pain. 

Leaving the museum visitors are confronted with one final request. There is a large poster that asks, “Think About What You Saw.” Over the days since we left the museum, we have talked with our sons to see if they had any questions. To ask them what their thoughts were about what they saw. Each in their own way processed the material and have asked probing questions about the material. 

Coincidentally, about the time we were coming back to Brunswick, I saw a news article that a bill had been introduced in the Legislature that would require that all elementary and secondary students in the state must be taught about the Holocaust. 

I was surprised that so few states require any formal education on the topic. I was even more surprised to learn that a majority of Americans lack even a basic understanding of the topic according to a news publication. However, once I started to think about it, I had to admit that my understanding of World War II and the Holocaust did not come from a class in grade school, but during conversations with my grandmother. 

At every opportunity, usually over a cup of hot chocolate, she would tell me about the classmates that she went to school with and those that went off to fight in World War II. She talked about sacrifices and the reality of what was going on in those far away places that were in newspapers. 

My education on the subject was not formal in any way. I was fortunate to have someone who could recount that information to me and who wanted me to know what she knew. Not everyone is so lucky. 

Usually, I am someone who tends to shudder at mandates from Augusta or Washington. Educational goals and ideas can best be accomplished at the local level. However, when there is such a glaring educational deficit as an understanding of what caused millions of people to perish, a broader plan must be implemented. 

I applaud those in the Legislature who have taken this up and championed the cause to provide, even a short course, on such an important topic. Maybe, over time, that poster in the lobby of the museum in Washington can read, “Think About What You Learned.” 

Jonathan Crimmins can be reached at j_crimmins@hotmail.com.