The Summer of '67

Rear left to right: Grady (my Dad), Uncle Franklin, Uncle Wilburn, Uncle Hilyard
Front row left to right: Uncle Jerry, Grandpa Jimmy, Uncle J.B.


So last night checking my Facebook, my cousin Melinda mentioned a show with Billy Crystal where he talks about his Dad and lessons learned over the years. His father died when he was 15. Her Dad, Mark, was 17 when his Dad (and my Uncle Wilburn) died. Instantly I was transported back in time, even more when I tuned into the show she mentioned.

There are times in our lives when it seems everything swirls out of control. It's like the universe is realigning, and that includes the person you are as well. My year of reckoning was '67. On July 9th, I celebrated my 20th birthday. That very next day we would get the call. There had been a terrible accident. My Uncle Wilburn had been killed, My cousin Mark was in Parkland Hospital with a closed injury, and the other family members were scattered about town in other hospitals.Immediately we left for Dallas. After the funeral, we returned to Tyler for a couple of days before me heading back out for Irving, spending as much time keeping an eye on Mark. He had a closed head injury, and any fall could be deadly.

Before going on with this story, I've an observation to make. amidst all the chaos, some of the most mundane details were stored in my old and often fading memory cells. What we talked about around Aunt Louise's kitchen table. My cousin Gary was released from the Marines and together we would talk into the wee hours waiting for our next shift at the hospital. The memories of this time are as if it all happened yesterday despite the fact almost 47 years has elapsed.

So this all went on until July 18th. Then Dad called. My Aunt Vi on Mom's side had a coronary and had died. I hopped a bus back to Tyler and we set out for Arkansas where her funeral was held. In a family filled with preachers her brother in law delivered the eulogy and she was laid to rest in a small country cemetery, then back to the old family homestead in the back woods. Wow, two family members so close together. Back to Tyler we went, where I spent a couple of days helping Dad build a corral.

I should say the corral from hell. Working in that hot East Texas sun, we pounded away putting it all together. Towards the end of that last day, both our tempers were worn thin. Daddy apparently asked me to hand him something and I didn't hear him and then he exploded. He was yelling and screaming and I was yelling and screaming back and both of us were so furious it's a miracle we didn't come to blows over it all.

Now I used to talk about how Daddy didn't know how to use the word "sorry." In fairness at that part of my life, neither did I. So we didn't talk that evening, and the next morning I headed out for Irving once again. I got into the routine of all night sojourns at the hospital, sitting in the kitchen at Aunt Louise's chatting and visiting. Daddy called once, but the conversation was strained. Oh how I wish I had not been so proud and stubborn.

On August 1st, 3 weeks since my Uncle had been killed, Mom called. She was in tears, sobbing and crying and it was hard to understand her. Daddy had been back out with an old War Buddy visiting to the farm and he'd done some more work on the corral. This morning, he seemed totally exhausted. He collapsed to the floor in front of Momma and my brother Marlowe where he died. She had called the doctor and he had rushed over to the house, but it was too late.

I gathered my clothes, and Gary drove me back to Tyler. We made the trip in record time, and immediately I was busy helping make the funeral arrangements, picking a casket etc. Life from this day forward would be very different.

I did not realize at the time yet how much that fight had affected me with Daddy. I drank a lot which numbed some of the pain. But somewhere in all this I had developed a nervous twitch in one hand and it was there for some years. Many years later, through a program of sobriety, I sat down and began talking to an empty chair, where sat my imagery of Daddy. I talked about that day. About all I had done wrong that day. Then I asked him to forgive me. From that day on, the hand never shook again.

The lessons from all that are pretty clear. We never know when a loved one or friend will go away. Take the time to tell them you love them, and don't let arguments have time to fester into resentments. Funny thing: One person I was pissed of with was Daddy for dying before we could make amends. Pretty lame eh? But my hunch is talking with others that it's not that uncommon. Oh and relish the moments you have with family. Most of my family doesn't communicate with me any more because of my "difference." A few do and I love each one of you so. Still I've got memories. A game of dominos, or five card draw, or Monopoly, mixed liberally with plans to save the world, laughter, arguments about what cards are wild, adventures in the great outdoors,telling our stories as only a family of storytellers can, each forming a memory mosaic that encircles the heart.

A Southern Girl Confronts Her Racist Past

I grew up in East Texas, in the age of segregation. Less than a hundred years out from the Civil War, it was still being fought by some. My home town was Tyler, and my high school was named Robert E. Lee. Back then we were called the Robert E. Lee Rebels. Our team's mascot was the Rebel Guard in full Confederate Uniform and a cannon, with a giant Confederate flag that covered a large swath of the football field. The band played Dixie as the team ran onto the field. In our segregated oblivion, where African Americans lived in a small part of town called Tiger Square with their own high school, we lived very separate lives from each other. In such an environment it is so easy to tell lies of the other and believe them. When I graduated from high school, I was in the hospital from an accident. The principal and the head of the school board came to my hospital room and presented me a diploma, while a rebel flag was draped across my pillow. I was in traction and could not get up. The press were there to record the moment for posterity.

I was pretty ignorant in those days. I bought the lies that the war between the states was over state's rights, acknowledging only partly that the rights they wanted to protect was the right to hold human beings in servitude. I was taught to be proud of my ancestors who fought in that ugly war. They were I was told standing on principle and it was right for them to be honored thusly. Furthermore there was a complete society surrounding me to support that illusion.

Years and time have changed that vision. I sensed pretty early that the separate but equal meme was not what it said. It was abundantly clear that schools in north Tyler were funded no where like the ones I had attended. In college I met my first African Americans outside of a maid who came in once a week to help out, which all southerners seemed to have done, paying pennies on the dollar for housework. I even participated in a couple of civil rights protests in those days. Some years after I left high school, Tyler desegregated and was sued and the team name changed to the Red Raiders. I sat in that school board meeting where the name was changed, and listened to the folks whining about it. They cried out about tradition like it was the end of the world. But also represented were African American students to tell how the name and the flag affected them every day. Perhaps for the first time, I listened. It was the beginning of a long journey to unlearn the crap we learned growing up in the Jim Crow South. It's been a long journey filled with missteps and wrong turns. I was fortunate to pick a job where the upper level management and many of the workers were African American, and well represented by other racial minorities as well. On the job I was the minority, and if I got it wrong, I got called on it. You know, privilege is blinding, and sometimes you need somebody to call you out on it to realize what's happening. Especially in recent years, I've actively been working to confront that racism that permeates our society north and south, and especially the privilege so many are still blinded by. It's been said and I think I agree that many are blinded by their own whiteness, a luxury most people of color cannot claim.

There's a story I've told before and it's worth telling again. It's how the veil lifted from my eyes most dramatically around matters of privilege.Some years back I began my transition from male to female. It's no easy journey, even in a big city like Houston. On my job, no one had ever transitioned before. My boss was a man who did not hold women in high esteem. Coming from Vietnam, he often lamented coming to this country because he could no longer control his wife. My transition was authorized by the regional head, so he had no say in that. However one staff member had huge issues with what I was doing, and spent her spare time trash talking me at every point. Furthermore, she was responsible for clerical functions related to my job, and she actively set out to sabotage me. Every day I would come to work to her hateful glare, and my boss was content to let her do it. When I complained told me it was my fault for not working it out with her. How do you work it out with somebody who hates your very existence. At one point my boss screamed at me not to bother him again about it. In that environment, a woman in another unit in the building came to talk with me. She was African American, and she told me, "I don't understand why you have to do what you are doing, but I do recognize discrimination when I see it, and I can't sit still and let it happen." She worked with me and we organized a body of co-workers ready to stand behind me, all of them signing a petition. I went back to my boss, and when he started to yell, I interrupted him and explained we had a set of work rules for all employees and this worker was in violation of those work rules, and if he did not take action, I was going to sue her and I was going to sue him as well. Not for EEOC which at that time did not protect me, but for disparate treatment. (one of the people on the team of supporters, made up mostly of African American women, worked for personnel). He talked with her and the problem ended. But also, for the first time, I saw the world through different eyes. It was I without the privilege, and I literally flashed back over the years when I had seen similar events take place and I had no clue what was going on. I wonder to myself, if I can have this sort of an epiphany, can others as well? Racism was constructed in the early 1600's. Can it be deconstructed?

In recent years I've seen an ugliness sweeping the nation. Perhaps it stems from a changing population and the fear that comes from those changes. Politicians have certainly played an active role in perpetuating the politics of fear and division. It culminated with flying a Confederate flag outside this African American president's home. I thought back to that day, and those students, in a room filled mostly with white faces, and an all white school board, and reflected again more strongly on how painful this all must have been for them. Some elements of this society still long for a utopia that never was in the form of the old south. Most southerners did not own slaves, yet the war which destroyed so much was for those who did. There was nothing ideal of holding human beings in servitude, and those ancestors of mine who owned slaves should have been ashamed and those who did not should not have been so stupid. It is time for the great lie around race to be exposed once and for all. It is time for white people to realize our whiteness and what is bestowed by that whiteness, then work to dismantle a system where that can be so. It is time to leave behind the civil war once and for all, and become the people we can become. It's time for other white people like me to confront our racist past, and transform a system dependent upon a permanent underclass based upon color. My high school graduation was in 1965. The way I viewed my world then was a mistake. I've got to own where I got it wrong, then move forward. That flag outside the White House, flown by the way, by a Texan, is not a source of pride, but of shame. It's no longer 1965. No one benefits from repeating the same old justifications from 1865. The construct of racism (in full swing by 1665) must disappear completely, and I think the time for bringing about that change is now!

We began our human journey as one. Every single human being derives genetically from one specific man and one specific woman found in Africa. That means nothing less than we are every one of us related to each other. I like to think of us as brothers and sisters under the skin. We are family. May the healing begin. It will not be perfectly done, but with open hearts and ears with which to listen, I think it can be done.

Tolerance, Inclusion, and Unitarian Universalist Evangelism

There are those days. I'm fairly confident we all have them. Nothing seems to be working right and what should be easy is complicated. Perhaps lack of sleep or stress or a host of other things ensures a less than stellar day. Over a lifetime, I've noticed that when the body/mind are run down and vulnerable, it's as if there was a silent signal going to the world saying simply "Kick me while I'm down!" Okay, yesterday was such a day for me. I'd not slept the night before so thank heavens the service was amazing as was the workshop afterwards. Towards the end however, two separate incidents occurred. Not huge earth-shattering events, nor intentional in retrospect. But from my perspective with a mind screaming for sleep, it seemed huge at the time. Let me explain what happened and why after a good night's sleep, I think two tiny events could point to something larger worth mentioning.

First circumstance, I see a friend who I know has worked really hard losing a lot of weight. I'm happy for him. So I tell him he's looking really good. Someone present immediately chimes in and reminds him he's always looked good, and follows with something about size normative assumptions. Okay, look. I'm a big woman. No wait. I'm a BIG woman. I'm married to a woman who is even larger and size doesn't even enter into how we evaluate the other. I know what she is talking about because I've been judged based on my size a thousand times or more. In this case however my friend was looking good because he had worked hard and was happy with himself. I'd have loved to discuss context in all this, but she asks him to come with her, they walked off and nothing gets said. I'm just shaking my head.

So I'm heading for the elevator and a couple are there as well. One looks at my church and mentions my shirt which says "Practice Tolerance. The word tolerance is written with symbols of various religions, spiritual paths etc. The other of the two then announces loudly that he can't stand the word "tolerance." I mention clumsily that having experienced intolerance often (goes with the turf as a transgender gay woman) I'd welcome some of it. He insists no, we need inclusion! as the door opens and he walks off. Okay, there is a conversation to be had about this. I think in matters such as religion, tolerance IS the appropriate word. I can be tolerant of another's spiritual path without any need to include that in my own. I'd venture to say that if one of my evangelist aunts or uncles were to come to preach at First Universalist, there would NOT be a resounding applause at the end of the sermon. There is a place for toleration and a place for inclusion. If we confuse those two, would we not be setting ourselves up for unwanted conflict? Time to go to the dictionary. Mine says this:

tolerance noun The ability or willingness to tolerate something, in particular the existence of opinions or behavior that one does not necessarily agree with, i.e. an advocate for religious tolerance

inclusion noun The action or state of being included within a group or structure.

Now granted, if the group being considered is the family of humanity, then inclusion might be appropriate. But with the implied group being various religious journeys, the word would in fact be tolerance.

Yes, these were silly little incidents that in my place of vulnerability got blown out of proportion. The messages I perceived were to be very careful what you say lest you cross some line of unacceptability, and please, can you please wear something else that doesn't offend so. Practice Tolerance? Seriously? Feelings are funny things and with the clarity of a good night's sleep I could see how the message had gotten twisted in my mind. The backdrop of all this was a workshop on race and privilege, as we prepare to carry the message to other white people about the nature of race and privilege.

Which brings me to what this post is all about. Not only is what we say important, but how we say it is also crucial. When we carry the message to others, whether about impressions of others according to size, a conversation on toleration vs inclusion, the existence and nature of race and privilege, the environment or any of a litany of liberal causes for which we realize as the underpinnings of our faith, if the message is that of a critical parent, the evangelist who is intolerant of any other way, then the likely result is not to change that person but to make them build a wall around their position. A message given in love rather than judgement is usually received in the spirit of love. Yesterday there were two real possibilities for viable conversation. Instead, I felt judged and convicted. If I felt that way as a long term member of the church, how much more might that person who is visiting or the person to whom we are carrying our message. We often view the "Pharisees" of the Bible as those who intolerant souls in religion speaking a Gospel devoid of love and caring but rather absorbed by intransigent dogma and intolerance. I would venture to say that among us liberals, myself included, there's always the danger of doing the same. Recently in the campaign to bring about marriage equality, our message was well received. In great part this was not because of telling the other side they were wrong, but of showing the human side of why we were right on this issue. We told our own stories rather than trying to change the stories of others. Our good news led others to follow that message. To me, it's the difference between a witness and a rant.

Oddly, I'm glad of what happened yesterday. It brought home to me the importance of looking closely at my own message to others, as well as confronting this nagging concern I've felt for a long time regarding the dogma too often seen from those of us we call liberal as well. May I go forth and carry the good news, but as one sharing my story in a way that illustrates why a better way is possible. "Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me."

Contemplating Age and Change

Outside a small layer of snow covers the ground. The leaves of fall have given way to the monochrome sameness of winter. A sort of quiet has descended, replacing the daily thunder of leaf blowers and lawn mowers.

In many ways it's all a metaphor for my own life as well. Age 65 marks the true beginning of old age. Please do not misunderstand. I embrace my age as an old friend. I've lots of scars and entire pieces of the heart missing to show for having survived until this leg of the journey of a lifetime. Nothing I know could ever make me want to return to the uncertain mercurial days of my youth. Along the way, keys to open the doors of love, compassion, understanding were placed in my hands despite my best efforts to embrace the comforting arms of stupidity. These are gifts that can only come with age and experience. For them I'm grateful.

Yet there are issues appearing in my life that bring me no small amount of concern. They are not matters of depression, though sometimes for a short time I'll embrace depression to feel them more fully. More so however, I think I'm searching for new keys to find my way through uncharted territory. A new uncertainty if you please to replace the old. It means change however. Change is never easy, even if a constant companion.

Let me explain. Some critical things have changed for me. I've always been able to express myself. Best of course in writing, and that has not changed one iota. But also in small groups or among friends. In my work years, I often was asked to lead special communities. That is because I did it very well. I could encourage lots of input, and coordinate with the group to come up with a mutual decision, the key to making a committee work in my opinion. I could state what it was I needed to say, and people understood. In talking with friends, I could state ideas with all ramifications clearly.

Here something has changed and I'm not completely sure why. Recently I've sat in on two different groups. When I'd go to state my opinion, I'd begin, but leave out entire thoughts essential to understanding what I was trying to say. The message was jumbled and incomplete,and it showed in the eyes of the listeners too polite to say anything.

Other changes have come as well. I used to be a social butterfly of sorts. Now I rarely get out. Some of this is health, some transportation, some a total lack of those really intimate friendships, people I could call up any time or we would go out and have a glass of soda over conversation. Oh I still have some of those conversations from old friends back in Houston, either on phone or the internet, but those are poor second choices over face to face time. My sweetie is here of course, but she is not a big conversationalist, more akin to a contemplative sort. I say this not as criticism for her for it is her nature and I fell in love for her as EXACTLY the person she is. Rather I say it as one more example of a growing isolation that is coming with age.

Then there is the loss that never goes away. A daughter I've not heard from in years. A grandson I've never seen. A family who does not welcome me home. It is what it is, but that does not take away the hurt any. At holidays, once vibrant gatherings of a huge family is replaced with moments shared only by Robin and myself. Shunning is a cruel process, and I would pray no other person ever have to endure this.

So how do I change this dynamic? I feel my own self confidence slipping and that only hinders whatever I do. I'm forcing myself out the doors, if only to get on the bus and go somewhere, or make a meeting or whatever. I can't force the kind of intimacy I mentioned in friendships earlier, but I can be available if it should happen. I've not worked it all out yet. But it is clear change is needed, and all I need to do is figure out how it will take form. If my verbal communications are slipping, at least my written ones still seem to be effective. Now begins my search for answers. I still live with hope, but I pray honestly so. It's not my nature to stick my head in a hole and pretend all is well. I can count my blessings and lick my wounds at the same time. Alone or in company, this is my one life. I plan to keep it full for whatever time I have left on this planet. It is after all an amazing, spectacular, but also bitter sweet gift. Now to seek my solutions. Blessings be.

My Twin Companions: Cynicism and Hope

Honestly I did not think I would be posting on this topic today. Fate however intervened. The other day I expressed on a private list how I felt a bit cynical about the chances of people rising up and taking back this country from the politicians who respond to those with money rather than those with citizenship. Soon after several people mentioned the need to take action. Of course I agree. But as I thought about it more deeply, I came to realize that within me resides both hope and cynicism each perfectly valid feelings. I needed to explain what that meant to me and how I respond to these opposing feelings. What follows is my response to that private group. Several responded positively to it, so it seemed appropriate to post it as a blog entry also. Without further ado, here's what I posted:

I should allow that while I have my moments (days, weeks, years) steeped in cynicism on certain matters, I have come to understand that cynicism must be tempered with hope. Fortunately I've lived in an age when hope has trumped the cynic right there in front of my own eyes. For example, I look to African Americans early on in the Civil Rights struggle. Growing up in the Jim Crow south, the early efforts to change the status quo seemed terribly difficult if not impossible. As people were beaten,killed, set on by dogs, the only thing keeping them going was hope. I marveled at the strength of their hope, and it became mine as well. Either yesterday or the day before, the bombing anniversary that killed 4 children in that southern church in Birmingham marked I think the shift of public opinion in that day of struggle even among the complacent in the south and around the country. Hope despite the pragmatism of despair trumped, at terrible cost, and change came.

Growing up, there was a colloquialism I heard often among local African Americans. It was a simple thing really. If someone asked for help, or someone was going to help another, the word help was replaced by the word hope. "I'll hope you do that." "Can I hope you?" Such a simple thing and yet even then I recognized the power in what they were doing.

For that matter, who back in the late sixties thought even for a moment that within our lifetimes we'd be having an open debate on whether we could get married and the President of the United States would be on our side? Hope was triumphant beyond our dreams.

So yeah, there are matters I'm cynical about right now. Like Americans standing up to change the current status quo. Still alongside the cynic resides hope. So I talk to people, march in marches, and ALWAYS vote my values. No one can predict that magical moment when despair and cynicism gives way to hope's realization. But I want to be there and be a part of it when it does. In the meantime we need to hope each other as we await the day of victory. May it come soon.

What Makes a Faith Community Indispensable?

So, in his blog at

http://wellswedidnotdig.blogspot.com/2012/09/what-makes-church-indispensable.html

Rev. Justin Schroeder at First Universalist Church (my congregation) asked for input on the following question:

"So what makes a church indispensable and relevant? What are your thoughts/experiences? What makes a church truly indispensable to the neighborhood and community, as well as those who attend?"

I don't pretend to have all the answers, but I do have some thoughts along these lines, including a past membership in another congregation when I was still living in Houston who asked similar questions. In committee we discussed these matters openly, and perhaps some of what we came up with might be of importance.

The church to which I belonged was Resurrection Metropolitan Community Church, an outreach church for lesbian, bisexual, gay, and transgender people as well as our allies. Our membership and the people to whom we served in the community were about as diverse as one can get. We came from all ethnic, racial, religious, economic backgrounds and it could be a real challenge. Here are some of the points we came up with in finding our answers:

1. Our church should reflect the community in which we live. I'm not really talking about creed or doctrine here so much, but rather the cultural elements of our community. In a city with a large number of Latinos, we included services in Spanish. Many of our members came from a past in African American churches. It's amazing how much music means to people who attend church. Our congregation numbering around 800 (and growing quickly) at the time had several choirs. We had one choir that sang the traditional choral music many UU's would be most comfortable with. Another was based upon traditional African American choral music. STill another sang the gospel sounds familiar to those who grew up in a Charismatic tradition. And yes, traditional Mexican hymns were common as well. The services varied. The primary service was more akin to the Episcopal while other services offered more of an African American flavor, and on Friday evenings a charismatic service was available as well. Now a UU church would not make necessarily the same choices, but there could be a variety of cultural options that reflects the community in which they live.

2. The leadership within the church should also reflect that community. Just as the programming should.

3. To be relevant in a larger community, congregants must be open to stepping outside their comfort zone. In preparation for such changes, there needs to be culturally relevant training on an ongoing basis. New members as part of the course to be admitted would cover areas of sensitivity in diversity. We also trained around how to proactively intervene when disagreement or unintentional offense should take place. If a congregation for instance is only okay with traditional services like they might do in Boston and are not willing to expand their perspective, then they will always be of interest primarily to people just like them.

4. Community outreach must be relevant. A wonderful example was I think the march we joined with others a couple weeks ago against the voter id amendment. When you take a stand for issues the community holds dear, you make yourself relevant in that community. One way back in Houston we did so as well, was by partnering with other churches, particularly in poor areas. We did not limit our alliance to a monetary one however, but engaged in social activities together. Nothing breaks down barriers so well as does breaking bread together. I think relevance means having ordinary folks in the neighborhood recognize you and see you as an ally and a friend. Hey, there's Jessica! She was there for us when this or that circumstance arose. Her and a bunch of other folks from that First Universalist Church. That sort of thing doesn't occur accidentally. Intentional outreach must occur.

I'm just thinking out loud here. Clearly doctrinally we might have substantial differences from many of the other churches in our community. But say this or that church, or a local community group was having a fundraiser, or a tornado or lightning struck their church or offices etc. The recent issues over at Simpson Shelter come to mind. Stepping up as a church concerned about our neighbors could mean so much. How about at the neighborhood festivals we see every spring and summer. Participating in those as a church could mean a lot. When our citizens are gunned down by gang violence or devastated by disaster, a church coordinated response could mean so much.

I think to be relevant, we've got to be involved. Not to raise our membership numbers though that would happen I think. People miss you when they know you. You become indispensable when they rely upon you.

I would share one other personal experience that drives home that point. As many know, I was seen by the community as a gay male before I transitioned to become female (but still gay, long story there.) When I began transition, there was a world of distance between the tg community and the lesbian and gay community. AT one point, a vote was taken by the lesbian and gay political caucus in Houston to include transgender in their charter. It was defeated. A few years later, a similar vote was also defeated. At that time, a decision was made among a number of transgender women and men in the Houston area. We began joining various groups as volunteers. In my case I offered a lesbian film night through the community center and was an active participant in Lesbians in Business. All the community groups saw trans volunteers working amongst them. A lesbian woman running for city counsel was swamped with trans volunteers in her campaign. She won that race and was the first elected official to ever even utter the term transgender in a public venue, her acceptance speech. I know because I was there. She went on, and now Annise Parker is the mayor of the city and is now known by many nationally. The point is,our work was not in vain. Another vote was held by the political caucus, and trans inclusion was overwhelmingly ratified. We had made ourselves indispensable and relevant.

My congregation will make its own plan for relevance I'm quite certain. Here are my thoughts on what we need to do to be more so, for I think we are already relevant in many ways. My ideas can join others, for as always, it is in our diversity where our strength lies.

On This Anniversary of the 9-11 Attacks: Some Thoughts

Here we are again, this being the 11th anniversary of the day Islamic Fanatics flew jet airliners filled with people into the Twin Towers in New York and the Pentagon in Washington D.C. I was wrestling with illness at the time, and so had slept in that morning. Robin called me and told me to turn on the tv right away. I tuned in just in time to see the second jet fly into the second of the two twin towers. Like Americans everywhere, I felt horror at what I was seeing. As I watched another very real dread swept over me. How would we respond towards these attacks? I could see nothing good in our foreseeable future.

AS would be expected, Americans came together. Blood donations were at an all time high. We were one people during that time in a way we rarely really are. But something else happened that day, and that something threatens the very fabric of our democracy. I've come to realize in the intervening 11 years that besides the tragic loss of life, we lost much more besides. American optimism was replaced by American fear. Not so much at first. But daily the politicians turned out, warning of the terrorists in our midst, preaching fear at every turn. Legislation was enacted in the name of safety that undermined our democratic ideals. Laws like the Patriot Act. They are still with us today. Surveillance went way beyond any semblance of constitutional compliance, and when caught and called on it, they just rewrote the laws to permit it, using the war powers exemption and getting court sanction to do so.

We invaded Afghanistan. Now clearly whether one agrees with the invasion, their compliance in the efforts of Bin Ladin could reasonably be argued. But then the drums began beating for war with Iraq, who had NOTHING to do with the attacks. On went the propaganda, of weapons of mass destruction, of a non-existent Al Queda link to Sadaam. War was declared, but not against any individual country or persons, but against an idea. With a war on terrorism, we could be assured that the war would never end, because terrorism has always been with us. Every day if I turn on tv, I'm bombarded with new threats to fear around the world. If you looked in the dictionary for "over-reaction" I think there should be a picture of the U.S. post 9-11.

History teaches me that Caesar wanted to invade Gaul but the senate was reluctant to give him permission. At that point they were still a Republic. But he used the name of a much feared barbarian and told the people that if he did not go after him, then Rome could well be sacked. In the name of fear they allowed him to do that, and upon his return, began unraveling the republic in favor of the empire. Confidence and optimism was replaced by fear, and the decline could begin.

So it is that today I mourn for a number of things. I lament the loss of each precious life that was taken that day. I really am glad they got Bin Ladin and the folks associated with that heinous crime. I mourn the thousands of lives lost on both sides in Afghanistan, Iraq, and various other covert activities around the world in this nebulous "war on terror." I mourn the loss of freedom. The vary idea that so many cities now have drones spying on their citizens is an outrage to me, and I would assume anyone who loves the promise of the American dream. Bin Ladin said he wanted to drain the American resources and undermine our democratic ideals, using fear as the tactic through his terrorist attacks. We have indeed drained our resources critically, and freedom has been the casualty of our response. It does not have to be this way. But first we must set aside the fear. Mourning our dead is appropriate. Continuing these bloody conflicts and eroding our democracy is not appropriate. Using the harsher language of my youth, I think we need to grow a backbone and kick some politician butt to change the paradigm. I know we can never get back the lives who were lost. But given the will, we can sure take back our government. They need to be serving us, not spying on us.


"O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!"

- excerpt poem by Langston Hughes