Just in case the review committee found them offensive or rough around the edges, I've kept these essays in my files with the intention to share them with you if I were selected as a recipient of the 101st ABN Association Scholarship. I was notified today, so here they are. Connor was also selected as a recipient. Perhaps if you bug him enough, he'll post his essays as well.
What it Means to be an American
Perhaps the farther we get from our founding fathers, the less impressed we are with our designation as Americans. We’ve all seen on the news how citizens of other countries criticize our decisions and actions causing some Americans to become ashamed of our title. But how can we sum up what it means to be an American?
The most poignant vignette of what it means was illustrated throughout the day of September 11, 2001 and the months that followed. To describe what was taken would take more than 550 words. Our sense of security was shattered. More than 3000 lives ripped away. And somewhere in the rubble surfaced the very definition of America.
It was in the words of Todd Beamer aboard Flight 93 as it was headed to destroy what is believed to have been The White House. But Todd said, “Let’s Roll.” We wish the story could have been happier for those aboard flight 93. We wish her passengers could have known the impact those words would have on America over the next several days, months, years.
It was in the words of then-president George W. Bush as he declared, “I hear you!” to the rescue workers desperately trying to find survivors in the rubble. It is embodied in the chants of “USA! USA!” that followed. It echoes in the stunning revelation of a Super Bowl commentator, “It’s like they blasted us back to the way we’re supposed to be” In response to the high level of sportsmanlike conduct among the players of the opposing teams as well as the fans.
America is and has always been a land of diversity. In the weeks that followed September 11, we struggled to make sense of what happened and how to respond. What to think of our neighbors and with whom we were even at war? Our essence surfaced in questions about how to treat those of Muslim faith, when would we finally know the number of lives we lost, would our country ever be the same again? And to answer the last question—NO! We will never be the same again. Something precious was taken that day, but I pray that as time moves on we can learn to dig back into the rubble and find the torn and battered flag to carry into the Olympic arena with pride!
Because being an American means having a dream! It means having a voice and using it without fear of inhumane consequences. It means learning from the past and striving toward the future. It means nothing is impossible! And we are reminded of this each and every time the doors of Hangar 3 at Fort Campbell Army Air Field are forced open and small fraction of America’s military marches through them to the roar of a crowd.
This is what it really means to be an American. It means to know the cost of the freedom we have because we have paid part of the price. It means to understand that some will never get to march through those doors because they gave all they had in battle. It means that we will always have to be vigilant and willing and grateful for those who fight because it is only in freedom that commands like “Let’s Roll!” can even be given.
Patriotism
As the mourners sat quietly in the pew for my step mother’s funeral in October of 2005, the preacher let his emotions settle down before speaking his next words. He was laying to rest a woman who had dedicated her life for the past 10 years to sending encouragement to our troops overseas—and to battling breast cancer. When she was unable to fill boxes and mail them herself, she would send family members with an address and wish list from one of her “boys” or “girls.”
She may not have been able to get out of bed, but there was no way a Soldier, or Sailor, or Airman, or Marine would go without a care package from her. And as long as people were willing to give her names, she was willing to have boxes filled and mailed to make the long time away from home more bearable.
My father was her sole caregiver in her final days. Their living room looked like a warehouse: filled with metal shelves that had been donated by others who wanted to help, piled with toiletries, candy, coffee, and other treats to make a service member’s day when mail call came.
“When?” The pastor wanted to know. “When did it ever become wrong to be a patriot?” He let the words hang in the air in that church in Corvallis, OR. He must have remembered Joanie waving signs on the street supporting our troops with hands that could barely hold them up or petitioning city hall for a veterans’ memorial and leaving in time for her chemotherapy treatment. Perhaps this is why my father, a Viet Nam era veteran himself, did not hesitate to have her buried in the Veterans’ Cemetery in the plot he had earned for the service he gave.
