baldilocks

Remembrance Day

Many pundits--professional and otherwise--have compared December 7, 1941 to September 11, 2001. The only comparison that means anything, however, is how committed the attacked are to making the enemy think twice about doing it again.

God rest the souls of the Fallen: those of 63 years ago, of three years ago and all those in between.

Family Reunited

I was a little hesitant to post this really sad article from the Washington Post, but some things are necessary. Often, we have to be reminded of that which is important, especially now, when we’re bogged down in the quagmire: the presidential campaign.

The attacks of September 11, 2001 are still claiming casualties.

Kenneth Edelle Foster, 51, a retired Army sergeant whose wife lost her life at the Pentagon on Sept. 11, 2001, died Oct. 10 at his home in Arlington, Tex., of pulmonary fibrosis and congestive heart failure. He had lived in the Washington area since 1972 and moved back to North Texas, where he grew up, in 2003.

A civilian Army policy analyst, Mr. Foster was working in his office in the Hoffman Building in Alexandria on Sept. 11 when he got word that a plane had hit the Pentagon, where his wife, Sandra Nadine Hill, had worked for 25 years. He jumped into his truck and raced toward the billowing black cloud he could see in the distance, going the wrong way on Interstate 95. [SNIP]

Mr. Foster sank into a debilitating depression after his wife's death. He tried to commit suicide two months later on his favorite holiday, Thanksgiving. After he survived a game of Russian roulette while home alone that day, he sought help and was admitted to the intensive care unit at Walter Reed Army Medical Center. He then went to counseling twice a week, started reaching out to the many people concerned about him and decided to move back to Texas. He told the Fort Worth Star-Telegram that staying in the Washington area meant he was dying slowly each day as he relived the events of Sept. 11.

He set up a $25,000 annual college scholarship named for his wife, given to a senior girl from a District public school. His wife, he told The Post in 2002, valued education above everything else.

Mr. Foster had planned to travel to Washington on Sept. 16 for the second annual fund-raising banquet in his wife's memory, where he planned to award another Sandra Nadine Hill Scholarship. [SNIP]

He was hospitalized shortly before he was to leave and was unable to make the trip.[SNIP]

Mr. Foster's friends and family were fully aware of the seriousness of his lung disease, which got worse after he lost his wife, but they don't believe his illness caused his death.

"He could have got over his physical ailments, I believe," his mother said, "but he just didn't want to live. He died of a broken heart. We all know that."

During my search of Mrs. Foster’s name, I came upon her picture: a slim, friendly-faced black woman (I’ll do the living Fosters the courtesy of not posting the photo here).

She and Mr. Foster had been married for quite some time but never had any children of their own. On September 11th, the couple had had an appointment with an adoption agency. We all know what happened instead.

Affirming life, while monsters planned to execute her; destroying her husband and killing him later.

When you read this story and after you shed those tears, remember who it is that has avenged these deaths and the thousands of others. Remember who took the fight to the terrorists and who didn’t. (And who may or may not want to.)

Are we safer now than before? Time will tell. However, one thing is for sure: no amount of diplomacy, appeasement, or backing-down will work for an enemy intent on dying and taking good people like the Fosters (and you) with them.

Consider that on November 2, 2004.

Patriot Day

But know this, that if the goodman of the house had known in what watch the thief would come, he would have watched, and would not have suffered his house to be broken up.

Matthew 24:43 (KJV)

580 MPH

A fast exit to Heaven for some and to Hell for others (registration required):

Of the 33 passengers on the plane who were not hijackers, at least 10, and two crew members, spoke to people on the ground. At least five of the calls included discussion of the World Trade Center. At 9:57, about seven minutes before the end, one of the passengers ended her conversation saying: "Everyone's running up to first class. I've got to go. Bye."

The [9/11 Commission] report indicates that [hijacker] Mr. Jarrah, at the controls of United 93, did what many airline pilots have fantasized about since the hijackings: tried to maneuver the plane sharply, rolling and pitching, to keep control of the cockpit. It apparently did not work; the plane crashed in rural Pennsylvania.

The report does not clarify whether the hijackers' goal for Flight 93 was the White House or the Capitol, but indicates that the hijackers tuned a cockpit radio to the frequency of a navigation beacon at National Airport, just across the Potomac River from the capital, erasing any doubt about the region of their intended destination.

At three seconds after 10 a.m., Mr. Jarrah is heard on the cockpit voice recorder saying: "Is that it? Shall we finish it off?"

But another hijacker responds: "No. Not yet. When they all come, we finish it off."

The voice recorder captured sounds of continued fighting, and Mr. Jarrah pitched the plane up and then down. A passenger is heard to say, "In the cockpit. If we don't we'll die!"

Then a passenger yelled "Roll it!" Some aviation experts have speculated that this was a reference to a food cart, being used as a battering ram.

Mr. Jarrah "stopped the violent maneuvers" at 10:01:00, according to the report, and said, "Allah is the greatest! Allah is the greatest!"

"He then asked another hijacker in the cockpit, `Is that it? I mean, shall we put it down?' to which the other replied, `Yes, put it in it, and pull it down.' "

Eighty seconds later, a hijacker is heard to say, "Pull it down! Pull it down!"

"The hijackers remained at the controls but must have judged that the passengers were only seconds from overcoming them," according to the report, which seems to indicate that the hijackers themselves crashed the plane. "With the sounds of the passenger counterattack continuing, the aircraft plowed into an empty field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania, at 580 miles per hour, about 20 minutes' flying time from Washington, D.C," according to the report.

72 virgins, right? Did the fine-print say what species of virgins they were? I hope that it is the hijackers that are the promised virgins--to virgin elephants: "never had none of that human stuff." That would be the least of their deserved punishments.

(Thanks to Michelle Malkin)

Still Standing...

...if only in our memories.

Fear Itself

In Esquire , in a moving and draining article on the “Falling Man,” the subject of an iconic photo of one of those who jumped from the burning World Trade Center Towers on September 11, 2001, Tom Junod ponders the merits and morality of showing the more graphic images resulting from the attack.

Most decent people, understandably, don’t want to see such images, nor do they want them thrust before them constantly in the televised or print media. I’m one of them, to a point.

Junod recounts Peter Cheney’s attempts to identify the “Falling Man,” who is believed to have jumped from the restaurant Windows on the World in Tower One. The man was dark-skinned, thought to be a Puerto Rican, an Indian or a light-skinned black man and Junod tells of the anguish of several families who might have been that of the jumper. Of course, none of the families wants it to be their guy and some of Cheney’s bull-in-china-shop methods used to learn the man’s identity are disgusting.

But for all of the horror and grief at their loved ones’ deaths, for all the Christian anguish for the souls of their loved ones—would God view such an act as suicide?—I sensed a different kind of anguish. It emanates not only from the families, but from the media and, yes, indeed from all of us. No, not the fear of the pain the victims must have suffered, but the fear that the terrorists may inflict even more suffering.

Could fear be the root of exhortation to “move on?” Will “moving on” help us to forget the stuff of nightmares, the images that the American media (correctly) won’t show; the imaginings of burned bodies, crushed bodies, parts of bodies, bodies that are no longer bodies, but dust?

Terrorists commit their acts not for the benefit of the dead, but for those who remain alive. “Look at what we’ll do to you and yours,” they say, “if you don’t do what we want you to do.” They revel in our horror. They rejoice in the sorrow of the families who will never bury the atomized bodies of their loved ones. They say, “yeah, we did it and we’ll do it to you unless you….submit.”

Does anyone remember the story of Emmett Till? Several years before I was born, Till, fourteen-years-old, was the victim of another set of terrorists. This young black man, not knowing or not caring about the ways of the South of that period, was murdered for allegedly making an indecent remark to a white woman.

He disappeared and, days later, his body, beaten and shot, was found in a river. The men who were tried for his murder were acquitted.

Emmett’s murder wasn’t an isolated case of a man supposedly defending the honor of his wife. As we know, all over the South, black men were being murdered for “stepping out of their place,” whether they actually had stepped out of their “place” or not. Those who committed these crimes did so not only for “revenge” on the dead, but to send a message to and strike fear in the living.

That’s what made it terrorism. Sound familiar?

In 2001 (and 1968 and 1979 and 1983 and 1988 and 1993 and 1998 and 2003 and every year in between), the players are different from that of 1955, but the message is the same: do what we want or this will happen to you or to those whom you love. In this case, it is “worship in the way we worship; bow five times a day to Mecca or else.”

I mention the Till case not to compare the two sets of terrorists, per se, but to compare the dissimilar reactions of the victims’ loved ones.

Mamie Till, Emmett’s mother, had an open-casket funeral for her son. The photo (warning: it's graphic) of the body, which astoundingly for any time, much less 1955, was published in Jet Magazine. The first time I saw the horrifying photo of young Till's mutilated head, I threw up. The head--monstrous from the beating, the bullet and the decomposition--contrasted against the normalcy of the casket and the suit that Mrs. Till had picked out for the body. It gave the picture that much more ugliness: your worst nightmare in banal black and white.

But Mamie Till’s steely words about the open-casket decision were electrifying: “I want the world to see what they did to my son.”

Well, the “world” did see and, though there was much more sorrow to be had--as it is with any major upheaval of a society--things changed. Some of us even think that things have changed for the better…such home-grown types of terrorists still exist, but when caught, they usually sit on death row rather sit at home having beers with their friends. We can send our message as well.

Though we should acknowledge and, sometimes, accede to the wishes of the bereaved families as far as the pictures of the 9/11 carnage are concerned, they should feel no shame at how their family member met his/her fate. (And my personal opinion is that God is a far more understanding Guy than we often give Him credit for.)

Most of all, neither they, nor we, can afford to let the horror of that day plunge us into fear. Why not?

That is what they want us to feel; that is the terrorists’ main goal.

Fear will keep us from acting boldly and decisively against them.

Our unabated fear, taken to its ultimate conclusion, would have us bowing down five times a day toward Mecca. Not me, baby. And, I'm comfortable in the assumption that a lot of Indians, Israelis and Americans feel the same way.

Message to terrorists: You Failed.

(Thanks to LGF)
(Photos of Emmett Till courtesy of Stanford University and African American Holocaust)

Remembrance Day Musings

Charles Johnson at Little Green Footballs and Michele at A Small Victory have both provided means for ordinary folks to tell their personal perceptions of the September 11, 2001 attacks. I told my story at LGF and here.

The Flag

That got me to thinking about a particular trend that occurred in the aftermath: American flags were everywhere all of a sudden.

Initially, I was heartened by the proliferation of American flags and flag stickers on cars. Every street vendor in LA had flags for sale. After something so vile, people began to see how much this country really meant to them and wanted to show it, or so I thought.

But as the months wore on, I noticed that some of the flags on the car antennas were becoming frayed—an anathema to a military member; torn and/or dirty flags are to be disposed of properly (last item)—and the stickers were fading due to weather.

The flag fad had faded. (Sorry for the alliteration.)

A year after the attacks, I decided that I wanted to buy a flag sticker for my car. Not a street vendor in sight had one. I did end up finding and buying one, at the Base Exchange, of course. But then I decided that my military sticker tells anyone all they needed to know about me.

Asshat Outs Himself

That day, watching the ABC News coverage of the attacks—no satellite then--I listened as Peter Jennings suddenly went into a petulant whine about the whereabouts of the president. Imagine the gall of President Bush! How dare he not send the esteemed Mr. Jennings an itinerary of Air Force One’s flight plan in the wake of the worst enemy attack on American soil! Who does the president think he is?

In disgust, I switched to NBC or CBS for the coverage (don’t remember which). From that day to this one, the sound of Jennings’ voice has had a rather bile-producing effect on me.

Love and No-Love for the Brother/Sisterhood

Since the day, my military compatriots and I regale each other with accounts of the spontaneous outpourings of gratitude we get from civilians. Believe me, it’s appreciated, folks, though, unlike this guy, the most dangerous thing that I’ve had to do since 9/11 is drive on Southern California freeways.

The love is especially cherished by those of us who were in the military when we routinely caught crap (see my account of being called the n-word while in uniform.)

In this vein, the worst crap that I’ve caught recently, was flung one morning at a Starbucks™ close to UC Riverside. The counter person, a young blond woman with hair nearly as short as mine, had a smile for everyone; everyone except for my BDU-clad self, that is. When I stepped to the counter to place my order, I noticed that her smile had changed to a rather sour expression. So, just to give her a little needle, I smiled and gave her a chipper “Good Morning!” loud enough to be sure that she heard it. (Take my word for it, a smile and a “good morning” are not easy to be had from me before my first cup of coffee, though I try to treat customer service personnel well.)

No answer. Heh. So, I placed my order--Venti soy mocha; no whip, please--she gave me the total and I paid her. I capped it off with an exaggerated “thank you! Have a nice day!” Still nothing from the little twit. Laughing, I turned around and, before I could make my way to the receiving counter, the man behind me, who obviously had seen the whole little drama, stuck out his hand, said, “thank you for your service,” and shot Ms. Personality a look of disgust.

I was floating the rest of the day.

My Black Day

September 11, 2001, being my day off, I woke up later than usual, around 6:30. I got my coffee, showered and was puttering around in my underwear when my eighty-year-old great-aunt called.

She was hysterical. “Turn on the TV! Someone ran a plane into the World Trade Center in New York!" Sure that she had, somehow, gotten it wrong (she was eighty, after all), I switched on the TV just in time to see a film of the second airplane hitting Tower number two. “Oh my God!" I said. “Arabs did this! I know they did it," I said to my aunt. Not long afterward, Tower number two crumbled to the ground. I was immediately in tears and I don’t cry easily. “It is ON! Those Arab bastards straight fucked-up this time." We stayed on the phone for about two hours more commenting, raging and consoling. Then I hung up. I stayed glued to the TV for a couple hours more. Then, though I was, somehow, exhausted, I got my clothes on and went outside.

I remember those moments when no one knew how many more hijacked aircraft were in the sky. I remember the report of two other crashed aircraft, one into the Pentagon and one somewhere in Pennsylvania--near Shanksville, as we now know. (I tried not to think of the friend that works in the Pentagon, to whom I had sent an e-mail as soon as I found out. Thankfully, it was his day off also.) Those moments were like the anticipation of the end of the world. One of the planes had been bound for Los Angeles and I lived ten miles from LAX, right under the air lanes. Did the terrorists have something more in store for us savage infidels, something worse, some grand nuclear finale? Who knew then?

With those unnerving thoughts in mind, I stepped out of my house and it was quiet. Now, I lived in the South Central LA ‘hood, where it’s never quiet, especially at midday. But this day was different. It was Dead Quiet. No planes in the sky (President Bush had grounded all aircraft hours before), no traffic on the street, nor did I hear any traffic from the highway two blocks away. No dogs barking, no children playing. Nothing but the eerie, booming echo of jet engines that were no longer making their way into LAX; like the aftermath of some gigantic explosive.

It seemed as if the whole world was waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was like the stillness preceding a violent earthquake that most southern Californians recognize. Any minute I expected a rogue airplane to come barreling out of the sky and plunge into LAX. Or, worse yet, a blindingly bright flash, then no more.

I’ll never forget that day as long as I live and I hope those who perpetrated the attacks are burning in hell right now. My day, however, was nothing compared to those who died horrible, crushing, burning, falling deaths, or live with the resulting disfigurements, physical and emotional. My day was nothing compared to those that lost their parents, their children, their spouses. Even whole families died on some of the airplanes. Little children, taking their first airplane trips were murdered on some of the airplanes. Men who will never see their then yet unborn children, pregnant women (a twofer for the jihadis); fire-fighters—whose job it is to save lives—blown to bits and for what? My day was nothing compared to theirs.

Yet, there are still people, other jihadis that would like nothing better than to finish the job.

I think I’ll go to the range tomorrow and practice with my nine mil.