Category Archives: American Patriotism
From MM: http://maddmedic.wordpress.com/
The Nuge on Obama:
Just last month, he called the president a “subhuman mongrel” in an interview with Guns.com.
“I have obviously failed to galvanize and prod, if not shame enough Americans to be ever vigilant not to let a Chicago communist-raised, communist-educated, communist-nurtured subhuman mongrel like the acorn community organizer gangster Barack Hussein Obama to weasel his way into the top office of authority in the United States of America.”
Tea Party audience cheers as Navy SEAL Benjamin Smith calls Obama a ‘Muslim traitor” and desecrates a quran by slamming it onto the floor
Former Navy SEAL Benjamin Smith was speaking the truth at the South Carolina Tea Party Coalition Convention, January 19, 2014 when he called Barack Hussein Obama a Communist and a Muslim traitor who is linked to the Muslim Brotherhood and al-Qaeda (al-Qaeda being the military arm of the Brotherhood).
MR (h/t FredericF) Smith spoke of Obama and his anti-American views and pro-Islamic leanings, asking why Obama finds the need to bow to Arab royalty and suggests it has something to do with two most “holy” mosques in the world located in their countries. He continues to question why we would shell out millions of dollars to Muslims that in, another current war, are viewed as the enemy.
I know that the intent is to change the system by way of making all things typically American become out-dated, or, in some cases, evil. Being white: bad; being of color; good. There was a time when Martin Luther King, Jr. sought only to be judged as whites were judged and I understood that and supported it then and continue to support it today. America is about individuals with the same opportunities as all other individuals. This is what I believed in as an American. I was proud of the melting pot: how we, as a nation, were able to embrace anyone with a great idea, or a good work ethic and let them earn the spoils without prejudice or slight of hand.
But something happened in the liberal mindset that sought the destruction of America by means of destroying Americans: individuals themselves. This happened not long ago with Phil Robertson, who seems to be one of those Americans who comes out on top, no matter what he does. A scholarship quarterback who chose duck hunting over the NFL. How often does that happen? How often does it happen that that individual becomes better known that almost any football player in America?
The point is simply this: somehow we allowed the insane to rule the asylum. Until very recently, anyone who said anything out of color about the tiniest minority group wound up apologizing to America on national television and feigning contriteness as best they could. No matter what anyone thinks of Duck Dynasty or Phil Robertson, it is a win for America that they were not able to destroy him for his beliefs.
This is the hypocrisy of the left, it is diversity as they say diversity is and if one is not on-board with that narrow definition of diversity they are destroyed by the media through association via whomever it is that gives them money, i.e., producers, employers or the public at large, because to associate with them is to endorse their views. But, they would not have that turned around; they would not like for me to refuse to associate with them based on their views, or habits, or lifestyles. No, that would be judgmental, narrow-minded and wrong.
Phil Robertson epitomizes us all: rural Americans, God-fearing Americans, typical Americans, somewhat uneducated, somewhat backward, like all of us and I mean every single one no matter how sophisticated on might believe themself to be.
That is the part the liberals can’t stand. They believe themselves above everyone else: they want to make laws for us dimwits; they want to pressure us into sophistication; they want to change us into something we are not, something that will accept their depravity and cowardice. Most of all they don’t want to go abroad and be compared to men like Phil Robertson. Until they get rid of him and anyone like him they will not be satisfied. The trouble is their narrow-minded, backward view of America is given to them from outsiders and makes them feel like hicks and fools. Because they feel that way and deep down they know it is true they must destroy truth.
This is the liberal mind at work: if the truth is undesirable, change the definition of truth; if the Constitution is an obstacle, change the definition of words until it means the opposite. On and on it goes, but until we, Americans, decide to stand up for our beliefs, we are nothing more than bystanders to our own destruction. We must have the courage to say we are Christians and will not be shamed out of our beliefs or made to be contrite over them. I believe in the word of God. Deal with it.
Remember December 7th 1941 – The Attack on Pearl Harbor. A day That Must Live on in Our Collective Memory.
Image from AD: http://americandigest.org/
Image from MM: http://maddmedic.wordpress.com/
Image from MM: http://maddmedic.wordpress.com/
Image from MM: http://maddmedic.wordpress.com/
The top hat worn by Abraham Lincoln to Fordâs Theatre on April 14th, 1865- approximately one week after Lee surrendered to Grant in Appomattox Courthouse thus ending the war.
For Lincoln: Born This Day in 1809 – “His Truth is Marching On”
To be born an American, or to become an American, you need only know and understand four things that we have written down. Our founding document, The Declaration of Independence. Our agreement with ourselves and our government that specifies and protects the self-evident truths and freedoms of the Declaration, The Constitution. Our national motto: “In God we trust.” And our credo, “The Gettysburg Address.”
A credo is a short and straightforward statement of beliefs or principles. A credo has no fixed length but lies somewhere between a motto and a manifesto. The most widely known traditional credo would be “The Apostles Creed.”
Although it is not often thought of as such, Lincoln’s brief oration at Gettysburg at noon on that long ago November day is, in all its elements, our national credo. Although shaped as prose fit to be cut, as it has been, into stone, The Gettysburg Address is also a lyrical poem as polished as a crystal prism. Through it, all that we had been up until that day midway through our most terrible conflict passed and was transformed into the multifaceted nation we have become today. And it is still not finished with us, nor we with it.
The Address shows us first how we came into existence as “the last best hope of Earth.” It echoes the opening refrain of the Declaration’s notes of liberty and equality. It reminds us of our original goals of “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness;” goals to which our founding fathers pledged their “lives, fortunes, and sacred honor.” It implies that all generations of Americans must, if the nation is to endure, pledge the same.
Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
The poem then brings the credo into the present. Not just the present moment of November 19, 1863, but all the present moments that came after right up to this very day in November in 2010. Then the argument between Americans had become so pitched that civil war between the contending factions had torn the nation asunder. We have come close to similar passes since then several times, but have — remembering “the better angels of our nature” — always turned aside and found a way to move forward together as a great nation of a greater people. Now may be another such moment; another such turning. Lincoln could not know our moment, but in his credo he indicates his belief that the test of his moment will be passed and that the nation will long endure. He also knows the cost of that test for those who “gave their lives that that nation might live.”
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
From that moment in that long ago November, Lincoln’s credo casts a cold eye on the ultimate costs of liberty whenever men determine that liberty, for themselves and their posterity, is worth whatever sacrifice is asked of them. Out of that vision he tells us what the duty of all future generations of Americans must be.
In the closing of the Address, Lincoln is at once a President, a poet, a seer, and an American. As such, he closes the credo to which all future Americans must cleave. The credo requires us to be constantly renewing the work of liberty. The credo tells us that we — if we are to bear true faith and allegiance to all those who have built, stone by stone, poem by poem, word by word, and life by life, the city on the hill that is America — must always be dedicated to the unfinished work that is always before us. The credo requires that we “highly resolve” to leave our nation in a greater state of liberty than we found it. And to leave our Union entire and intact as “the last best hope of Earth.”
The most successful revolution in history was not the Russian Revolution or the Chinese Revolution. It was the American Revolution. It began more than two centuries ago and it continues to this day. It is not over yet. This is its credo.
But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.
Dateline: Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. November 19, 1863
The only confirmed photo of Abraham Lincoln (circled) at Gettysburg, taken about noon, just after Lincoln arrived and some three hours before the speech. To Lincoln’s right is his bodyguard, Ward Hill Lamon.
The Tea Party is not a “Party” – It is the Spirit and Fire that Resides in All American Patriots. It is the Power of the Individual. We the People.
Who are we?
Who are we who are called ‘the TEA Party’, ‘Hobbits’, ‘Visigoths’, ‘Domestic Terrorists’, etc.?
How would you describe yourself and the rest of us who are fighting to restore our freedoms and liberties?
Before we can explain who we are and why we are battling the forces of Leftism, we have to clearly understand the who, the why, and the what, and be able to clearly relate that understanding to those who have not joined us in the fight — who are still salvageable from the clutches of the Nihilist maw.
In a post on Friday, Jeff Goldstein provides an explanation of the who and the why and the what, and also the power that fuels us.
He links back to a post he composed in 2011 where he remarked:
But what they don’t seem to understand about the TEA Party is that it isn’t an actual party. Instead, it is a mindset, a counter-revolutionary impulse to the counter-revolutionary coup of Big Centralized Government against the founding and framing of this country.
They can’t kill the TEA Party. Because the TEA Party can disband only as a descriptor. The attitude and beliefs that give it its most visible shapes, from time to time — be it as the revolutionaries who broke from a King, or as the Reagan Revolution, or as teh TEA Party — cannot be disgraced or marginalized. Because the attitude and beliefs that give rise to iterations like the TEA Party are the attitudes and beliefs that in a very real sense are this country and, insofar as we really dobelieve in the words of our own Declaration of Independence, are the beliefs and attitudes shared by all men and women who wish to break free of tyranny and live their lives not as subjects, but rather under a set of natural rights that governments exist solely to protect.
The TEA Party the establishment ruling class is hoping to marginalize and destroy here is a kind of mist: it can disperse and then reappear in new forms, under new names and descriptions, but it is always the same, and it always has the same goals and desires. It is, in that sense, the very atmosphere of this country.
And here is Jeff from Friday:
So bring it on. All the demonization you heap on us matters not. We are not a traditional party. We are an idea — the idea, the Founding idea as laid out in the Declaration and later codified in the Constitution’s ratification. And so we will always be around, in the air and on the ground, visible only when we decide to coalesce into the next movement.
To some very nuanced insiders, this kind of hokey patriotism seems so antiquated and gauche. Which is what happens when you live your life without principles: you wind up sneering at everyone else’s to prove to yourself that your shameless expedience and intellectual cowardice is really something more sophisticated than that, an illusion you maintain by finding a consensus among the like minded cowards and gleeful capitulators you rely on to save you from the self-loathing your really should, were you honest, be feeling every time you lace up one of your ridiculous overpriced wingtips.
Damn well put.
The Spirit that animated The Founding Fathers is the one that is within us. We may not understand all of it’s nuances and details, but it permeates every part of our souls. We have freely opened up our hearts and minds to this Spirit of Freedom and Liberty. We are it and it is us.
This Spirit is a grand gift we have been given and we have come, especially in the last half-decade, to give it the appreciation it’s due. But, more importantly, we have come to realize that possessing this gift bestows on us a sacred duty, as well. And that duty is to actively engage in the battle to keep the idea, Jeff so eloquently wrote about, alive.
This duty is even more important than winning the battle to save The United States, for as long as the Idea lives in the soul of one human being, there is hope for the world because the sacred idea survives.
We are not and never were believers in some utopian shining city on a hill, some kind of Heaven On Earth.
Rather, we are the Keepers of The Flame Of Freedom And Liberty, the Guardians of Good against the forces of Evil in the world.
We are The Camp Of The Saints who guard The Beloved City.
We are a minority, we are subject to endless calumnies, we are the abnormal in a Society that has embraced the degraded, the depraved, and the perverse.
Up is down in this Nihilistic Age; down is up in this Culture Of Death.
And we are the OUTLAWS.
From Bob At TCOTS: http://thecampofthesaints.org/
My Friend Barbara
Shwenkfelder Library Collection
There was no television, no rock music, and no culture of youth worship in America when my friend Barbara was born in a small town in southwestern Indiana in 1935. The town was surrounded by farms. Barbara used to visit her grandparents in a white frame house with a large porch on one of those farms. There was a well for water and a drinking cup. She would help her grandmother gather eggs in the chicken house. Her grandmother wore a long-sleeved dress, a bonnet with a big brim, and shoes with two-inch heels. Barbara remembers playing dominoes. The grown-ups would play card games like Euchre. Around the player piano, the family would sing along to songs like “My Darling Clementine” and “She’ll be Coming ‘Round the Mountain.”
Barbara lived as a girl and young lady in the small town of Odon, Indiana, where the main street was called Main Street. There were no stoplights. It was the kind of town where everyone knew everyone, doors were left unlocked, and doctors made house calls. Amish buggies were a common sight. There was a bank, a department store, a poultry house, a dress shop, grocery stores, a furniture store, a clothing company, and lumber companies. Barbara’s father was a barber and her mother was a beautician.
“Odon is a thriving little town situated in the center of a splendid agricultural country….”, Goodspeed’s History of Daviess County, Indiana reported in 1886. “The people of Odon are religiously inclined, go to church regularly, and are very much opposed to saloons…” The same was true half a century later: Barbara remembers three churches and just one tavern in Odon in the 1940s.
On some nights in her childhood Barbara remembers hearing dance music on radio from the Trianon Ballroom in Chicago.
Barbara walked to and from school. She did not care for history or mathematics, but she enjoyed learning geography and taking part in spelling bees. She and her childhood friends improvised games and found delight in nature. She had a lemonade stand, played with her kitten “Fuzzy,” and was the pitcher on a softball team. They often rode their bicycles to Walnut Hill Cemetery, just north of town. It was the family custom to visit the gravesites on Decoration Day and preserve the memory of those who have died.
The Rexall drug store on Main Street occupies a place in Barbara’s memory with its Captain Marvel comic books, soda fountain, booths, and candy selections like red-hots, gumballs, and orange slices. Another childhood pleasure that Barbara remembers was a cold bottle of Nehi orange soda on a summer day.
Outside the drug store was the “Liar’s Bench” where men would sit and smoke cigarettes, exchange tall tales, and tease the girls who walked by. “From earliest times, men in American small towns and rural communities have gathered at crossroads, stores, and taverns to swap yarns and tell tales,” the WPA booklet Hoosier Tall Stories reported in 1937. “So common is this yarn-swapping among Hoosiers that a time-honored institution exists from which the yarns are started on their rounds. This institution is called variously the ‘Lazy’ or ‘Liar’s Bench’, the ‘Community Bench’, and the ‘Cracker Barrel’…” (See this plaque on a Liar’s Bench in another southern Indiana town. And here is a photo of men sitting on a Liar’s Bench in Waveland, Indiana, in the early 1940s.)
Barbara’s father loved horses and presented horse shows in a neighboring town. His friends and family enjoyed many hearty laughs when one of those horse shows was described in a newspaper as a “hore show.”
On weekends, Barbara and her parents would ride in her father’s 1941 Chevy to a movie theater in a nearby town. She enjoyed the movies of Shirley Temple and Tarzan, Westerns, and musicals featuring the Wilde Twins, Lee and Lyn. Popcorn was available for a dime. In the days afterwards, Barbara and her friends would improvise games in which they would become Tarzan or Jane. Their imaginations never suffered. There was no television with an endless parade of pictures and packaged entertainment to neutralize their imagination.
As a young lady, Barbara took part in fashion shows at the “Old Settlers” festival in the city park. It was an annual event that featured bingo games, music, rides for children, and socializing. (It is still held every August.)
Many people go through life with a certain incapacity to appreciate its beauty and variety. Barbara is the opposite: She absorbs and appreciates its beauty and wonders more deeply than most people, ranging from the first time she heard the hoot of an owl, to the variety of fruits and vegetables grown in and around Odon, to the type and colors of flowers in neighbors’ gardens, to the simple pleasure of riding a bicycle built for two on Mackinac Island.
Barbara has been a homemaker and housewife, a mother, a beautician, and a saleslady in women’s apparel and kitchen décor. She and her first husband drove west to California along the old, two-lane Route 66. She has lived in places as far apart as Ohio, Washington, D.C., Chicago, Kansas City, and Coronado Island, California. She has outlived two husbands.
It was entirely by chance that Barbara and I met. A small-town girl and a big-city boy found themselves in agreement one evening when they met in a hallway and expressed the judgment that people are moving way too fast in modern life. Joining the rat race was an idea that never appealed to her or to me. Since then we have spent many hours talking long into the night, reminiscing about her childhood in that small town, the happy times and the sad times, her extended family and friends, and her adventures in life and love. We talked of all that and of her love of food and cooking, of grits and red eye gravy, of her travels through many small towns, of mountain roads in Colorado, earthquakes in Indiana, and snowstorms in D.C., and of the beauty of the night sky, the planet Venus at dusk, and the pointer stars in Ursa Major forming a path to the North Star (Polaris) and the brilliant orange-red giant star Arcturus.
When our conversation is interrupted by the noise of people speeding along the road in their trendy automobiles or motorcycles, I say to Barbara, “They’re in a big hurry.” And with the wisdom of someone who has seen and heard it all, she adds, “…and going nowhere”. She knows it and I know it, but it will take them years to figure that out.
Barbara grew up in a place and time when children could still have a decent childhood. She was surrounded by friends, family, and extended family. Such people now fill her memories. They measured their lives by the old-fashioned standards of responsibility, hard work, self-reliance, honor, decency, and neighborliness, not by how fast they could move, how many toys they could cram into their lives, or by imagining that the perennial moral problems in life are going to be solved by improved technology.
“Multi-tasking” is a trendy idea by which modern Americans imagine they are superior to previous generations. Barbara thinks “multi-tasking” is nonsense, which of course it is.
Barbara’s life spans two very different eras in American culture, from years when Americans were disciplined, confident, proud, and had a wealth of common sense – to today, when they are undisciplined, ill-mannered, adolescent-witted, and do not have the sense God gave to horses. In the absence of material excess, Americans once had substantial moral sense. In the midst of material excess, they now have minimal or no moral sense.
Every life represents a story. Painting pictures with words and memories is a talent that is fast disappearing in a nation whose people are now drunk on speed, manufactured entertainment, and technological gadgets. In the years when Barbara was growing up, philosopher Richard Weaver saw that coming and wrote about it in his essays and books like Ideas Have Consequences. Conversation is one casualty of those things. But Barbara has that talent. She loves conversation and has a remarkable memory, so remarkable that I told her she could have been a spy. She graduated from high school at a time when teaching was both competent and effective.
The spoken word was dominant in Americans’ lives in the pre-television years when Barbara was growing up: In conversation at home, around the table, in visits with extended family, in school, and on radio programs. That is one reason why she and others of her generation speak sensibly and clearly. It is one reason why their conversation is not littered with the ear-grating nonsense of “like, awesome…like, cool…like, you know” now spoken by all young people and many of their elders who should know better but don’t.
Through her words and memories, Barbara paints delightful pictures of life in a small town at a sensible pace and on a sensible scale, with the usual pleasures and problems. They remind me of two songs: The song-and-dance number “Kokomo, Indiana” performed by Betty Grable and Dan Dailey in the 1947 motion picture “Mother Wore Tights,” and the hauntingly-lovely version of “Back Home Again in Indiana” sung by Martha Mears while Fred MacMurray and Barbara Stanwyck are dancing in the 1940 motion picture “Remember The Night.”
Mother Nature has not been kind to Barbara in recent years, inflicting upon her a series of burdens ranging from allergies to inner ear problems to multiple surgeries to cancer, and now a minor stroke. She is waging the toughest battle of her life. But she does not permit herself to get discouraged. She is determined to conquer those things. She has a reservoir of toughness. At age two, she showed enough spirit to earn the nickname “Toughie.” She would take on the Marines if she thought they were in the wrong. But she is also sentimental and fond of songs like “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”
Although she is not a reader or writer, Barbara has written down some of her memories on random scraps of paper. She has the right idea. She knows the importance of passing on the character, stories, and traditions of her family and extended family and remembering those who have died but live still in memory. My impression is that her generation may be among the last to understand those things. How many Americans today understand it? Can people have any such understanding when they are engaged in the mindless pursuit of speed and commotion? Richard Weaver wrote in the 1940s about the decline of respect for the past, tradition, and age. His words were valid then and are still valid. But the situation today is much worse: Americans are awash in a mass culture as gaudy, shallow, and ephemeral as any group of carnival sideshows. Was there ever a time when Americans were more drunk on speed, novelty, and sensation or showed greater contempt for the experience and wisdom of their old folks? These, I suggest, are unmistakable signs of deep moral and cultural rot.
I compose these words on a park bench in mid-day, surrounded by trees, grass, flowers, a blue sky, puffy white clouds, a few bees, and a pleasant early-autumn breeze. It is a good place to sit and remember. The park is across from a house that my aunt and uncle called home fifty years ago. They are long gone, as are many people in Barbara’s extended family, and others now live far away. The Past is a country Barbara and I enjoy visiting as often as we desire. It is a most agreeable place to spend “these precious days” with a dear friend.
From Thinking Housewife: http://www.thinkinghousewife.com/wp/2013/10/my-friend-barbara/#more-61436
From MM: http://maddmedic.wordpress.com/
All pics from Weasel Zippers. To see more pics and videos go to WZ: http://weaselzippers.us/
From WZ: http://weaselzippers.us/
Joe Dan Gorman (Intellectual Froglegs) Explains Non-confromance to the Illegal Extortion of Your Money Through Obamacare
Found at Moonbattery
This Blog and Our Esteemed WWII Veterans proudly give Buck Ofama and his Henchman The One Finger Salute!
Death Panels and the WWII Veterans
Ever since the threat of government-run health care became a reality and ObamaCare was signed into law in 2010, clear-thinking Americans have been worried about how the legislation would ultimately affect the elderly and infirm. Now we know.
Sarah Palin called them “death panels” and was mocked for suggesting that when the federal government ran out of money, health care would be rationed, and the elderly, the infirm, and the chronically ill would be the first to be denied.
America ignored it when Obama told Jane Q Publick, aka Jane Sturm, that he would deny her 105-year-old mother, a woman with a joy for life, a pacemaker. It wasn’t Sarah Palin, but Barack Obama who said that at a certain point, based on their age, old people would be better off with a painkiller.
No American wants to believe that in order to cut down on costs, bureaucrats, never mind the president of the United States, would purposely allow some of us to die.
But for those who observe President Obama’s actions and refuse to compartmentalize his comments, it’s been abundantly clear that this is a man who lacks respect for the sanctity of life — anyone’s life.
After all, if a person approves of the unfettered slaughter of defenseless unborn babies and also enthusiastically funds the brutal procedure to end their lives, doesn’t it make sense that such a person is capable of just about anything?
That’s why it’s no surprise that the president recently inflicted abuse on elderly WWII heroes who congregated in Washington, D.C. to visit a memorial erected in honor of their service.
The soldiers were part of Honor Flight, a program that gifts WWII veterans with an expense-paid trip to Washington, D.C. to view the WWII Memorial.
Allegedly because of the shutdown, 80- and 90-year-old veterans were refused admittance to the site. Now we come to find out that much like what is suspected in the “Fast and Furious,” Benghazi, and IRS scandals, the White House had direct involvement.
To keep the aged soldiers from entering the public space, Senator Rand Paul (R-KY) rightly pointed out, “some idiot in government sent goons out there to set up barricades.”
Could it be that Obama is that contemptuous of men to whom our nation owes enormous gratitude for buying our freedom with their blood?
That must be the case, because the same individual strongly suspected of issuing a “stand down” directive for Benghazi felt that it was a priority to send guards to the memorial to threaten to arrest old WWII soldiers, some of whom arrived in wheelchairs.
All this is important to note, reason being that if Barack Obama can treat the Greatest Generation in such a disrespectful manner, and dismiss their value to this nation by sending a goon squad to put up physical barriers to prevent entry into their memorial, it’s probable that this incident is indicative of how older Americans will be treated when it comes to accessing government-controlled health care.
Seeing America’s finest staring from afar at a monument built to honor their sacrifices and watching them be prohibited from enjoying what freedom promises every American citizen makes the prospect of Obama-controlled health care even more chilling.
What we witnessed on the day ObamaCare was rolled out, with senior citizens being held at arm’s length by the bureaucratic arm of an overbearing government, a vindictive president, and a band of bootlicking public employees, should send shudders down the spine of every American able to comprehend reality.
For those who didn’t think it was possible, Barack Obama disallowing WWII veterans’ entry into a public park should be viewed as a moment of clarity for the entire nation.
Let’s not forget: the Obama administration’s antipathy toward patriots was already evidenced when it objected to adding FDR’s D-Day prayer to the WWII Memorial shrine.
For the rest of us, in a free country, elderly soldiers being forced to storm their own memorial could be a glimpse into a future where a man with no compassion or scruples will have zero compunction barring these and many other American citizens from entering doctors’ offices, hospitals, operating rooms, and pharmacies.
In other words, consider what America has witnessed with the veterans an unofficial ObamaCare-denial test flight.
At the WWII Memorial, the inscription at the foot of every flagpole reads: “Americans came to liberate, not to conquer, to restore freedom and to end tyranny.”
Little did the brave Americans who stormed the beaches at Normandy know that one day they’d be fighting for their lives thanks to a different kind of tyranny – right here at home.
Jeannie hosts a blog at www.jeannie-ology.com.
“Well, it was only 3,000 people and we’ve moved on. Why can’t you? Carpe diem, man.”
The huge wound in my head began to heal About the beginning of the seventh week. Its valleys darkened, its villages became still: For joy I did not move and dared not speak, Not doctors would cure it, but time, its patient still. — Thom Gunn, The Wound
Simon Dedvukaj, 26, Mohegan Lake, N.Y. janitorial, foreman, ABM Industries / Confirmed dead, World Trade Center, at/in building 2
EVERYONE WHO WAS IN NEW YORK ON on “The Day” will tell you their stories about “The Day.” I could stun you with an eight figure number by running a Google on 9/11, but you can do that as well.
“The Day,” even at this close remove, has ascended into that shared museum of the mind to be placed in the diorama captioned, “Where Were You When.” The site has long since been cleared and scrubbed clean. There is even an agreement on the memorial which will, I see, use a lot of water and trees. “The Day” has become both memorial and myth.
Less is heard about the aftermath. Less is said about the weeks and months that spun out from that stunningly clear and bright September morning whose sky was slashed by a towering fist of flame and smoke. You forget the smoke that hung over the city like a widow’s shawl as the fires burned on for months. You don’t know about the daily commutes by subway wondering if some new horror was being swept towards you as the train came to a stop deep beneath the East River. You supress hearing over the loudspeaker, always unclearly, that the train was being “held for police activity at Penn Station.” Was that a bomb, poison gas, a mass shooting, a strike on the Empire State building? You were never sure. You carried a flashlight in case you had to walk out of the tunnels that ran deep beneath the river. Terror was your quiet companion. After the first six weeks you barely knew it was there.
If someone tells you that the melted wax from the candle shrines at Union Square had a radius of 20 feet and a depth of 4 inches at some points before it was scraped away, that’s just a data point.
If someone mentions that there were pictures of those we called ‘the missing’ put up on walls about the city, you might recall that. What you won’t recall is that they appeared everywhere and grew in numbers on nearly every surface on the island until there was no block and no main station that didn’t host a grim and large gallery of these images.
You’ve forgotten about the shrines, large and small, that appeared at the door of every fire and police station of the city overnight. You don’t remember how they grew and then shrank until only a few vases of flowers and faded flags remained.
I could show you the Post’s headline from the 12th declaring: 10,000 FEARED DEAD. Many of you would now say, “Well, it was only 3,000 people and we’ve moved on. Why can’t you? Carpe diem, man.”
Wounds, as noted in the poem above, heal. Lots of Americans like this fact. Many now make their living from the process. Explainers, obfuscators, politicians, pundits — they’re all part of yet another bogus new-age industry, grief counseling. Let some disaster, small or large, occur and these locusts descend from wherever they spend their off-hours to feed on the fear and pain of that other bogus group, “the survivors.” Many of us are proud to be members of this group. I’m sure somewhere someone is selling t-shirts and badges that say “I’m the Proud Survivor of ______” (Insert disease or disaster of choice).
Wounds heal. Those that don’t become “mortal wounds.” All others heal. That’s the nature of wounds. What isn’t often mentioned is that wounds, in healing, leave a scar. A scar is different kind of skin that covered the wound and, because it is stronger than the original skin, it is called “proud flesh.”
Along with grief, scars are another thing our brave new age sets out to eliminate. With the application of money and skill most scars in time can be made to disappear, to be made beautiful. Americans approve of this process. We like to make new fresh flesh appear where old proud flesh once was. All smoothed out. All traces eradicated. We move on. We get over it. We wear white trousers and walk upon the beach. Tomorrow is another day and we will never be hungry again.
Wounds do not heal, they only seal themselves up and we erase the scars with myths and monuments. Unless we are required to, every so often, go back and look at what was without sham or falsity.
Selecting a few images from a very bad year takes you back into that time. Because you fear opening the wound, you work at some remove from what the images return to you. Until you come to one that takes you back and you find yourself there, in that time, in those weeks and months after ‘The Day.’
Mine was a picture of a flyer posted around the city. One of the thousands of flyers posted everywhere. I’d hardly noted it at the time, but kept it in a folder called “September.” It shows three pictures of Simon Dedvukaj. He’s in a tuxedo with the jacket tossed over his shoulder in one shot. Another shows him wearing the cap and gown of a high school graduate. The third is a candid snap taken, I imagine, in his room with some out of focus possessions in the background. There’s a prayer at the bottom and at the top the information: “February 15, 1975 — September 11, 2001.
Three strips of wrinkled tape fasten this to a black metal surface. The photo, I know, was taken somewhere in lower Manhattan at 9:18 on September 11, 2002. The flyer is crisp and the tape fresh so someone must have spent time over the previous days printing the flyer up and sticking it to surfaces around the city. His family? His friends? Certainly one of those groups. Did they do it again on September 11, 2003? I don’t know. I wasn’t there to look.
What can I know about Simon Dedvukaj? I can know what you can know if you run another Google search. It’s an unusual name and you won’t get many hits. What I can know is this: “Simon Dedvukaj, 26, Mohegan Lake, N.Y. janitorial, foreman, ABM Industries Confirmed dead, World Trade Center, at/in building “
That’s from an early list. One of many put up to track the dead — “26″ “janitorial,” “foreman,” “confirmed dead,” “at/in building.2″ There are thousands of other listings just as stark.
It is no wonder we move on from these facts, that we work to heal the wound and erase the scar. These are things too grim to carry. We have to put them down. Unless we know more than the stark facts above. Then we carry them with us. Forever.
I can know more about Simon Dedvukaj, a man whom in his janitor’s uniform, would have never been more than another member of that faceless crew of New Yorkers who take the subways in at 4 AM to turn on the city, or take them home after midnight having cleaned up and shut down the city. I would have passed him without seeing him. I still would. So would you. But still I can know a lot more about Simon Dedvukaj. I can know about it from his sister Lisa:
July, 2002 From:Lisa Dedvukaj, submitted: 07/31/2002 5:45:28 PM Simon is my brother. He worked in the World Trade Center, North Tower 1. He was and still is a great guy. Simon will always be remembered as that thoughtful person who always did good for everyone else and thought of himself last. Simon gave everyone strength and Simon made you smile and laugh like never before. Simon what a man you were. That smile you just couldn’t resist it, you had to smile back. Simon I know you are in a better place and I know that you are watching over us. Please be there for us always and guide and comfort us through our needest times. I LOVE YOU! Your Sister, Lisa September, 2002 From: Lisa Dedvukaj, submitted: 11/13/2002 3:59:23 PM Simon, It’s been a while since I wrote in here but I wanted to let you know that I’m still thinking of you.. I can’t seem to understand the negativeness that still surrounds us. Simon you are my life and it just hurts me so much to see that you are not here, I want to see you walk through that door again and sometimes I wonder if this was for the best. But I what I do know is that God has you with him and that you and the others are looking out for us and I feel you around me alot and it comforts me to know that you are holding me while I cry for you. I miss you Simon and I will always love you. Please be with us always like you are now, give us the strength and the love that we need. Protect our family and always keep us within your reach.. I LOVE YOU SIMON! Love, Lisa Last month From: Lisa V., submitted: 01/11/2004 10:47:44 PM Simon, I haven’t written in here in a long time! I miss you so much and life will never be the same.. Reading all these posts here makes me cry, I always cry thinking of how life changed it is and how different we are without you here. I miss you so much.. I love you. Love your sister, Lisa
Just a janitor. Just turned on the city and cleaned it up. “How different we are without you here….”
I called for armor, rose, and did not reel. But, when I thought, rage at his noble pain Flew to my head, and turning I could feel My wound break open wide. Over again I had to let those storm lit valleys heal. — Thom Gunn, “The Wound”
[Written SEPTEMBER 13, 2009]
From AD: http://americandigest.org/
Par for the course.
Since it’s the twelfth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, here’s a slightly dated outrage. On September 4, TV critic Neil Genzlinger of The New York Times tackled a CNN documentary called “The Flag,” which focused on an American flag that three firefighters raised at Ground Zero late on the afternoon of the attacks. A photo taken for the New Jersey newspaper The [Bergen] Record “became a heartening, patriotic symbol for many on an otherwise awful day, and so did the flag itself.”
But the flag disappeared, and that story spurred the CNN program. Genzlinger ruined the review by dragging out the old leftist saw that flag-waving and “intolerance” are closely related:
The photographer rebelled at efforts to make him a celebrity, and so did the three firefighters. A plan to turn the photograph into a sculpture became a source of controversy. Nationwide, flag-waving was sometimes a cousin to intolerance.
Thousands of Bikers in D.C. for Freedom…Not one Peep from the Communist Media. D.C. Police reportedly Help Out.
Bikers honor our heroes…
Bikers for miles…
Bikers assemble for the ride
More freedom loving Americans!
People and bikes as far as the eye can see…
Slim turnout for the muzzies and terrorist lovers…
Miles and miles of bikers for freedom!
Kudos to the D.C. Police Dept. for helping the bikers!
@RealJamesWoods Nothing but respect for the bikers and the D.C. cops!
— gary pruitt (@falconfan1964) September 10, 2013
As Twitchy reported earlier this week, the National Park Service denied a permit to a group of cyclists who wanted to ride through Washington, D.C. on Sept. 11 to honor the military and the victims of the 9/11 attacks. Two Million Bikers to D.C. decided to show up anyway, permit or not, and word is that the group is being welcomed and assisted by D.C.
This post from MM:http://maddmedic.wordpress.com/
Thousands of Bikers in D.C. – Handful of “Million Muslim” Marchers. That Proves that There are Not Very Many “Patriotic” mooslims.
Pics: Thousands of Bikers Line Up For “2 Million Bikers To D.C.” Rally – Update: Million Muslim March A Dud, Police Outnumber Participants…
I hope to have some better pics/video of the event later today. These are from a staging area in Fort Washington, Md.
Update: Strong turnout. (HT: TRS)
Update: See the handful of people in front of the black fencing, that’s the entire rally. Note the counter-protester holding an Israeli flag.
The view from another angle, a counter-protester showed up with a giant cross.
From WZ: http://weaselzippers.us/