Right Wing Nation

Yesterday, I went to see the first showing of United 93. As I said yesterday, every American should see this movie.

Today, now that I feel a bit better (not much), and have had time for the movie to percolate, I have more to say — about the movie, and about the memorial.

I should say, first, where I was on 9/11, and how it affected me.

I was teaching class when one of my best friends and colleagues burst through the door and into my classroom. That alone told me something was very, very wrong: You don’t interrupt somebody’s class. She said, “Have you seen it?” and pushed my TA away from the computer (the screen was projected in front of the class), and she pulled up some news website.

The second plane had hit, and as we watched, the World Trade Center began to collapse. I had students from NYC in class, who tried desperately to get hold of their parents and friends. I did the unthinkable and cancelled class, and we headed back to the office suite to see what was going on. I did not yet know that two planes had hit the WTC. Only after I got to my office did I see the first plane hit, then the second — and then, the collapse.

While watching the movie, I found my hand, almost by itself, slipping down to my side and resting on my Glock when the hijackers were on the screen. I knew I was looking at a movie, but I wanted to empty my magazine into them up on the screen. I expected the film to recall some of the furor I felt on that day; I did not expect to relive it.

The movie isn’t a re-enactment of what most of us lived and saw that day. Most of the news coverage was focused on the two planes that hit the WTC, and the plane that hit the Pentagon. We did not learn until later about the heroes on United 93.

This movie takes place in three locations: air traffic control at Newark, NORAD, and United 93. We see the controllers and their radar screens, the gradual realization that airplanes are being hijacked, confusion as the first plane hits the WTC. The film does not zoom in on the emotional responses of the controllers much; too much is happening too fast and we see it unfold.

The movie shows an act of war on the United States.

We cut back and forth between the three locations. Not all, or even most of the film takes place on United 93. We see the terrorists preparing the attack, and the passengers talking about their destinations, their lives, and their families. My skin crawled as I watched the passengers, unaware that they were about to become pawns in an act of war.

When the attack begins on the plane, the movie rushes toward the end in Shanksville — and the end is the end of the film. You are taken from the people on the ground, trying to figure out what is going on, trying to figure out what to do, to the passengers on the flight who fought back — and were killed.

And then you leave the theater.

As I said yesterday, there is no mindless Oprah feel-good idiocy here. There is no lamenting the poor terrorists, and there is no “why do they hate us?” crap. This movie will not make you feel all gushy inside. This movie will infuriate you — exactly as it should.

The hand-wringers, the protesters, the liberals, the Democrats, the feminists for palestine, the US military-hating vandals and criminals, these are the people who most badly need to see this movie. If you think it’s too soon, then you need to see it.

It’s not too soon. This movie should have come out in 2002. And this movie should be shown in every theater on every 9/11 until the War on Terrorism is over.

After I posted my thoughts and feelings about the Flight 93 Memorial — which I will repost at the end of this — I got some email from family members. It was positive, but some of it bothered me on a very basic level: A couple of messages that spoke of the memorial as healing.

With all due respect to the families of the heroes on flight 93, this is no time for healing. Not for you, not for us, not for the nation. We are at war, whether you want us to be or not. Those forces that murdered your family members are still murdering people, and will again attack us if they get the opportunity.

The Flight 93 Memorial is a war memorial. Healing has no place at a war memorial.

I realize we live in a feel-good, kiss-yourself, we’re-all-okay, improve-your-self-esteem culture, but that narcisssistic nonsense has no place at the Flight 93 Memorial.

The memorial is not for the family members, not even primarily. It is for the nation.

Your family members were not targetted. The nation was targetted. And your family members had more guts than you. They fought back, and did not search for healing, or understanding, or any other such nonsense.

Everyone should see this movie. If you are anywhere near Pennsylvania, you should hop in your car and drive to Shanksville to see the memorial. Take something as a tribute, and leave it there, as others have.

I went, and I will never be the same.

(I apologize for the graphics. This will take a while to load.)

I drove down to the Flight 93 Memorial Site yesterday, to pay my respects, and to see if what I had heard was true. And although I would put nothing past the liberals, there is no taint there now. The site of the crash is indeed in a bowl-shaped valley (we’re in the Alleghenies; we have lots of valleys), just down the road from a coal mine. There is no crescent of red maples — though if you flew over it, no doubt the trees that naturally line the valley would look like a crescent. I think the red maples were part of the proposed design, which has been withdrawn.

Shanksville is deep in rural south-central Pennsylvania. Flags in front of every house. Not a Kerry bumpersticker in sight. A turkey shoot at the local church (advertised on the sign in front). Conservative and patriotic, and nothing blue state about it. You have to drive out in the country to get there, and it isn’t marked well until you’re almost there (but it’s not hard to find; if you want directions, email me and I can get you there easily).

About three miles past Shanksville, there is a road to the coal mine, the mine on whose land the plane crashed. When I turned right and started up the hill, I felt as if I was weighted down somehow. Rush was on; I turned the radio off. Sound seemed disrespectful, somehow. I climbed the hill, past the coal mine on the right. When I got to the top and started down, I saw it, almost as if it jumped out of the ground. Stark. In the middle of nowhere. Undisturbed by roads or traffic.

I understood that there was as yet no memorial, but as I pulled into the parking lot, I thought, "Surely, they deserve better than this." There are porta-potties there, and only a shack with the national park service sign on it, for the ambassadors, the locals who volunteer to work there. As I got out and walked toward the site, I still had that contradictory feeling that this was sacred, yet too little had been done.

 

As I drew closer, close enough that I could clearly see, I began to feel the power of the memorial. Began, I said. When I first saw the railings, and the magnets and stickers that lined them, I felt that they were tacky.

 

I walked past the ambassadors’ shack straight ahead, toward what looked like a grave on the end. I saw the first memorial, left perhaps by a relative, perhaps by a friend or coworker. I stopped. And as I looked, I felt that weight again.

 

I passed slowly to my right, and saw the next. And the next. And then a line of flags. As I drew closer to the flags, I saw that there was a flag for each of the heroes on the plane, and each hero had an angel with his or her name on it. Some of the angels had rosaries, some had scapulars; some also had pictures.

 

 

 

And then I looked up, out across the field, and I saw it. There was nothing to identify it, but I knew what it was. I knew why that large flag was flying alone, almost at the line of trees, so far away, yet so close. That is when the full power of the memorial hit me, when I felt the presence of those heroes. And I had to fight back the tears.

 

I stood and looked out across the field at the place where they had made the ultimate sacrifice for a long time. I could not pull myself away to look at the rest of the memorial for some time. I could only look and feel sorrow and grief and anger. But finally, I tore my eyes away and continued to my right, and saw the cross, so Roman Catholic with all the pictures and rosaries and small crosses left there, and several people kneeling in prayer.

 

I got it, suddenly, as I looked at the cross, even before I saw the fence. This is a memorial in the most honest, most sincere, and most democratic sense, a wholly American expression of gratitude, patriotism, grief, sorrow, pride, and anger. This is not some vision of an artist or architect. This is sacred ground, where we come to respect the dead, acknowledge our heroes, meditate and pray. This is a place where we leave a part of ourselves as a testament to those whose memory we honor.

I realized that these heroes do not deserve better. They already have the best. And I started walking slowly down the fence, both sides covered with things people brought and left, license plates, baseball caps, crosses and medals, patches, and things they made with their hands.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Atop the fence, memorial flags whip in the strong wind. They crest this peoples’ memorial, these tokens of respect and honor visitors have left, and give powerful voice to those who will never forget and never forgive.

 

 

 

This is a holy place, an American memorial. These people have come to honor the heroes of Flight 93. This place is proudly American, proudly patriotic, and is as yet uncorrupted by liberal hand-wringing or "healing" bells. The emotions are raw and honest: anger, defiance, pride, gratitude, sorrow, and grief. There is no apology here, no liberal "it was really our fault" presence. This is a place where Americans come to honor, and yes mourn, their American heroes.

The point at which I almost broke down came when I was back at the fence, looking closely at the momentos. I then saw, on the ground at the bottom, a rock somebody had painted. That one testament, created by someone’s hands, captured the whole of the memorial in one place — and I came very close to crying.

 

You made us believe in heroes. Yes, there is the memorial, everything together, distilled into its most essential. Almost childlike, with the bear, yet so powerful and so heart rending, so utterly pure in its message. You made us believe in heroes.

As soon as I got in my car, I cried. I cried for all those heroes who gave their lives. I cried for all the heroes in uniform. I cried for those who were murdered on that day. I cried for the people who had come to honor that place and their dead.

Now that I have been, and now that I have had time to reflect on it, I would prefer that nothing be done. No grand memorial, no grand vision of some great artist or architect, because no vision can be more honest, more pure, and more powerful than what is there now. I realize that won’t happen, but I hope that they leave that place where people can leave a part of themselves. I hope they leave what is there alone, adding if they must, some memorial building. But leave the people, those who came to memorialize, to pray, to honor their dead heroes, leave that place where they in turn leave a part of themselves. Nothing could be more appropriate, or more moving.