You don't know us
By LEONARD PITTS JR. Miami Herald
They pay me to tease shades of meaning from
social and cultural issues, to provide words that help make sense of that which
troubles the American soul. But in this moment of airless shock when hot tears
sting disbelieving eyes, the only thing I can find to say, the only words that seem
to fit, must be addressed to the unknown author of this suffering.
You monster. You beast. You unspeakable
bastard. What lesson did you hope to teach us by your coward's attack on our World
Trade Center, our Pentagon, us? What was it you hoped we would learn?
Whatever it was, know that you failed.
Did you want us to respect your cause? You
just damned it.
Did you want to make us fear? You just
steeled our resolve.
Did you want to tear us apart? You just
brought us together.
Let me tell you about my people. We are a
vast and quarrelsome family, a family rent by racial, cultural, political and
class division, but a family nonetheless. We're frivolous, yes, capable of
expending tremendous emotional energy on pop cultural minutiae -- a singer's
revealing dress, a ball team's misfortune, a cartoon mouse.
We're wealthy, too, spoiled by the ready
availability of trinkets and material goods, and maybe because of that, we walk
through life with a certain sense of blithe entitlement. We are fundamentally
decent, though -- peace-loving and compassionate. We struggle to know the right
thing and to do it. And we are, the overwhelming majority of us, people of
faith, believers in a just and loving God.
Some people -- you, perhaps -- think that
any or all of this makes us weak. You're mistaken. We are not weak. Indeed, we
are strong in ways that cannot be measured by arsenals. Yes, we're in pain now.
We are in mourning, and we are in shock. We're still grappling with the
unreality of the awful thing you did, still working to make ourselves
understand that this isn't a special effect from some Hollywood blockbuster,
isn't the plot from a Tom Clancy novel.
Both in terms of the awful scope of its
ambition and the probable final death toll, your attacks are likely to go down
as the worst acts of terrorism in the history of the United States and, indeed,
the history of the world. You've bloodied us as we have never been bloodied
before. But there's a gulf of difference between making us bloody and making us
fall. This is the lesson Japan was taught to its bitter sorrow the last time
anyone hit us this hard, the last time anyone brought us such abrupt and
monumental pain. When roused, we are righteous in our outrage, terrible in our
force. When provoked by this level of barbarism, we will bear any suffering,
pay any cost, go to any length, in the pursuit of justice.
I tell you this without fear of
contradiction. I know my people, as you do not. What I know reassures me. It
also causes me to tremble with dread of the future. In days to come, there will
be recrimination and accusation, fingers pointing to determine whose failure
allowed this to happen and what can be done to prevent it from happening again.
There will be heightened security, misguided talk of revoking basic freedoms.
We'll go forward from this moment sobered, chastened, sad. But determined, too.
Unimaginably determined.
There is steel beneath this velvet. That
aspect of our character is seldom understood by those who don't know us well.
On this day, the family's bickering is put on hold. As Americans we will weep,
as Americans we will mourn, and as Americans we will rise in defense of all
that we cherish.
Still, I keep wondering what it was you
hoped to teach us. It occurs to me that maybe you just wanted us to know the
depths of your hatred. If that's the case, consider the message received. And
take this message in exchange: You don't know my people. You don't know what
we're about. You don't know what you just started. But you're about to learn.
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