Every March, the residents of my hometown, Las Cruces, New Mexico, get together in remembrance of a tragedy that took place almost 80 years ago, on the other side of the Pacific. Business groups, faith groups, students and people of varying backgrounds and political beliefs all volunteer and participate in the Bataan Memorial Death March. 

First organized by ROTC cadets at the nearby New Mexico State University, the march is a marathon through sand pits, desert and asphalt with both civilian and military participants. Individuals or teams of five can opt to run in the heavy division, which requires wearing a 35-pound pack. The event attracts participants from around the world, and in 2020 it was set to break records with over 10,000 registrants. Yet the marathon was canceled this year due to the pandemic. 

The event commemorates the Bataan Death March, which took place after the Battle of Bataan in the Philippines during World War II. Following the defeat, Filipino and American prisoners of war were forcibly marched 69 miles from the Bataan Peninsula to Camp O’Donnell in Capas, Tarlac, by the Imperial Japanese Army. Though sources vary, between 5,000 and 18,000 prisoners lost their lives during the march from sickness, exhaustion or violence inflicted on them by their captors. Following the war, the march would be declared a Japanese war crime. 

The march was significant to New Mexico because many of the American soldiers who defended the Philippines and were forced to march were from the state. 

The memorial event holds a special place of pride for the residents of Las Cruces. Part of that pride reflects the desire of our city to remember the soldiers who gave their lives in the tragedy and to honor the survivors. For me, a large part of that pride has to do with my identity as an American, specifically as a New Mexican in America. Judging by the outpouring of support for the memorial march, I wonder if the same might be true for the rest of the city.

Born and raised in New Mexico, I feel that my state is foreign to many around the country. New Mexico doesn’t conjure up the same images of Americana as Massachusetts or Virginia. New Mexico’s history is more Spain and missionaries than Great Britain and pilgrims. Not only is New Mexico a flyover state, but it is hard to be noticed with Texas as a neighbor. Even the state’s name, New Mexico, is immediately alien. All of this makes New Mexico uniquely foreign to the rest of the country.

I realize that this is my perception of how the rest of the United States sees New Mexico, and I could be wrong. Regardless, my perception still affects the pride I feel for the memorial march because, for me, it reinforces the status of New Mexico as one of the 50 states. The sacrifices that New Mexicans made so many years ago during a romanticized period ofAmerican history makes me feel more justified in calling myself American.

My thoughts lead me to a major question: Do I really feel the need to justify myself as an American? Does that feeling come from growing up in New Mexico, my Hispanic heritage or a combination of the two? This is the first time I have ever questioned my own “Americanness.” This is something I am eager to explore and will have to take time to consider.

Thinking of the soldiers who were forced to endure the Bataan Death March, I wonder if they also had similar feelings. If so, did it influence their decision to enlist? What about other minorities and immigrant groups? Has the military played a role for them as a vehicle to prove themselves as true Americans? I do not have answers to these questions, but as I celebrate Memorial Day and remember those who made the ultimate sacrifice, these questions will be on my mind.

I am looking forward to volunteering for the next Bataan Memorial Death March. By then, maybe, I will have some answers to these questions and end up with an even deeper sense of pride in the sacrifice New Mexican soldiers made fighting for our country. Or maybe I will end up with even more questions about my identity as an American, as a nation of immigrants. I doubt I would be the first.