Right Wing Nation

October 1, 2005.

 

(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 I think the red maples were part of the proposed design, which has been withdrawn.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.