Insignificance

This morning as I came through the house in the early daylight I saw a flag at the curb and momentarily wondered—it’s a Wednesday, not a Monday, not a holiday that I could think of. And the flag looked a bit incongruous between two garbage carts. But then I remembered—it’s 9/11. Perhaps the second—or third—day of infamy in our national history, on somewhat of a par with Pearl Harbor and JFK’s assassination. At least those are the moments that stand out in my living memory—and I’m not sure I remember Pearl Harbor, just hearing where I was when the new came.

Like most Americans I remember where I was and what I was doing on September 11, 2001—sitting at the same desk I am now. I’d stayed home from work because a workman (worker man one of my granddaughters used to say) was coming to refinish the bathroom sink (bad idea—just buy a new sink). I was working but had the TODAY show on and remember clearly the first announcement that a plane had flown into of the World Trade Towers. At first, everyone assumed it was a small private plane, seriously off course. The awful truth of course soon was evident. I kept running into the bathroom to update the worker man, who was strangely unmoved by it (he was a taciturn and not very pleasant individual who left a mess behind him). At the end of the morning, I tore myself from the TV, dressed and went to work. My colleague called in to say he couldn’t leave his TV.

The next few days were a blur of unimaginable tragedy and horror, sadness so great I hate to think about it but like our nation I can’t let myself forget—and the flag in front of my house is a poignant reminder.

Today I sat in the same spot, with the TODAY show on until I got serious about working. I wrote almost two thousand words on my work-in-progress—a commendable accomplishment for an author. But somehow it struck me as insignificant to work on a cozy mystery when all around me—especially on Facebook—were strong reminders of what this day means to us as a nation and, tragically, to so many people as individuals who lost loved ones or their health or whose lives were forever changed.

Does it put the Syrian crisis into perspective? I don’t know. I’ve been struggling to find some link, some parallel for the two but so far couldn’t do it. I may have an “Aha” moment later, but for now I’m just relieved that diplomacy has a chance. It’s like the song, “Give peace a chance.”

This afternoon when Jacob came home from school I intended to ask if they talked about 9/11 at school, but on the way up the drive he grabbed the flag pole and said, “Don’t ask me, Juju. I know what this is for. My dad told me on the way to school this morning.” They didn’t talk about it at school, which seemed sad to me.

Today ended as well as any such day can. Elizabeth, Betty and I took Jacob to The Star (the restaurant Betty and her husband own) and had a good dinner. Jacob loves the grilled cheese there. On the way home, we drove through downtown and Jacob marveled at the twinkly lights in the trees. Then, straight ahead, we saw a tall building with the top decorated in red, white and blue…and we were reminded once again of the significance of the day. And I thought about the insignificance of much of what we daily do, in the face of what happened twelve years ago.

Facebook and Syria

I've thought about this a long time. There are so many things on the Web about Syria and our future course of action, that I hesitate to put my opinion out there. And yet I feel compelled to share my confused thoughts.

 

Like many Americans, I get news, laughs, friendship, and questionable information from Facebook. I check it every morning. Also like most Americans, Syria looms on my mind, and I’m conflicted. Today, I saw two graphic postings on Facebook that struck me: the first was a political lampoon: “Last week Fox News demanded President Obama get congressional approval to bomb Syria; this week they’re outraged that he asked for congressional approval.” The second, with a clear picture of destruction reminded us: “Pearl Harbor: Not an act of war. Just a random air strike. No boots on the ground.”

I’m on the side of peace, of talking things out, negotiating. I am opposed to war and killing, and I’m baffled by the dictum of death as punishment for killing. I’m like the little boy—Facebook again—who said, “You’re telling me your country is going to bomb Syria because Syria bombed Syria?” I don’t think the U.S. has to be the policeman of the world, and I fear being drawn into another Vietnam, Iraq or Afghanistan. I trust President Obama when he says “no boots on the ground,” but I’m not sure that makes a difference. I’d like to know that only military installations or WMP storehouses will be targeted. More than enough men, women and children have died in Syria already, and I shudder at the thought of more deaths on the U.S. collective conscience.

I’m no military strategist, but it strikes me as a little ludicrous that Congress is publicly debating what to do—while the world watches. Haven’t we lost the surprise factor? Did Japan have a public debate before Pearl Harbor? Was John McCain really playing games on his phone during the debate yesterday (that’s another of those Facebook posts you never know whether to trust or not). Facebook again: “We got to be the only country that sends out ‘save the date’ notices for an attack.”

On the other hand, I can’t bear to look at the pictures of all those bodies in Syria and think of the monstrous intent behind such an act. If we are to have a civilized world—and we all live in this world where isolationism is no longer possible—we cannot allow such heinous attacks to continue unchecked. Humanity compels us to take action (not going to get into comparing this to the non-existent WMD in Iraq). Would an attack change things? I don’t know. Can we just wave our hand and say, “Oh, too bad”? I don’t think so.

I’m certainly glad I don’t wear the President’s shoes? Have you noticed he’s aging?

 

Are We at War?

I've heard the words "We are at war" too many times in my lifetime, and last Friday I heard them in my head when word came that French planes and then ours were over Libya. I was too little to remember Pearl Harbor but I've heard the story many times of how I was playing on the kitchen floor while my mom cooked dinner, and Dad stuck his head in to say, "We are at war."
In 1950 cousins were in town for a family wedding and it had rained heavily. One cousin and I had been plopping around in the mud in the park across the street (at twelve, we were too old to do that, but I remember it distinctly) when Dad came home and said, "We are at war." The Korean War.
I don't remember the start of the Vietnam war as clearly--it seemed to creep up on us as an ever-increasing threat and soon I, newly maried and a mother, was worrying about my husband being drafted. An osteopathic physician, he would not have gone in as a doc at that time but as a private--and he'd have made a lousy soldier (he'll admit that himself).
I remember the start of the Afghan war. I had just gotten in my car after church on a beautiful Sunday morning. Turned on the radio and there it was, and I thought it was so incongruous on the holy day of the week when everything around me was so pretty. And then of course it was that over-televised conquest and premature victory declaration in Iraq. When others were glued to it, I turned off the TV. And we all know it kept getting worse and worse.
I'm of a mixed mind about Libya, fully sympathizing with the people who want reform and recognizing that Khadafi  (however you spell his name) is a cruel dictator; I also recognize that if the UN approves, the US must support allies and go along. I wish it could be our mission to stop pain, suffering and cruelty throughout the world; I don't know that it is or should be our mission to democratize the Middle East where culture and customs are so different. It reminds me of the misdirected efforts of missionaries to convert Native Americans and natives of Hawaii in the 19th century.
When I think on it, there haven't been many long periods in my lifetime when this country wasn't at war somewhere in the world--maybe ten years at the most. This point was driven home tonight when I attended the Annual Friends of the TCU Library Banquet where the TCU Texas Book Award went to Sam Gwynne for Empire of the Summer Moon, fiction about the Comanches in their last years of glory, during and just after the Civil War. The books has gotten excellent reviews, and the author was an entertaining speaker, but the book, like the real life events it depicts, is about war and violence and torture.
I'm not sure I'm completely a pacifist; nor am I sure I sanction intervention. But I know I hate war and violence, and I hope we'll be spared another prolonged conflict in Libya. I'll be relieved if we don't put troops on the ground. How many wars can we fight at once?