Like so many others, I was shocked by my ambivalence to the events of September 11. Not to the events themselves--mass murder is, by definition, horrific--but my ambivalence about what the attacks required of me as a citizen. For the whole of my life, being an American required little more than shopping, paying taxes, and occasionally mouthing the words to the Pledge of Allegiance. My pursuit of happiness didn't involve slogging though news reports on U.S. foreign policy.
But September 11 brought an end to my innocent American ignorance, and put my sociopolitical identity to the test. As an artsy, homo vegetarian, I'd always considered myself a bred-in-the-bone lefty. In matters of politics, I affected a resigned, stylish disdain for the deeds of my elected officials, and in matters of war I was decidedly anti. But the events of September 11 set in motion a terribly illuminating line of self-inquiry. Watching the towers fall, I understood that the U.S. and its citizens had enemies, and that these enemies had discovered a way to kill whole bunches of us at once, and there was no reason to believe they wouldn't try it again and again and again.
Over the next couple weeks, I felt myself naturally reconciling with the new, dangerous reality. We've had it so good, for so long, I thought. Maybe it's our turn to suffer, and if history deems I should be one of the Americans who suffer, so be it. Only after weeks of mentally preparing myself for the role of victim did I begin to see the other side of the equation. Not "Someone wants to kill us, so get ready to die," but "Someone wants to kill us, so we have to kill them first."
My first taste of bloodthirstiness, of identifying with the hammer instead of the nail, was shocking. But was it patriotism? Thanks to my age, this sudden hunger to kill for my country was strictly theoretical; too old for the draft, I'd only be required to slay any terrorists who wandered into my house to hurt my loved one or steal my CDs. Still, the disintegration of my pacifist status--my transformation from would-be dove to real-life hawk--was too significant to leave on the level of theory. This disintegration happened to coincide with my D.C. trip, and I was determined to throw myself against the celebrated totems of patriotism to see what, if anything, would stick.
My D.C. excursion began, fittingly, at the Washington Monument. Hailed as "first in war, first in peace, first in the hearts of his countrymen," George Washington is memorialized with a prototypical bit of Americana. Elegantly ugly and baldly phallic, the Washington Monument was, at the time of its construction, the tallest structure in the world, designed to bestow eternal glory on the father of the Greatest Country on Earth. Unfortunately, the monument now functions primarily as a clunky visual landmark for lost tourists. And while the obelisk failed to stir up any deep feelings of patriotism, I was pleased to see the monument being used as a makeshift make-out spot by a half-dozen inner-city teens.
Far more stirring was the Lincoln Memorial, the towering tribute to the best president this country's yet seen. If ever a collection of words deserved to be etched in stone, it's Lincoln's second inaugural address, but as I read over its four short paragraphs, I was reminded of a mini-revelation I had in years past, an initially featherweight insight that's gained stature as the years produce supporting evidence. Basically, for those of us of the post-Vietnam/Watergate/Reagan age, there are no politics, there are only aesthetics. For proof, I refer to my admiration for Lincoln's speech, which derives as much from its artistry as it does from its political vision. But even Lincoln's indefatigable address failed to rouse any identifiable sense of patriotism, as the bravery of the speech's vision seems as remote from today's leaders as its concise eloquence is from today's leaders' speechwriters. Ultimately, Lincoln's words stand as proof of the eternal power of good art--and evidence of the degradation of American politics.
Finally I stumbled upon the Vietnam Memorial, a work of art so good it infuriated a number of those it was designed to honor. On a previous visit, I'd bawled my head off before the black slate of names; as I rarely cry over anything twice, this time I was free to engage on a headier level. But this wasn't about headiness--to the men listed on the wall, dying for their country was anything but theoretical. These men didn't need an attack on America to rouse them to duty; they got drafted, fought, and died for the idea of their country, as instilled by leaders they trusted enough to get killed for, leaders whose deception led to the cynicism that's hobbled every generation since.
As I struggled to recall the closest thing I've ever felt to full-blooded patriotism, I remembered a quote I'd read the previous day, in the in-flight copy of--please forgive me--Reader's Digest. The speaker was Rudy Giuliani, who was addressing the differences between the U.S. and its enemies: "Our ideas of freedom and democracy are right. I don't mean this in a belligerent way. I mean it in a moral and philosophical way: We're right, and they're wrong. That doesn't mean all our ideas are right, or that we're always right. But our philosophy is correct; their philosophy is warped."
Giuliani's eloquence rang true with me, and led me to recall the age-old social truism: When I make fun of my mom's fat ass, it's hilarious. But if you do it, I'll kick your face in.
The same goes for this beautiful, fucked-up country.
