Why I'm still here...

[madamesilverspurs]

I had to go rooting around in the DU archives to find this, it's one of my earliest posts on DU. Apologies for its length, but I needed every syllable:



THAT WAS THEN

Back in 2002, as we neared the first anniversary of 9-11, I
wrote the following:

It wasn't supposed to be anything extraordinary. We'd
driven out onto the plains of eastern Colorado to a small
town celebrating the kind of annual event that only small
towns can provide; large cities are way too organized to do
this kind of thing. Anyway, the attraction had been the
entertainment, a band we enjoy. There were, maybe, 300
people, mostly residents of the tiny municipality and
families from the surrounding farms.

We got there early enough to set up our lawn chairs on
the football field at the school. The air carried the
distinct aroma of burning hickory, airborne evidence of a
country barbecue. A profusion of kids ran everywhere,
greeting friends and playing, comfortable in the security of
a community that watches them carefully and protects them
from harm.

This part of Colorado, by the way, was settled by people
of Irish and German and Hispanic and assorted Nordic stock,
and many of the family farms have been held for over a
hundred years. And this land is still home to Sioux and
Cheyenne. The mix was comfortably evident in the crowd.
These are sturdy and stubborn folk, who refuse to yield to
either encroaching agri-business or drought. They cling with
determined tenacity to the substance of shared beliefs.

So, the band played and folks danced. It was a good
time, a wistful end to summer. When the band had played
their final number, one of the locals approached the
microphone and began to sing. In beautiful, clear tones she
began, "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of
the Lord..." When she finished she asked us to join her
in singing "God Bless America." There may have been
one or two who made it all the way through without choking up.
Then the field lights were turned off and we were asked to
direct our attention to the north end of the field. On the
opening strains of the "Star Spangled Banner" a
spotlight illuminated a fire truck. There was a collective
intake of breath, for on top of the truck stood three firemen
in full gear; they were holding a length of pipe, in the
middle of which fluttered a tattered flag. We'd all seen the
photo. Everyone got it. Hands held over hearts occasionally
moved to the eyes.

Now, there's really nothing quite like a fireworks show
viewed through tears. Even when we began to chuckle at the
children's delighted, squealing response to the display, the
poignancy remained. It's what we talked about as we folded
our chairs and headed for home. For me, the evening had been
eloquent testimony for that which elevates us in the community
of nations. In spite of our many flaws and foibles, we do
still have the rather unique distinction of having a national
character built upon God-given principles of family and
fellowship, even love. In a world increasingly savaged by
cruelty and hate, we know where we stand. Extraordinary.


But that was then.

By the second anniversary of 9-11 I was beginning to think I
needed to get my ears checked and my eyes examined. I simply
could not, would not believe the things I was hearing and
reading. In the space of mere months, those who had joined
together in common grief and determined hope were now
standing on opposite sides of a terrible abyss.

And where had that chasm come from? You could tell by
looking at it that it wasn't a naturally occurring feature of
our civil landscape; it was too stark, to devoid of anything
but shadows. And, most weirdly, those usually positioned for
speaking truth found themselves silenced when standing too
close to it, which might actually explain why it had been
situated precisely in the place where we used to meet for
civil conversation.

Brothers, sisters, friends, neighbors, people we had
known forever stood on opposite sides of the unnatural
divide. On this side, questions were asked when error was
identified and dangers were visible. But something happened
to our words when we called out in warning to those on the
other side, as if those words had been consumed by the air
above the chasm. Thus, those on the other side heard things
we had never uttered, and they responded in angry
accusations. When we offered a better direction, we were
told that we had no plan except to embolden the enemy. When
we asked for an accounting of our squandered treasure and
trust, we were informed that if those were diminished - IF? -
it was our doing and none of theirs.

But. While they were not hearing us, we were busy
hearing each other. We kept talking and asking and looking
and trying, the hope in me connecting with the memory of hope
in you. We began to emerge from our numbed disbelief and
began the work of reclaiming who we are. With a small step
here and a larger one there we began to make progress.
Whether we intended it or not, some of the folks across the
divide began to take notice. We found that while extending
one hand to hold on to the person laboring beside us we could
still reach out in fellowship with the other. And what do you
know? Every now and then somebody across the way would take a
quick glance over their shoulder, take a deep breath and leap
across to grasp that hand.

To be sure, we still have a tremendous amount of work
ahead of us. We dare not pretend otherwise. After all, 30%
of us are still languishing in the darkness. And the pit is
still there, but it's not quite as scary as it was at first.
We know, now, that it was deliberately created for the sole
purpose of dividing us from each other, with the goal being
that the pain of that rending would make us blind to the
theft and attempted destruction of our strengths. But
whoever created that monstrosity failed to take into account
our stubborn ability to tell the difference between an
external threat and a far deadlier danger posed by an inside
job.

Now, many of those brothers and sisters and friends and
neighbors and people we've known forever have started talking
to us again. Or at least stopped shouting. There's not a lot
of direct eye contact just yet, and there's still a bit of
mumbling under the breath. We still wince when we hear the
ever strident shrieks and howls from the receding peripheries
of the darkest part over there. At this point, it is clearly
evident that they are choosing to maintain the distance
between us, clinging to the splintering remnant of their
sinister ambition. And we're under no illusion that they're
anywhere near ready to quit.

Happily, practical awareness is starting to replace the
constant drumbeat of paralyzing fear. Civil conversation is
on the brink of making a comeback, albeit much to the
consternation of those who have endeavored to dominate all
conversation for so long. Those who have been silent are
tentatively exercising their voices once again. In
reclaiming the pride that is inherently the birthright of all
of us we are rejecting the ugly labels and misshapen
definitions that have been applied to us. And, while we're
at it, we're taking back OUR flag, restoring it to its place
as the vibrant standard of a people noble in our entirety.

It's time. The job is ready to be done. By working
hard and working together we can wrestle our national promise
away from those who would turn it to their own personal gain.
We can put it back in its rightful place among the gleaming
accomplishments of human history. With calloused and
blistered hands we can retrieve from the edge of the dung
heap that precious gift that is so, so much more than
"just a damn piece of paper." And with its
cherished safety again assured we will reclaim our dignity
and honor as a nation, as we once again set our feet on the
path to a promise that is, ever and always, quite
extraordinary.

---

[LiberalAndProud]

1. Thank you for this reprise, madamesilverspurs.

"We kept talking and asking and looking
and trying, the hope in me connecting with the memory of hope
in you."

So lovely, all of it.

[Cha]

2. And, I read every syllable ..

and we did do just what your words inspired in us all whether we read those particular ones or not.

My parents and their parents grew up on the Eastern Plains of Colorado and I went to high school there before we all took off for Arizona after my graduation.

Interesting to me that there was that kind of a celebration out there in the 21st Century and you described the feeling mesmerizingly well.