Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth…
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
And sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread…
– Kindness, Naomi Shihab Nye

When the reinforced concrete presence of the supreme authority in your world literally explodes, and the streets are littered with the life work of civil servants made bureaucratic ash and coated in the blood of children, and the chaos and confusion of not understanding the incomprehensible outcome of violence and rage leaves a whole people in stunned immobility — staring unceasingly at live feeds of the heart-breaking mundanity of combing through rubble — you meet an evil you did not know existed before.  Worse, you come to share a sorrow so big that it engulfs your family, your neighbors, your communities, and all within your state.  There is a mass mourning; for 30 days, everywhere you go you are part of a funeral procession — but it’s a wandering cavalcade with no destination.  There is a ground zero but no terminus.  Grief radiates; it dissipates rather than ends.

In the aftermath, we performed public and private rites to express our grief and kept vigils in honor of those we grieved.  We still meet together and speak the names of the victims, light candles, and share comfort.  Every year, on this date, we relive a little and mark the event.  We examine our scars.  The tears come easily and it’s been now twenty years.

We participate in these rituals, which do the very thing the terrorist hoped to destroy: they bind us together and inspire us to do good for one another.  In a rush, we gave of our money, our time, and our tears.  Later, we left tributes and tokens in the fence that became the first, makeshift memorial.  After two decades, we have a space dedicated to encouraging peace and reflection that brings beauty to the ugly, horrible act.  We go there to walk among the chairs, large and small, and to inhabit a horrific minute suspended serenely in a still pool.

Most importantly, we commit to doing acts of service, kindness, or remembrance in honor of those lost and the sacrifices made in that dark time.  Keeping alive what the Memorial calls the “tenderness of the response” to the bombing is our way of honoring, sanctifying, and amending the tragedy.  To do these solemn good acts is to give no place to terrorism.  The antidote to fear and hate is generosity of spirit.  This, too, radiates into the world; like grief, its effect also has no end.

The bomb blast killed many, but the aftermath inspired so many more.  We consciously choose to do good in the world because it’s our way of responding to the bad.  You cannot undo cruel acts, but we can make sure they do not undo us.  With kindness and generosity, we can turn tragedy into a motivation that unites and inspires us to be better.  In our confusion and grief, it was the thing we just knew to do.


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“And be it enacted…That all Negroes and Indians…mulattoes or mustizoes who now are, or shall hereafter be, in this Province, and all their issue and offspring, born or to be born, shall be…and remain forever hereafter, absolute slaves..and it shall be always presumed that every Negro, Indian, mulatto, and mustizo, is a slave…”
 
On the Lord’s Day, September 9, 1739, as their white owners observed their regular Sabbath routines, twenty slaves met down at the Stono River outside Charleston, South Carolina — the beginning of a failed American Revolution.  It wasn’t the first slave rebellion in the English colonies, and it wouldn’t be the last (there were some 250 that we know of) — but it was bloody and, in a place where black slaves outnumbered white citizens, fear of a recurrence drove English citizens, steeped in their Bill of Rights and republicanism, to solidify control over their involuntary “workforce” through the mechanism of law afterwards.
 
By the time of the law’s passage, the approximately sixty rebels involved in the Stono uprising had been hunted down and killed — the right to trial (for the deaths of about twenty whites during the revolt) and access to the judiciary denied them.  In May of 1740, however, the state legislature moved to punish too those slaves who had not participated, preemptively, and cruelly.  It declared them “absolute” in their enslavement — a legal status that would extend beyond their lifetimes to include those of every one of their line after them.
 
“And be it further enacted…That it shall not be lawful for any slave, unless in the presence of some white person, to carry or make use of fire arms, or any offensive weapons whatsoever, unless such Negro or slave shall have a ticket or license, in writing, from his master, mistress or overseer, to hunt and kill game, cattle, or mischievous birds, or beasts of prey…”

That the Negro Act of 1740 also prohibited slaves from independently possessing guns and other weapons does not surprise.  It seems a rational response — necessary to the forced suppression of unwilling people. The Act did not stop there, however.  It went much further, assuring systemic impediments would prevent black Americans from obtaining a measure of material opportunity (if not legal parity) and dignity within the bounds of enslavement as well.  The most fundamental example of this was the requirement that slaves carry passes — to move about, to indicate the legality of their presence and actions (as in carrying a weapon), and to tie them always to the permission of white prerogatives. Making them dependent on the will of their masters and governmental agents was not solely a security measure, however.  It served also to deny them the humanity that comes with having free will.

“And whereas, several owners of slaves have permitted them to keep canoes, and to breed and raise horses, neat cattle and hogs, and to traffic and barter in several parts of this Province…Be it therefore enacted by the authority aforesaid, That it shall not be lawful for any slave so to buy, sell, trade, traffic, deal, or barter for any goods or commodities…”

In the same vein, the Act’s prohibition against self-employment for slaves both economically handicapped them — assuring they could enjoy no higher standard of living than that for which they were dependent on their white masters’ largesse — and denied them the opportunity to interact with other slaves through commercial networks.  It divided and impoverished them, intentionally, and it also eliminated the possibility of negotiating their personal economic opportunities with local whites, who might consider them individually and on their merits.  The law dictated a uniform dependent economic station for all slaves instead — a restriction designed to depress them, not simply minimize the threat of rebellion.
 
“And whereas, many of the slaves in this Province wear clothes much above the condition of slaves..For the prevention, therefore, of such practices for the future, Be it enacted…That no owner or proprietor of any Negro slave, or other slave, (except livery men and boys,) shall permit or suffer such Negro or other slave, to have or wear any sort of apparel whatsoever, finer, other, or greater value than Negro cloth, duffels, kerseys, osnabrigs, blue linen, check linen or coarse garlix, or calicoes, checked cottons, or Scotch plaids…”

Made defenseless and impoverished, the South Carolina Legislature also acted to further demean the surviving slaves — and those for generations forward — in denying them even a choice of clothing.  In an age when deference guided social conventions, slaves were bound to wear the clothes of a lower caste, even over the skin that legally already condemned them.  It was insult added to injury to restrict their dress after decreeing their color a presumption of their slave status. Always, within the boundaries of South Carolina, they would be judged on sight — by the color of their skin and by the fabric of their clothing.  The law here again denied them the chance to be individual — to express themselves freely through fashion or to give an appearance that suggested pride or identification other than that determined for them by white citizens.

“And whereas, many disobedient and evil minded Negroes and other slaves, being the property of his Majesty’s subjects of this Province, have lately deserted the service of their owners, and have fled to St. Augustine and other places in Florida, in hopes of being there received and protected; and whereas, many other slaves have attempted to follow the same evil and pernicious example…”

Finally, lest the slaves attempt to free themselves non-violently from their impoverished and humiliated condition — to reject the social contract of their State — the law established means for preventing escape and punishing runaways for fleeing. Though the Spanish (with whom the English were then at war) hardly offered true equality to those who sought freedom, it was natural that — hearing promises enticing them to abandon their masters for Florida — slaves would desperately seize on a hope for liberty, and life, and to perhaps pursue entrepreneurship, fashion, society — that is, happiness — in some place beyond the reach of their masters’ new law.  How else to escape the cruelty and meanness of their masters’ vengeance and the obsessive rule of their fear?
 
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It begins with slavery, of course — and religion.  Samuel Parris, a Puritan and early English colonist, turned to the ministry for a more regular income than that offered by his efforts at trade and his sugar plantation in Barbados (an inheritance).  Ironically, the parish of Salem Village, whose pulpit Parris assumed in 1689, had a history of failing to compensate its ministers as agreed, and the same would happen with Parris in the end.  The promise of pay brought him to the unchartered burg, however, and with him came his wife and family — and their slaves, Tituba and John.
 
In 1692, Parris’ daughter and niece began having “fits,” and the family could not account for the bizarre behavior.  When it persisted for a few weeks despite watchfulness and prayer, the family sent for the local doctor to consult.  His diagnosis: possible bewitching.  Under questioning, the girls accused Tituba of witchcraft, blaming her for their enchantment — as assisted by local outcasts, Sarahs Osborne and Good.  At the charge, the just Reverend Parris beat his slave, inducing her to confess to practicing witchcraft, signing the “Devil’s Book,” flying, and assaulting the girls.  Under duress, Tituba confirmed Osborne and Good as her co-conspirators and claimed that there were others involved in a plot by the Devil against the colony.  Fear of Satan, black magic, and a conspiracy of witches flooded Massachusetts Bay.  Tituba was jailed and later sold away, while Good was hung and Osborne died awaiting trial.  By then, however, more persons had begun to display signs of being “afflicted” and named other colonists as their persecutors.  Instances of false witness burgeoned into a judicial rampage.
 
In the end, more than 150 persons were imprisoned and 22 died — either by hanging, torture, or poor conditions while in jail awaiting prosecution after being accused. Some were excommunicated from their churches and two fled the colony until the hysteria passed.  Many were harassed or tortured into confessing, while those who adamantly maintained their innocence were convicted and executed.  As fall began to wane, however, Governor Phips — returning from a military expedition against the Indians and finding that his own wife had been accused — suspended all trials, and the furor too started to ebb.
 
In May of the following year, Phips released the remaining accused, as popular opinion shifted against the witch hunts.  Reverend Parris admitted that he might “have been mistaken” in his position, while some accusers recanted their claims.  Much later, jurors, a judge and one of the alleged victims would publicly regret their involvement in the injustice.  A penitent colony held a Day of Repentance in 1697 for what had occurred, and in 1702, the trials were declared “unlawful” after the fact.  Beginning in 1711, the colony undertook restitution to the falsely accused and their survivors.  The names of the condemned were cleared, and memorials were made to those sacrificed to fear, hatred, and panic.

“IN MEMORY OF THOSE INNOCENTS WHO DIED DURING THE SALEM VILLAGE WITCHCRAFT HYSTERIA OF 1692″
 
These words adorn the front of a stone monument erected in 1992 for historically-minded tourists who come to visit still today for the town’s infamy.  After perusing the memorial’s inscriptions, visitors can walk the well-kept grounds of the demolished parsonage, where the marker tells us Tituba told the children tales of witchcraft, and wander the old cemetery, where they can read the poem Parris wrote to his wife inscribed on her tombstone:
 
Sleep precious Dust no Stranger now to Rest.
Thou hast thy longed wish in Abrahams Brest.
Farewell best Wife, choice Mother, Neighbour, Friend.
Weel wail the less for hopes of Thee i th End.
 
Tituba, of course, is not honored with the town’s victims, in the cemetery, or at any of the other local sites, and she received no restitution for her imprisonment.  Her ending is unknown.
 
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I am always amused when Staters describe our citizenry as “people of faith” — in part because faith, per the Good Book, is supposed to overcome fear.  Judging Staters on their responses to fearful situations or on acts indicative of their faith in themselves and the American Way to overcome doesn’t always suggest a people of confidence — more a community of doubt.
 
Looking back at our history, we can see that we have often been motivated by fear and that this has shaped the choices we’ve made — even as we see ourselves as a proud, powerful nation.  Ours is a superpower that acts repeatedly in panic and alarm.  One could argue that we are the perfect foil for terrorism; it’s almost Pavlovian the way our country behaves in the face of the pettiest of threats at times (much less when the situation warrants true concern). We don’t even seem to recognize the disconnect between the ways we act and the words we use to describe ourselves either.  We may swear that these colors don’t run, but they don’t hesitate to pass discriminatory laws or voluntarily surrender our rights in a panic just the same.
 
The Ebola epidemic, which has dominated headlines in the US for months and for which Congress recently appropriated $5.4 billion to fight after it claimed the life of one citizen, is the most recent example (and don’t kid yourself that Staters were eager to drop that kind of coin out of pure humanitarianism) — but it’s probably not the most egregious act.  Certainly, we’ve spent far more of our tax money on and expanded governmental powers to combat other threats before.  Robert Wiebe brilliantly described how the Progressives, driven by fear of immigrants, the poor, and those of other races (in combination with social and economic upheavals), created new mechanisms of control in the early 20th century in response to their anxieties about the disorder around them.  I think it wrong to see this exclusively as a Progressive trait or a temporary abnormality in outlook.  I think it American — though I’m not sure we are exceptional in this.
 
As a writing project for this year, I’m going to dedicate my blog posts to recounting some of the stories of how we have responded to and acted out of fear in the past.  Each month, I’m going to cover another example from our history that illustrates the effects of our fright and the things dread has prodded us to do.  Hopefully, these stories will be illustrative as much as embarrassing and entertaining. Truthfully, there has been a boldness to our fearful acts at times, and we hardly seem to fear what our fears make us.  In that, perhaps a sense of consciousness is the least we fear and the most interesting thing about American anxiety.
 
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There’s a natural but unsettling feeling of not-belonging that comes with being in a new place. Nothing gives you a sense of the familiar — not the street leading to your new “home,” not the local pub, and most certainly not the faces of the strangers all around you. You are a visitor or a transplant. You are a stranger.
 
I left a place I know, and by “know” I mean I have a history there — and I am familiar with its history beyond me.  I came to know it through my time and experience there.  Temporality of knowing is fundamental to the human condition.  We must have time with something — with a place, with people — in order to know it or them.  Experience is the only way to get beyond the instantly observable.  That is, to have a conscious understanding of something.
 
Can I navigate this new place?  Yes, with difficulty.  I get lost.  I look things up.  I have to ask for help.  With tools, I can be functional here, but I do not know it.  I don’t understand the signs in the windows of houses I pass or the unfamiliar traffic patterns or the beer selections.
 
In time I will.  If I stay, I will know these things — and the more serious history and aspects of the place too.  I can come to understand the socio-economic conditions, the culture, the habits and mores of the folks here.  Now, I guess at it, but I can come to have such an awareness of it that I take its familiarity for granted.  Then I will have a history here.
 
There’s no getting around it: belonging — knowing — requires historical experience. Making history here will take some time.  Until then…
 
     ”The whole family hadn’t one member buried here. Everybody was
     on the surface of the country, flat on his feet, selling watermelons,
     or plowing a row of vines.
 
     We were in Fresno, but we were nowhere, too.  How could we really
     be in a place until death had caught up with one of us, and we had
     buried him and knew he was there?”
     – William Saroyan, “Madness in the Family”
White residents fled Charleston, South Carolina in droves as the Union army approached in mid-February, 1865.  In short order, the city population became overwhelmingly black, due to the white flight, and in the months following, the free black population began determining what their post-war life would be like. They sought out displaced kinfolk, hoping first to restore their families, which had been divided by slavery.  Like other southerners, they also struggled to find means to obtain food and shelter in a devastated economy.  And, too, they celebrated their freedom and the death of the Confederacy with tears and gladness.
 
Amidst this battle for survival and their eruptions of celebration and joy, black residents also honored those who died in the cause of bringing them freedom.  During the war, the plantation class’ old playground — the Washington Race Course, a track operated by the South Carolina Jockey Club in Charleston — was transcripted to serve as a prison for Union POW’s.  The dying Confederacy had neither the means nor the drive to provide decent detention conditions at the end.  In the cold winter months of December, January, and early February, a great many of the prisoners died from exposure and poor care; others died from disease.  All told, 257 of the more than 2,000 kept there did not survive.  Their bodies were unceremoniously dumped into a mass grave behind the fine Grandstand — abandoned by the fleeing Confederate army as Union forces neared.  But, local black citizens did not forget them.  Even as they struggled to feed their families and build new lives, they stopped to dig up the remains and rebury them properly on the grounds.  The graves were marked, and over the new cemetery, an arch was erected with “Martyrs of the Race Course” emblazoned on it to signify the sacredness of the site.
 
On May 1st, black Charlestonians gathered — with white sympathizers — in the thousands to pay tribute to these fallen soldiers. Three thousand children led the procession singing tribute to another white martyr of the cause:
 
John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave,
John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave,
But his soul goes marching on.

Glory, glory, hallelujah,
Glory, glory, hallelujah,
Glory, glory, hallelujah,
His soul goes marching on.
 
The parade continued with the singing of spirituals and the Star-Spangled Banner.  Women followed the children in — their arms full with wreaths and crosses to place on the graves.  Behind them rows of free black men marched in time, followed by Union troops and various other local residents — white and black — who brought up the rear.  After the grand entrance, local ministers conducted a dedication service, and then the celebrants ate picnics while soldiers drilled for their entertainment.  Some 10,000 people — mourners and friends, the paper called them — participated in the day’s events.
 
A year later, white ladies in the South appropriated this remembrance.  In April and May of 1866, they held “Decoration Day” ceremonies — this time to honor Confederate soldiers lost to the Lost Cause.  White South Carolinians then also laid wreaths on graves and held solemn services to remember the dead — not the Union soldiers their black peers celebrated the year before, but the white men who died to preserve the old slave system.  These remembrance activities, in turn, inspired northerners to emulate the practice a couple of years later.  Northern celebrations, however, were more likely to include singing The Battle Hymn of the Republic, Julia Ward Howe’s appropriation of John Brown’s Body, than the original that was sung by the black children of Charleston in 1865.  In the south, the anniversary of General Johnston’s surrender to General Sherman and Jefferson Davis’ birthday were common Decoration Day dates — but in South Carolina, it was marked on May 10th, Stonewall Jackson’s birthday.  In 1971, Congress legislated a national Memorial Day celebration on the last Monday in May, but Confederate Memorial Days persist in states around the south on traditional days of remembrance.
 
Later in the nineteenth century, the cemetery of the martyrs in Charleston was similarly appropriated.  The bodies were ultimately moved to a federal site in Beaufort, South Carolina, and the old race track repurposed into a city park.  It was renamed for Wade Hampton — a Confederate general and post-war governor of South Carolina who helped “redeem” the state for white Democrats.  Hampton’s own redemption led to political prominence; later in the century, he even served as Railroad Commissioner for the US government, appointed by Grover Cleveland.  Now named for one who helped free the state from northern control, the racetrack-turned-burial-site was “redeemed,” too, and remade into a public space that again offered recreation for generations of white Charlestonians under segregation and the Hampton banner.
 
When the race track was dissembled in 1903, scions of Charleston society gifted the old gates from its entrance to industrialist August Belmont.  Belmont, of course, built the race track in New York that bears his name.  His was a new private recreational site where the great monied set could indulge in sport and fashion, and the membership was unparalleled in its wealth and power.  Those gates that once welcomed the old slave-owning aristocracy of Charleston then greeted the new industrial aristocrats: the Vanderbilts, DuPonts, et al.  The gates, and with them the legacy of antebellum leisure made possible by slavery, were thus appropriated as well then.  New money and a new system of legal segregation built on the remnants of antebellum wealth and privilege created a modern social structure also based on race and class.
 
Very soon, thousands of attendees will stream past those very race course gates to attend the Belmont Stakes.  They will be eager for the possibility of another historic Triple Crown win.  Just a week after South Carolina observed its most recent Confederate Memorial Day, a Derby winner also took the Preakness — another product of the new money aristocracy’s supplanting of the slave-owning class, giving form to Crown hopes at Belmont.  Before then, however, we will mark our annual remembrance of those lost in war — with appeals to patriotism and celebrations of militarism throughout our country.  We do this because we remember the martyrs to the causes (and especially the more recent causes),  but we want to forget The Cause and those grateful people who benefited from its success — but then lost much of the freedom for which the martyrs had given their lives.  It has all been appropriated into sport and recreational spaces and white privilege and biased history now.  This is the course of race in America: past privilege seeds new privilege and the legacies go marching on.
 
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Trooper Charles Hanger was patrolling the I-35 corridor in north-central Oklahoma on the morning of April 19, 1995, stopping to help a stranded motorist and then heading north on a call to aid another when he noticed a yellow Mercury sedan without a tag.  Hanger signaled for the car to pull over, and the driver complied.  The two men got out of their vehicles and met between them.  The trooper testified later that he questioned the man about the missing tag, and the driver said that he had recently bought the car and had not yet obtained a tag for it.  It seemed a routine stop, until Hanger noticed a bulge under the driver’s windbreaker.  He instructed the man to unzip his jacket and open it.  Before being discovered, the man volunteered: “I have a gun.”
 
The trooper immediately pulled his gun and aimed at the driver’s head.  He took the weapon from the man and tossed it away.  Hanger asked why he was carrying the weapon, and the man, now splayed against the car, responded that he thought he needed it for protection.  The trooper handcuffed the driver and read him his Miranda rights.  Thereafter, with little conversation between them as they sat side-by-side in the front of the patrol car, they made their way to the jail in Perry, Oklahoma.  The man’s only concern, the trooper said later, was that he should have his gun returned to him.  At the county jail, the driver — Timothy McVeigh — was booked for transporting a loaded firearm in a vehicle, unlawfully carrying a weapon, and failure to obtain a tag and insurance on the car.  In the subsequent two days leading up to his court hearing on these charges, federal agents were able to identify McVeigh as the man responsible for the Murrah Building bombing in Oklahoma City and locate him waiting in the county jail.
 
Normally, failure to display a tag and carry proof of insurance are not violations for which one is arrested.  These are just misdemeanor charges under the Oklahoma Statutes, and a car isn’t even impounded during stops based on these infractions, usually.  Instead, one is simply ticketed/fined and, perhaps, denied driving privileges for a period of time later (although a conviction can warrant a brief jail sentence, which is not common in practice).  Since McVeigh was carrying a loaded weapon, however, he was arrested immediately.  The following month, the Oklahoma legislature passed a law (that the Governor signed) permitting citizens to carry a concealed weapon upon obtaining a license to do so — ostensibly for personal protection.  Just a couple of years ago, the legislature amended the Self-Defense Act to permit licensees to carry their weapons in full view as well.
 
Of course, the persons from whom McVeigh would have needed protection were the authorities, pursuing him for his crimes.  Bizarrely — and disturbingly — if he had committed his act of terrorism just a few months later, the trooper could have had no cause to detain him at his stop.  With credentials, McVeigh could have continued on his escape north, delayed only to obtain a ticket he would likely never pay.  The manhunt for him would certainly have become more lengthy and complicated then as well.  Who knows how long it would’ve taken to locate him, had he not been tucked away in a jail in Noble County.  He probably could have hidden in a remote location in another state and even gone underground — perhaps aided by sympathizers who shared his hostility to government.  A costly and time-consuming pursuit would then have been necessitated.  It might even have been that the authorities would never locate him.  Had he not been stopped and discovered illegally carrying a weapon when he was, his odds of finding safe haven would have been far greater.
 
Even more troubling, any number of future domestic terrorists and armed anti-government revolutionaries need not fear being detained as McVeigh was either.  Fleeing from a crime scene created by their impersonal weapons — at a sporting event, clinic, parking lot, or courthouse — their personal ones might not be enough to cause their arrest if stopped.*  License to protection would preclude any detention that would allow investigators time to track their suspects as they sat incommunicado.  Reduced gun restrictions now prevent a trooper from responding as Hanger did.  Accordingly, self-protection has undoubtedly made us all less safe.
 
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*Since 2001, bombs have been set by domestic terrorists at each of the kinds of places listed.  Some of these crimes remain unsolved.

It Ends

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Mar 092014
I’ve been working — on an ongoing basis — on a general history of the US.  Although it’s a survey of our past, it is by necessity about growth and advancement.  With our history there are some requisites: you have to deal with the “discovery” and founding of the country; the national expansion across a continental land mass must be described; and the evolution of a confederacy into a superpower begs explanation.  Invariably, when telling a story about how this country got to where it is today, you are talking about building — about coming together and progress (even at the expense of the first inhabitants).  This is the story of migrants and colonists becoming citizens.
 
It is my job as a historian — with this project and with all my classes — to explain how things came to be.  We observe where we are now, and our histories describe the way here.  Constructing tales of this construction is the essence of my historical work.  It is, then, too, my habit.
 
But, I was watching the news the other day, and it struck me that our society seems as if it is unraveling.  I have a sense that we’ve become so enamored of natural law that we are headed to a brutish natural state.  I look at the political divisions in our country, and I wonder if they can be mended.  We have had these fights so many times it seems.  Even at the political founding of our nation, the Federalists and anti-Federalists fought against one another.  We are constantly disagreeing, and I wonder just how long we can last with this as our state in the States.  We must lack the knack for diplomacy because dispute has already led us to civil war.  We tried to reconstruct but it didn’t really take, and eventually we returned to our corners.  Just as we became a superpower, we seemed again to erupt in civil strife. The culture wars began, and there hasn’t seemed to be any domestic peace since.
 
And, I remembered: things fall apart.  In the back of my mind, I know nothing lasts forever.  History is about change, and political unions are as temporal as the people who make them.  Sometimes, nations are reborn.  Sometimes, they are swallowed up by others.  Sometimes, they are glued together with other loose bits at the bidding of men around conference tables.  They do not stay the same though, and mostly, they have endings.
 
I know this — really, we all know this.  We don’t always actively use that awareness in our everyday thinking or analysis though.  We go on as if, because we would have no reason to bother if we only thought about the end. Life must be lived; there is no skipping forward.
 
As I was thinking these things, I suddenly became very sad.  I was sick-at-heart sad.  Of course the first part of our history is how it comes together, and, by necessity, the later part is how it ends.  It occurred to me that quite literally, I could be living in the coming apart period (although, really, we might ultimately describe the unraveling as beginning even while the weaving occurred).  It could be that in a couple of generations I could be explaining the previous republic to students.  Or The Republic, should we move on to something else.  (Hello, techmocracy.)  In the future, I might likely be explaining, then, how we came not to be.
 
It seems likely to me that it won’t be one nation, indivisible much longer, and that we might become three or four or five nations for whom the Union is like the empires of old.  We might be better neighbors than we are family, but it saddens me just the same.  I like being a Stater, and the notion of choosing to which fragment I would go depresses. I think probably I am not the first citizen to foresee this outcome, and it might be some time coming still.  It no longer seems to me, however, that the Union is something to which we commit our lives, fortunes, and sacred honors. My historical perspective on this has, very sadly, shifted.
 
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For my mother, who was there.
 
The need to carry Texas and Florida in the 1964 election prompted JFK’s staff to schedule a trip to the Lone Star State in November, 1963.
 
The whirlwind trip would abort in Dallas, where hostile crowds jeered at and a woman assaulted US Ambassador Stevenson a mere month before.
 
The First Lady was to accompany her husband — her first official public outing since the loss of their second son shortly after childbirth.
 
Much of Nov 21st the presidential party was to spend in Houston — a motorcade followed by two public appearances before friendly crowds.
 
Yellow roses, wind, a mariachi band, smiles & handshakes, sour poll results, roast quail & Heineken, & a Medal of Honor recipient met them.
 
For security, tenants of downtown office buildings received instructions not to open windows or throw anything  as the motorcade passed.
 
Crowds along the way spilled onto the streets; no barricades separated them from the open motorcars crawling single file mere feet away.
 
The Kennedys gave impromptu talks — hers in Spanish — after stopping at the LULAC gala that evening; the crowd responded “Viva Kennedy!”
 
The day’s final event: a speech at a dinner for Congressman Thomas, where a well-planned slip of the President’s tongue amused attendees.
 
JFK spoke hopefully of the future — quoting the Bible: “Where there is no vision, the people perish” — before the party flew to Ft. Worth.
 
Just hours later, crowds again spilled onto Houston streets — disbelieving, in grief standing where they had welcomed the day before.
 
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Nov 102013

Starting tomorrow, I will be tweeting another short twistory — serial posts that tell a mini-history over several days.  Follow me on Twitter to read them as they appear.  At the conclusion, I will post the tweets here altogether as well.  I hope you enjoy it.  Feedback is welcome.

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