Courage

I am Edward Morgan and I approved this message.

Today, I venture into politics. If that makes you uncomfortable, stop reading here and delete this message. But before you do, understand that my intent is not to influence the way you vote. I am not here to define my politics, I am not here to defend them. I am not here to debate. I am not calling you to arms to support one party or the other. I am not here to persuade you that my thoughts and understanding are any better than your own. They most certainly are not. By definition they can't be, not for you. At the moment, it is the tone of our national conversation that concerns me, not its composition. The arrangement, not the orchestra.

Over the past several years, I have been confronted by people on the left and the right. I have been called a traitor for the candidate I support. I have been called a mindless drone for pointing out the other candidate isn't always wrong and, in some things, actually better. I have been told that I have no right to vote because I wasn't in the military. I have been called un-American for either way I see the war. I have been told the 1st Amendment doesn't apply to me because my religion isn't practiced by the majority. I have been called irrational because I hold those same beliefs. I have been informed that the people I claim on the census are nothing but drunks so deserve whatever destitution befalls them. Some of this by family, some by friends and colleagues, otherwise reasonable people, not anonymous operatives for one party or the other.

This must end.

I hear cries from both sides to adopt the tactics of the opposition, meet fire with fire. This is the model of failed states around the world, countries with names few people recognize in places few people can point to on a map with borders no one agrees upon or controls. It is a policy of revolution breeding revolution under which the majority of people suffer and only dictators and demagogues flourish. It is the politics of divisiveness, the politics of demonization. The politics of personal destruction. The politics of fear.

This must end.

Machiavelli says it is better to be feared than loved. Fear is a powerful emotion, more powerful than greed, more powerful than hope. It is far easier to incite a mob to violence than inspire one to build or talk one into cutting down a noose. It is easier to sketch the world in charcoal than to paint it in vivid color. In the real world, even shadows have color reflected by the light. We prefer black and white because it is easier to distinguish contrast. We don't have to think, just react when a given line is crossed. It is the politics of laziness.

In an environment of fear, it becomes too easy to rely on someone else's judgment, to dig in and retrench when someone violates our principles. It is easy to blame the other side, whichever side that is. "They" always started it; "they" always escalated it. "We" have no choice but to respond or appear weak. "We" have been maligned and have no other recourse than to fight.

This must end.

This trend has continued until the most vile slurs and epithets are now shouted at political rallies: Sexist, bigot, baby-killer, terrorist, anti-Semite, communist, Nazi. They culminate with a simple, two word phrase: "Kill him." That utterance marks the end of any rational democracy. It is the voice of anarchy, not the language of impassioned debate. First it is shouted, then whispered, in a theater, in a railroad station, at an exposition, in a book depository, beyond a balcony, in a kitchen just off a ballroom floor.

This. Must. End.

At some point we, the people, have to say enough. We don't have to agree. In fact, we rarely will. Each of us has our own opinions, our own priorities regarding the direction we think the country needs to go. Different experiences shaped each of us and what we value. Our perspective on these experiences is unique. Some have more impact than others, but each has no less value, not to the individual. We gain, not lose, when we pause a moment to consider and draw a breath.

My grandfather's grandfather lied about his age to sign up with the Grand Army of the Republic during the American Civil War. I don't know why he joined, whether he was full of belief and righteous indignation, whether he was full of a childish concept of glory, whether he thought it would be an adventure, whether he thought he had something to prove, whether he thought he could make his name. I don't know what regiment he marched with, he lived with, he fought with, he watched perish. His service ribbon does not say. It only says he joined, he served, he did not die. He returned home a different man, a man who drank, a man who suffered nightmares. A man who died, haunted, I am told, by the history that had unfolded around him of which he would not speak.

Our experiences change us.

My uncle, really my father's cousin, was seventeen when World War II came to this country. I don't know why he entered the army. I don't know whether he chose his duties or someone chose them for him. During that war, he tended the troops who had been injured and transported back to England. There were no med-evacs, no helicopters, no trauma teams standing by to treat the wounded. Antibiotics were cutting edge medicine, as was something resembling modern anesthesia. Day after day, he witnessed the only constant in war, the parade of wounded and maimed returning from the battlefield. He helped the ones he could recover. He has never described his experiences to me directly, only talked about the useless nature of war.

Our experiences change us.

A friend's mother managed an apartment complex in a public housing neighborhood known as "Little Vietnam." It was at heart of a police no-go zone where you regularly heard gunshots on a Friday night. Cruisers might roll up late or never. If they did, they were as likely to hassle the innocent as the guilty. Even knowing that, she drew a line in the sand against the drug dealers in her building, telling them they were not welcome. These men reacted first with intimidation, then with vandalism and finally with threats against her family. From that point forward, she kept a pistol within easy reach of her bed. When I knocked on her door after dark, I knew to stay in the light until I heard her voice, knew that each time I saw the curtain move, there was a gun behind the window.

Our experiences change us.

A woman I know had an abortion when she was fifteen. I didn't find out until many years later. We grew up together, but were not close at the time. I don't know the details of her pregnancy, don't know the details of her relationship with the father. I don't know the details of her decision other than she felt pressured by her family. All I know is that she had chosen a name she still remembers. Thirty years later, I can still hear the anguish and regret in her voice when she recalls that moment in her life.

Our experiences change us.

Those experiences run across the current fault lines of American politics, war, gun control, abortion. Hot button issues where people make snap judgments based on pure emotion. Whether I agree or disagree with the conclusions each of those individuals drew from their experience, I cannot attack them. I can only wonder how being in their position would have altered my life, my beliefs. How can I invalidate an experience I did not have, a memory that I do not share? Should I demonize them for what they learned from a life different from my own? Intolerance breeds intolerance as surely violence begets violence, a outcome as old as obsidian knives, as inevitable as moonrise.

Everyone remembers September 11th, where they were, what they were doing when they heard. I remember April 19th. My wife was on vacation from her job with the federal government. We had slept in that morning. When we got up, we turned on the television to check the news. What I saw was a gutted and smoking federal building, almost identical to the one near the office where my wife worked downtown. The image left an indelible mark upon my psyche. That could have been my city, my neighbors, my wife. All because an individual, a veteran who had sworn to defend this country and uphold its laws, had honed a grudge like a well-stropped razor, then slashed out against the government thinking he was reclaiming an eye for an eye. For me, that morning in 1995 revealed the natural terminus of the politics of hate.

Our experiences change us.

We will take back the tools of democracy not by electing one candidate instead of the other, but by repudiating the tactics of fear, the tactics of hate, by insisting on decency despite our differences, not just for the candidate we support but for the one we don't. Courage is often confused with combat. Courage isn't fighting for something we believe in; courage is standing up to fear.

As most of you know, I spent several months last year hanging around a chemo ward. It is a grim place despite the comfortable chairs, the beautiful view, the kind and helpful nurses. It is a place occupied by men and women, some young, some old, some outwardly healthy, some not, some on their first visit, some on a repeat itinerary. That place isn't about fighting, it isn't about winning; it is about living. The ones who complete that journey, and not everyone does, come out different than they started, sometimes subtly, sometimes radically. The experience shapes them, changes them. Some who don't see the other side show more courage than some who do. The ones who emerge aren't called "victors," they aren't called "winners;" they are called "survivors."

Our experiences change us.

On its journey, our country has survived a President who ignored Supreme Court rulings when they did not suit him. We have survived a President who suspended the writ of habeas corpus. We survived our government publicly blacklisting citizens because of their political affiliation. We survived our government imprisoning citizens based on their ethnicity. We have survived stripping people of their rights and land based solely on their race. We have survived buying and selling individuals as though they were commodities. None of this happened within the past fifty years. We will most certainly survive either of these Senators being elected.

You are not racist if you don't vote for a one candidate; you are not sexist if you do not vote for another. Unless, of course, race or gender are the reason for your decision; then you might have a problem. You are not a terrorist if you don't support a certain candidate. You are not a torturer if you don't endorse another. Anyone who tells you differently is trying to manipulate you. That road ends in totalitarianism, pick your flavor, left or right. In practical execution, they are difficult to distinguish.

Over the summer, roughly half of Zimbabwe, a country of some 12 million people, went out to vote for an opposition candidate. They didn't have the luxury of a secret ballot. They knew their government would never allow their candidate to win, despite public assurances promising a free and fair election. They went out despite knowing from experience that they risked being beaten, risked having their livelihood taken, their property stolen, their homes burned. They voted anyway. These weren't people steeped in centuries of democracy. They weren't people ready to take back their government by any means, at any cost. These were ordinary men and women, just like you and me. They knew what was coming and cast their vote anyway, in most cases in an orderly and peaceful manner, at least where their government allowed it. That, my friends, is courage.

Whatever your politics, I hope you have the courage to defend even those you disagree with from slander and from hate. In the coming election, I hope you have the courage to vote your convictions rather than someone else's fears.

I am Edward Morgan and I approved this message.


© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III