boxingfanmanic

These thoughts have been stirring in my hear for some time, and on this 20th anniversary of 9/11, I could think of no better time to share them -- for whatever they're worth.

I remember how we all felt on 9/11, and in its aftermath. Americans were united, in a way I couldn't remember since I was quite small. Flags sprouted on every available surface. White, Black, Brown: Christian, Jew, Muslim. Republican: Democrat. None of these labels mattered -- the only identifier anyone cared about was American.

In the intervening 20 years, we've done more harm to this country than any outsider ever could. We've brought shame upon ourselves -- witness the rioting of last summer, and the abhorrent way we've ended our involvement in Afghanistan. See the people still sitting in planes on the runways of Afghanistan, unable to return to our country, or to come here as our thanks for their help in our efforts there. Watch the attacks of various groups of Americans on other groups -- a young White man shooting up a Black church, a gunman unloading on a group of Jews leaving services at their temple, a bad apple police officer murdering a Black man in our streets. Our bureaucrats lying to us continuously, as if America were their own banana republic, and we just their subjects, rather than their bosses.

For better or worse, I still love this country. It's not perfect -- and no, it didn't even begin perfectly -- but I defy anyone to show me a better place. However imperfect, these United States were the first place that Joe Six-Pack was considered just as good as Mr. Got Rocks, and had an equal voice in whatever the country decided to become. A Black man couldn't, and that was wrong, but it was wrong thinking that had existed throughout the world for aeons, and I can't blame the founders for being men of their times.

America was the first place where anyone -- anyone! -- could become whatever their God-given abilities and their hard work and perseverance could achieve. The Great Melting Pot meant that the best of the rest of the world arrived in America -- those determined to achieve better for themselves and their families. Each new group of arrivals faced the prejudices endemic to all outsiders, but pushed ever forward, and we intermarried, those strong Americans, and we worked, and we achieved. I'm proud of that, and proud and grateful to have been born American.

Recently, I heard one wag postulate that Americans were addicted to being offended. As I considered "cultural appropriation" (guess there goes taco night), announcements about what pronoun to use for each individual ("they?" really? I mean, if you don't know how many you are, maybe it's time for analysis), American imperialism (where oh where are our lovely colonies supplying all of our tax money so we don't have to), a singular lovely thought began to emerge.

What if they all just got together in church basements and supported each other anonymously, leaving the rest of us the hell alone? :-)

A new widow sits at her kitchen table, sipping champagne and staring at the box containing her husband's ashes.

She toasts him, and then says, "Remember that fur coat you always promised me? I'm wearing it, and it's lovely."

She has another glass of champagne, then says, "Oh, and Fred! Remember that tour of European capitals that you were always going to take me on? Well, I booked it this morning, and I can't wait."

As she finishes her drink, she looks over lovingly at the box and puckers her lips.

"And Fred, remember that b****** I always promised you? Well, here it comes!"

As we all look forward to big barbecues this weekend, take a moment to remember the fallen.

My husband, who is substantially older than me, served in Vietnam. The first KIA his unit took was his 2nd Lieutenant. (The life expectancy of USMC 2nd Lieutenants in Vietnam was, on average, two to five days.) For years, he thought about contacting this man's family to express his condolences on the loss of someone he considered a true leader. About 30 years ago, he was near the man's hometown while traveling through a nearby airport. He picked up the phone at the airport, began dialing, then hung up, because what could he say, after all?

The issue hung in his mind for another 15 years, then I suggested that he research the man's family to see if he could find any relatives and try again. He located a brother, Tommy, and placed a call.

Over the years, this Tommy had received a number of calls about his brother, all of which turned out to be placed by people who never served, didn't know his brother, and for whatever reason called anyway. He'd become expert at ferreting out the liars, so he asked my husband how his brother looked when he got to San Diego to meet up with his unit. My husband told Tommy his brother had a black eye, which was true. Tommy asked how he got it. My husband said, "From you" -- also true. There was no bad blood between the brothers -- they'd just been in a barroom brawl with a bunch of other Marines the night before. They spoke for about an hour, and my husband got the chance to tell Tommy what a terrific leader his brother had been.

Some weeks later, we traveled to Connecticut to meet Tommy and his sons. His sons had heard about their uncle all their lives, but were born long after the war. My husband told Tommy and his sons all of the stories he had about Richie, their uncle.

A few months later, we traveled to the Marine Corps museum in Virginia to meet up with Tommy again, but this time were joined by two other grunts from their squad, and by their sergeant. Everyone brought pictures, NVA flags, and everything else they could think of to share with Tommy and his sons. None of these men had seen one another in 50 years, and their wives and I watched as they began talking excitedly, laughing and smiling, as if they had seen one another the day before. I turned to one of the other wives and said, "We could run through here naked right now, and they wouldn't even notice!"

A few years ago, we went back to Connecticut to visit Tommy, and he took us to his brother's grave. The full weight of the cost of war fell on me as I subtracted the year of his birth from his death -- he was 23. And at 23, he'd already given more to his country than most of us ever will.

As we celebrate this year's Memorial Day, please remember the Richies. Remember the men who pledged "our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor" to found this new nation in 1776 -- most of whom died penniless. Remember those who've made that ultimate sacrifice ever since then. It's the least we can do.

Like everyone else in America, I've watched the George Floyd verdict, along with the burning and looting of our cities. I've heard the theory that America was really founded in 1619, and that slavery is a stain our history back not 150 years, but more than 400. I've seen reports that our schools are asking students as young as kindergarteners to understand that their "whiteness" makes them guilty of all of the above.

I'm troubled by much of this intellectually. More pressingly, I'm frightened for our future emotionally.

My niece had a baby in August of last year. That baby is a boy with blonde hair and blue eyes. Is he guilty? Merely by virtue of his gender and his color? And of what, exactly? A religious concept that I never understood -- the idea of "original sin" -- seems to have a parallel here. I'm terrified for this child who in my eyes is guilty of nothing, other than sometimes crying too much. And by the way -- this child's great-great grandfather was half black. Does that matter, in some incomprehensible way? Should he be shamed by sins not committed in his lifetime?

In my opinion (and yes, I know what they're like), America needs to take a much more thoughtful, less histrionic, approach to our race issues. Perhaps then we can return to the goals of one of our greatest citizens, Martin Luther King, Jr., and all of God's children may be judged not by the color of their skins, but the contents of their characters.