Nearly twenty years ago, the kindest, most caring, compassionate soul it has ever been my pleasure to know, was killed by a bullet to the throat. His life literally drained out of him. He was no victim of street crime. He was a soldier serving proudly in the uniform of the United States Army. At 18 he volunteered for the 7th Infantry Division (Light) and the Rapid Deployment Force. At 20 his life was snuffed out by an insurgency group that believed their god had called them to kill infidels. While many people I know were thinking of barbecues and beer, my Memorial Day was spent thinking about that young man as I made the rounds of the area War Memorials. During my weekend of reverence I was assaulted by numerous major media outlets, most prominently The New York Times, and their coverage of an atrocity allegedly committed by United States Marines in Iraq. On a day supposedly set aside for us to remember those who came home with a funeral escort, the major media decided that the story that should lead their coverage was best served by scenes of dead civilians.
For those who have been hiding under a rock, the allegation is that a number of Marines killed as many as two dozen, unarmed men, women and children in Haditha, Iraq last November. After the killings they then attempted to cover up their nefarious deeds by suggesting that the dead civilians were either harboring insurgents, or were insurgents themselves. I wasn't there, so I do not know what happened. The New York Times had no reporters there, nor did ABC, CBS, CNN or any of the other major outlets. Congressman John Murtha (D-PA) was not there either, but not being there has not stopped him, or the aforementioned news agencies from trumpeting the guilt of the Marines. The Marines have been convicted of murder in the press, before the report is even completed. Gleefully, newscasters trot out the abysmal events of My Lai, and Rep. Murtha goes on any news program that will have him and proclaims the Marines killed civilians "in cold blood."
Meanwhile, an alleged cop killer, Solomon Montgomery, recuperates in a Philadelphia hospital. He was shot by Philadelphia detectives as he allegedly reached for one of the two handguns he was carrying. The allegation is that he executed a Philadelphia police officer who responded to a bar where the suspect was supposedly carrying out an armed robbery. Officer Gary Skerski died from a shotgun blast alleged fired by Solomon Montgomery. The coverage, which was front page news until Montgomery was arrested, has slipped from the top spot. Philadelphia officials have been careful not to taint the ongoing investigation by carefully wording their responses to press questions. In fact, Montgomery was not even immediately charged with the homicide. A suspect with numerous, violent, felony arrests, and even an acquittal for another armed robbery, is being given the presumption of innocence, in direct accordance with the rule of law. Videotape of the holdup and numerous witnesses abound in Montgomery's case, and yet, the District Attorney's Office has not released an inflammatory statement remotely close to the one's leveled at US Marines serving under fire in a combat zone. Rep. Murtha has not seen fit to weigh in on the loss of life of a Philadelphia cop, and by all accounts a good guy, but convicts fellow Marines absent any evidence other then anecdotal responses from people who may, or may not, have an axe to grind.
Can events such as the one the Marines are alleged to have committed occur? Not only can they occur they have, ever since the first caveman clubbed an unarmed opponent's family to death with a sharp rock. That is not truly the question here; not yet. For the record, as an infantryman the activities ascribed to the Marines does not pass my smell test. Nuances only another infantryman would notice are visibly apparent. The timelines and actions simply do not fit with what I know to be the inner workings of small unit tactics. I personally believe that what is being reported as happening did not happen the way it is being portrayed. That said, if even one scintilla of the story being presented is accurate I want the offenders punished severely, but what I want more than anything is for these military volunteers to be afforded the same respect we give alleged cop-killers; I want them presumed innocent until the investigation is complete.
On Memorial Day I am somewhat subdued, as a rule. I along with literally millions of veterans and active duty personnel paused for a moment of silence at 3:00pm yesterday. I turned off all the noise makers in my house, came to attention and for a full minute saluted the flag which flutters from a neighbors wall. I felt the presence of men and women all over the world doing the same thing, and a tear trickled down my cheek as I thought of my friend Rob. The New York Times, as well as other broadcast outlets, profaned that moment. In their rush to judgment they painted all veteran's with a broad brush, because if one could do this, the supposition is that we all have. Why else did a national network broadcast a 30 year old piece on My Lai at 3:30am today, if not to remind us of the inhumanity of soldiers everywhere? The major media, at least in this case, has an axe to grind, and no compulsion at sacrificing what they see as the expendable among us.
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Marine General Peter Pace, when questioned Sunday about the alleged incidents said, "it would be premature for me to judge" the outcome of a Pentagon investigation. I respect the General, and I respect the 99.9% of men and women of the armed forces who have performed their duties honorably, under great duress, with no fanfare for a job well done. It hurts my heart to think that any of my brothers-in-arms could do anything even approximating a war crime, as I am sure it does veteran's everywhere. What hurts more though, is that on a day set aside to remember the truly valiant among us, those who have given their lives to secure freedom, the nation's largest newspaper and several major broadcast networks decided that it was more important to use that freedom to cast, to this point unsubstantiated heinous aspersions, upon men serving in a combat zone. Why these media bastions thought this was the right thing to do is open to conjecture. What is not open to conjecture though is that the 25,000,000 veterans and active duty personnel, on this day above all others, deserved better.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Graduates Acting Badly
In the past week Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice and Senator John McCain were invited to be commencement speakers at prestigious universities. They were both treated badly by the assembled graduates. They were heckled and subjected to juvenile acts of vanity by the students who are widely praised as the best and brightest among us. As the press coverage roiled I was brought back to my own personal experiences at a graduation last week. Two-time Academy Award winner Jodie Foster gave the commencement speech for the 250th graduating class of the University of Pennsylvania. In her speech, which she read, she touched on the nature of academic elitism and rolled into the political part of her statements. On a blustery, rainy day at Franklin Field, I suffered through the party line of squandered world sympathy after 9/11, and the 20/20 vision of the mistakes made in Iraq. I considered it par for the course. I was moved to action though when she focused on the aftermath of Katrina. As she began a Kanye West-like version of events I rose from my seat and made my exit from Franklin Field. I hurled no epithets, or angry gestures at the dais. I simply excused myself to those seated near me and removed myself from the offending remarks.
Secretary of State Rice and Senator McCain were, no doubt, bothered by the actions to which they were subjected. I have been in the presence of both of them and have found them to be careful, considerate individuals. I am sure that they were both given pause by the ridiculous antics of those whom take themselves too seriously. I am certain, however, that neither lost any sleep over the unpleasant encounters. Secretary Rice grew up in a segregated South and was acquainted with the little girls incinerated in a Birmingham church bombing. That reprehensible act of racism formed and shaped her desire to achieve, and achieve she did. She is an accomplished pianist, a PhD holder and former Provost of Stanford, among other things. Her struggle to rise to her present position could not have been easy, and one can only imagine that the silly tactics she endured while speaking must have seemed trivial compared to a barefoot childhood spent in a pre-Civil Rights Alabama.
Senator McCain was subjected to imprisonment and torture in the vilest of places, the infamous Hanoi Hilton. Daily he, and his fellow POWs, withstood beatings and deprivations so callus and nefariously vulgar that most of us cannot even imagine the strength needed simply to draw breath. In a place of no honor, and less humanity, then Commander McCain exemplified both. When, after years of such treatment, he was offered a release by his captors due to his father's position he chose to allow another to leave in his place saying, "We go out in the order we came in." Who among us could summon the fortitude required to make such a decision?
I did not think of either of these people as I left Penn's graduation ceremony. I did think, however, of the friend I was there to support. A friend of whom I am immensely proud. I pictured her sitting in the rain in her cap and gown, dreaming of a bright future, aglow with pride for her none too easy accomplishments. I thought of Ms Foster's so glibly delivered remarks about a situation she only knows via a, no doubt very nice, television. I then allowed my anger to burn at the thought of my friends and family fleeing headlong from the wrath of a killer storm. I remembered how powerless I felt at not being able to contact any of them for days and, in several cases, weeks. I remembered a 30 hour drive to the disaster area in a truck laden with bottled water, my then 11 month old daughter belted in the back. I remembered the emotion I felt when I hugged my brother who then thought he had lost everything. I remembered the look in the eyes of strangers who hugged me with thanks for the trip, and the woman who collapsed tearfully into my arms in a rest area in Tennessee.
It takes no courage to heckle and taunt from the safety of a crowd, nor is it in anyway gritty or heroic to address such statements from the refuge of a dais. It is, in fact, quite the opposite. Courageous, heroic, stalwart and brave are words that are all too often these days bandied about by those who trumpet positions that make them popular in coffee houses and dorm rooms. These words are used to describe actors who hold forth on complex geopolitical issues, while surrounded by sycophants and the adoring masses. True courage comes from making calm, nuanced arguments and statements when those around you will try to forcefully yell you down. True heroism comes from registering to vote in a district scarred by sectarian violence. True stalwartness comes from walking a street in that same sectarian, scarred district as a scared soldier thousands of miles from home because the mission demands it. True bravery comes from knowing that the way to effect change is to be the best person you can be, always, regardless of what those about you say. So, as I stomped out of the ceremony last week I did not hurl curses or rain scorn upon Ms Foster. In fact, my only comment came when a security guard asked me where I was going. "Where are you from?" I asked. "West Philly," came the prideful reply, followed by a somewhat scornful "Where you from?" Standing up a little straighter I looked him in the eye and simply said, "New Orleans." Keeping me in his eyeline, he turned slightly to look at Ms Foster, looked back at me, nodded at Foster and said, "She don't know nothin'." And, Madam Secretary and Senator, neither did those who offered taunts. We can only hope that somehow that changes.
Secretary of State Rice and Senator McCain were, no doubt, bothered by the actions to which they were subjected. I have been in the presence of both of them and have found them to be careful, considerate individuals. I am sure that they were both given pause by the ridiculous antics of those whom take themselves too seriously. I am certain, however, that neither lost any sleep over the unpleasant encounters. Secretary Rice grew up in a segregated South and was acquainted with the little girls incinerated in a Birmingham church bombing. That reprehensible act of racism formed and shaped her desire to achieve, and achieve she did. She is an accomplished pianist, a PhD holder and former Provost of Stanford, among other things. Her struggle to rise to her present position could not have been easy, and one can only imagine that the silly tactics she endured while speaking must have seemed trivial compared to a barefoot childhood spent in a pre-Civil Rights Alabama.
Senator McCain was subjected to imprisonment and torture in the vilest of places, the infamous Hanoi Hilton. Daily he, and his fellow POWs, withstood beatings and deprivations so callus and nefariously vulgar that most of us cannot even imagine the strength needed simply to draw breath. In a place of no honor, and less humanity, then Commander McCain exemplified both. When, after years of such treatment, he was offered a release by his captors due to his father's position he chose to allow another to leave in his place saying, "We go out in the order we came in." Who among us could summon the fortitude required to make such a decision?
I did not think of either of these people as I left Penn's graduation ceremony. I did think, however, of the friend I was there to support. A friend of whom I am immensely proud. I pictured her sitting in the rain in her cap and gown, dreaming of a bright future, aglow with pride for her none too easy accomplishments. I thought of Ms Foster's so glibly delivered remarks about a situation she only knows via a, no doubt very nice, television. I then allowed my anger to burn at the thought of my friends and family fleeing headlong from the wrath of a killer storm. I remembered how powerless I felt at not being able to contact any of them for days and, in several cases, weeks. I remembered a 30 hour drive to the disaster area in a truck laden with bottled water, my then 11 month old daughter belted in the back. I remembered the emotion I felt when I hugged my brother who then thought he had lost everything. I remembered the look in the eyes of strangers who hugged me with thanks for the trip, and the woman who collapsed tearfully into my arms in a rest area in Tennessee.
It takes no courage to heckle and taunt from the safety of a crowd, nor is it in anyway gritty or heroic to address such statements from the refuge of a dais. It is, in fact, quite the opposite. Courageous, heroic, stalwart and brave are words that are all too often these days bandied about by those who trumpet positions that make them popular in coffee houses and dorm rooms. These words are used to describe actors who hold forth on complex geopolitical issues, while surrounded by sycophants and the adoring masses. True courage comes from making calm, nuanced arguments and statements when those around you will try to forcefully yell you down. True heroism comes from registering to vote in a district scarred by sectarian violence. True stalwartness comes from walking a street in that same sectarian, scarred district as a scared soldier thousands of miles from home because the mission demands it. True bravery comes from knowing that the way to effect change is to be the best person you can be, always, regardless of what those about you say. So, as I stomped out of the ceremony last week I did not hurl curses or rain scorn upon Ms Foster. In fact, my only comment came when a security guard asked me where I was going. "Where are you from?" I asked. "West Philly," came the prideful reply, followed by a somewhat scornful "Where you from?" Standing up a little straighter I looked him in the eye and simply said, "New Orleans." Keeping me in his eyeline, he turned slightly to look at Ms Foster, looked back at me, nodded at Foster and said, "She don't know nothin'." And, Madam Secretary and Senator, neither did those who offered taunts. We can only hope that somehow that changes.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Hugs, Bugs and Tears
Dozens of people, from a bartender that had to stand on a beer cooler, to a female cop in uniform to a 60 something year old man in a truly appalling Hawaiian shirt, hugged me this past weekend. It happened in airports and at a festival, in bars and, in the case of the officer, in a trailer, which temporarily houses the Deputy Chief of the New Orleans Police Department. I received the same level of affection from friends, family and strangers alike. The only commonality we shared was birthplace. We were all native New Orleanians. In every case it was soothing and in every case I got weepy eyed.
I spent six days spanning the end of last week, into the beginning of this week in New Orleans. I hadn't been home since a few days after the levee broke. This was the first time in too long that I walked the streets of my youth and danced in the sun at Jazz Fest. Much has changed. Fully one third of the geography of New Orleans resembles a George Romero movie. No lights, not traffic, street or home breaks up the eerie stillness of empty streets. Houses stand vacant, as often as not with doors hanging open, windows broken and roofs in various stages of disarray. Not even a feral cat breaks the still of the night. With no electricity to be had in the hardest hit areas, mom and pop establishments and corporate megaliths like HomeDepot and WalMart remain vacant. I had to traverse this wasteland twice daily, once in the daylight and once in the dark of night. I still don't know which view effected me most adversely.
The heart of the city was up and running, fully open for business. Although, every single restaurant, bar and retail outlet had help wanted signs posted. It was a grim reminder that life was happening in the normal New Orleans way, but that there are not enough people to staff it adequately. The French Quarter was it's usual gaudily lit and garishly decorated self. The immediate neighborhoods rollicked with the Jazz Fest crowds, though spray-painted x's and o's on buildings proliferated. Even the most boisterous crowds reverently passed these markers of less lucky fates; some even furtively caressing them in homage. I admit to doing so myself on a number of occasions. No one had to explain the significance of the various markings, and no one asked.
The Uptown neighborhoods, the Irish Channel and the Garden District seemed resigned to life going on, at all costs. Local watering holes had music and people spilling into the street. A palpable vibrancy echoed everywhere. Trees, shrubs and bushes blossomed and you would be forgiven for forgetting, if only for a moment, that the Storm had occurred. The only sign of things amiss here was an armed sheriff on duty in an all night Rite-Aid, and the absence of the constant clickety-clack and iron bell of the St Charles Avenue street car. I didn't venture all the way up the line to the Carrollton neighborhood, I just couldn't take seeing one of my favorite areas different than I remembered it. That notion nearly kept me from enjoying the best night of the trip. A bar/restaurant I worked in for years had changed names and design and designation so I had decided not to go in. Then the band started to play and I was sucked in. Before I knew it I was dancing and singing with people from New Orleans, nine states and three countries. The band kept it up until way into the hours when civilized folk are supposed to be in bed. I left there, in sunglasses, happy and cheered that, although the place had changed, the spirit had not.
A friend I brought along with me was introduced to the glories of a crawfish boil at my brother's house. My brother's roof had only been recently repaired; half blew away in the storm. Everyone of his friend's in attendance had some storm damage, from the brother-in-law who lost it all, to the coworker who lost two cars. None of that was discussed more than perfunctorily though. On this particular Sunday it was all about seafood and sun, laughter and lagniappe, music and moxie. Mounds of steaming, bright red bugs, mixed with corn, potatoes, sausage and mushrooms, graced a newspaper covered table, while fried catfish and grilled tuna competed nearby. No one left hungry or anything other than happy, and my friend became part of the extended tribe.
The high water mark, if you will excuse the metaphor, came while I was standing in the infield of the New Orleans FairGrounds with Little Feat playing behind me. Talking to a man from Vermont, by way of California, awash in a sea of people from all over the world, I had an epiphany. At that moment, and for every moment from then on, there was no place in the world I would have rather been, and no place else that will ever, truly be home.
I spent six days spanning the end of last week, into the beginning of this week in New Orleans. I hadn't been home since a few days after the levee broke. This was the first time in too long that I walked the streets of my youth and danced in the sun at Jazz Fest. Much has changed. Fully one third of the geography of New Orleans resembles a George Romero movie. No lights, not traffic, street or home breaks up the eerie stillness of empty streets. Houses stand vacant, as often as not with doors hanging open, windows broken and roofs in various stages of disarray. Not even a feral cat breaks the still of the night. With no electricity to be had in the hardest hit areas, mom and pop establishments and corporate megaliths like HomeDepot and WalMart remain vacant. I had to traverse this wasteland twice daily, once in the daylight and once in the dark of night. I still don't know which view effected me most adversely.
The heart of the city was up and running, fully open for business. Although, every single restaurant, bar and retail outlet had help wanted signs posted. It was a grim reminder that life was happening in the normal New Orleans way, but that there are not enough people to staff it adequately. The French Quarter was it's usual gaudily lit and garishly decorated self. The immediate neighborhoods rollicked with the Jazz Fest crowds, though spray-painted x's and o's on buildings proliferated. Even the most boisterous crowds reverently passed these markers of less lucky fates; some even furtively caressing them in homage. I admit to doing so myself on a number of occasions. No one had to explain the significance of the various markings, and no one asked.
The Uptown neighborhoods, the Irish Channel and the Garden District seemed resigned to life going on, at all costs. Local watering holes had music and people spilling into the street. A palpable vibrancy echoed everywhere. Trees, shrubs and bushes blossomed and you would be forgiven for forgetting, if only for a moment, that the Storm had occurred. The only sign of things amiss here was an armed sheriff on duty in an all night Rite-Aid, and the absence of the constant clickety-clack and iron bell of the St Charles Avenue street car. I didn't venture all the way up the line to the Carrollton neighborhood, I just couldn't take seeing one of my favorite areas different than I remembered it. That notion nearly kept me from enjoying the best night of the trip. A bar/restaurant I worked in for years had changed names and design and designation so I had decided not to go in. Then the band started to play and I was sucked in. Before I knew it I was dancing and singing with people from New Orleans, nine states and three countries. The band kept it up until way into the hours when civilized folk are supposed to be in bed. I left there, in sunglasses, happy and cheered that, although the place had changed, the spirit had not.
A friend I brought along with me was introduced to the glories of a crawfish boil at my brother's house. My brother's roof had only been recently repaired; half blew away in the storm. Everyone of his friend's in attendance had some storm damage, from the brother-in-law who lost it all, to the coworker who lost two cars. None of that was discussed more than perfunctorily though. On this particular Sunday it was all about seafood and sun, laughter and lagniappe, music and moxie. Mounds of steaming, bright red bugs, mixed with corn, potatoes, sausage and mushrooms, graced a newspaper covered table, while fried catfish and grilled tuna competed nearby. No one left hungry or anything other than happy, and my friend became part of the extended tribe.
The high water mark, if you will excuse the metaphor, came while I was standing in the infield of the New Orleans FairGrounds with Little Feat playing behind me. Talking to a man from Vermont, by way of California, awash in a sea of people from all over the world, I had an epiphany. At that moment, and for every moment from then on, there was no place in the world I would have rather been, and no place else that will ever, truly be home.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Let's Roll
With screams of Allah Akbar! echoing about the cockpit United Flight 93 rolled over and nosed into the ground outside Shanksville, PA. Thus ended the final phase of a reprehensible plan of terror executed by Islamic fundametalists on 9/11. The reason this plane crashed into an empty field, instead of reaching it's intended target, was that ordinary American men and women, warned of that day's earlier attacks, fought back, tooth and nail, against trained militants bent on exacting their god's vengeance. The passengers , male and female, black and white, gay and straight, young and old proved that the events of Valley Forge, the Alamo, Pointe du Hoc and, most recently, SFC Paul Smith's posthumous Medal of Honor actions outside a dusty village in Iraq, were not aberrations, but rather the indomitable spirit of the average American when he, or she, is confronted with extraordinary events. Knowing that their odds of surviving any counter-attack against armed, trained terrorists were less than slim, they still chose to fight back, rather than go like lambs to the slaughter. In sometimes gruesome, gut wrenching detail the latest movie to weigh in on the day's events, United93, depicts the actions of these ordinary heroes.
United Flight 93 departed the Newark International airport on September 11, 2001 bound for San Francisco. A 40 minute delay on the tarmac probably saved target number 4 from the fate of the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. The best evidence points to The Capitol as the intended target. The delay gave the passengers valuable time to make phone calls to numerous friends and family. Those calls alerted them to the fate that awaited them, and in a moment of pure understanding they bonded together and said, "not on my watch." It is also important to mention that Flight 93 was one terrorist short of the other planes because of the quick thinking of an INS agent named Jose Melendez-Perez. Jose turned back what the 9/11 Commission concluded was the twentieth hijacker one month prior to the attacks. Would the outcome have been the same had the terrorists had the extra muscle? We'll never know thanks to Jose's quick, street smart approach to law enforcement. What we do know of the the event's that transpired aboard United 93 has been gleaned from family members, airline employees and the cockpit voice recorder.
All that said, United93 is a work of fiction: one based stringently upon the known facts, but a movie nonetheless. The director does an admirable job of filling in the blanks without resorting to political rhetoric, in either direction. Those deserving blame get it, and the passengers are seen as a group, rather than a collection of individuals. No one passenger is singled out for special attention, and no marquee stars grace the screen. What we see are the known facts of the struggle, with the best guesses available to fill in the blanks. Family members will recognize their own, and we all will recognize some, but what truly stands out is the spirit of the passengers. I was glued to the screen for the entire two hours. I never once consulted the time, nor did I eat popcorn or drink soda. Nor should you. I did not learn anything new, and yet, I still inwardly cheered for these brave Americans. I went in knowing the outcome and came out a little taller. I entered anxious, and left saddened, enraged and proud.
The events portrayed in United93 did not just happen to the passengers and crew, they happened to all of us. I have seen the two earlier movies that depict the things that occurred on Flight 93. I have been to the makeshift memorial in Shanksville. I have read every credible source about that day, and still I left moved in a way I've never experienced before. I was so moved that, immediately after leaving the theater, I had a tattoo permanently inked into my bicep with Todd Beamer's last words imposed above the sentence: For the heroes of United Flight 93. No higher praise can I give. Whatever your political stripe, whatever you think about the events of that day, go see this movie, shed a few tears, utter a few curses, and, when you leave the theater, stand up a little taller. Do not ponder the issues that divide us these days, because on that plane, on that day, there were no republicans and no democrats. There were only Americans, and they have proven that the spirit that defines us as a people, still burns inside us all.
United Flight 93 departed the Newark International airport on September 11, 2001 bound for San Francisco. A 40 minute delay on the tarmac probably saved target number 4 from the fate of the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. The best evidence points to The Capitol as the intended target. The delay gave the passengers valuable time to make phone calls to numerous friends and family. Those calls alerted them to the fate that awaited them, and in a moment of pure understanding they bonded together and said, "not on my watch." It is also important to mention that Flight 93 was one terrorist short of the other planes because of the quick thinking of an INS agent named Jose Melendez-Perez. Jose turned back what the 9/11 Commission concluded was the twentieth hijacker one month prior to the attacks. Would the outcome have been the same had the terrorists had the extra muscle? We'll never know thanks to Jose's quick, street smart approach to law enforcement. What we do know of the the event's that transpired aboard United 93 has been gleaned from family members, airline employees and the cockpit voice recorder.
All that said, United93 is a work of fiction: one based stringently upon the known facts, but a movie nonetheless. The director does an admirable job of filling in the blanks without resorting to political rhetoric, in either direction. Those deserving blame get it, and the passengers are seen as a group, rather than a collection of individuals. No one passenger is singled out for special attention, and no marquee stars grace the screen. What we see are the known facts of the struggle, with the best guesses available to fill in the blanks. Family members will recognize their own, and we all will recognize some, but what truly stands out is the spirit of the passengers. I was glued to the screen for the entire two hours. I never once consulted the time, nor did I eat popcorn or drink soda. Nor should you. I did not learn anything new, and yet, I still inwardly cheered for these brave Americans. I went in knowing the outcome and came out a little taller. I entered anxious, and left saddened, enraged and proud.
The events portrayed in United93 did not just happen to the passengers and crew, they happened to all of us. I have seen the two earlier movies that depict the things that occurred on Flight 93. I have been to the makeshift memorial in Shanksville. I have read every credible source about that day, and still I left moved in a way I've never experienced before. I was so moved that, immediately after leaving the theater, I had a tattoo permanently inked into my bicep with Todd Beamer's last words imposed above the sentence: For the heroes of United Flight 93. No higher praise can I give. Whatever your political stripe, whatever you think about the events of that day, go see this movie, shed a few tears, utter a few curses, and, when you leave the theater, stand up a little taller. Do not ponder the issues that divide us these days, because on that plane, on that day, there were no republicans and no democrats. There were only Americans, and they have proven that the spirit that defines us as a people, still burns inside us all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
