My Heart on the Line
By Frank Schaeffer
The Washington Post
"Before my son became a Marine, I never thought much about who was defending
me. Now when I read of the war on terrorism or the coming conflict in Iraq, it
cuts to my heart. When I see a picture of a member of our military who has
been killed, I read his or her name very carefully. Sometimes I cry.
In 1999, when the barrel-chested Marine recruiter showed up in dress blues and
bedazzled my son John, I did not stand in the way. John was headstrong, and he
seemed to understand these stern, clean men with straight backs and flawless
uniforms. I did not. I live in the Volvo-driving, higher education-worshiping
North Shore of Boston. I write novels for a living. I have never served in the
military.
It had been hard enough sending my two older children off to Georgetown and
New York University. John's enlisting was unexpected, so deeply unsettling. I
did not relish the prospect of answering the question, "So where is John going
to college?" from the parents who were itching to tell me all about how their
son or daughter was going to Harvard. At the private high school John
attended, no other students were going into the military.
"But aren't the Marines terribly Southern?" asked one perplexed mother while
standing next to me at the brunch following graduation. "What a waste, he was
such a good student," said another parent. One parent (a professor at a nearby
and rather famous university) spoke up at a school meeting and suggested that
the school should "carefully evaluate what went wrong."
When John graduated from three months of boot camp on Parris Island, 3,000
parents and friends were on the parade deck stands. We parents and our Marines
not only were of many races but also were representative of many economic
classes. Many were poor. Some arrived crammed in the backs of pickups, others
by bus. John told me that a lot of parents could not afford the trip.
We in the audience were white and Native American. We were Hispanic, Arab, and
African American, and Asian. We were former Marines wearing the scars of
battle, or at least baseball caps emblazoned with battles' names. We were
Southern whites from Nashville and skinheads from New Jersey, black kids from
Cleveland wearing ghetto rags and white ex-cons with ham-hock forearms defaced
by jailhouse tattoos. We would not have been mistaken for the educated and
well-heeled parents gathered on the lawns of John's private school a half-year
before.
After graduation one new Marine told John, "Before I was a Marine, if I had
ever seen you on my block I would've probably killed you just because you were
standing there." This was a serious statement from one of John's good friends,
a black ex-gang member from Detroit who, as John said, "would die for me now,
just like I'd die for him."
My son has connected me to my country in a way that I was too selfish and
insular to experience before. I feel closer to the waitress at our local diner
than to some of my oldest friends. She has two sons in the Corps. They are
facing the same dangers as my boy. When the guy who fixes my car asks me how
John is doing, I know he means it. His younger brother is in the Navy.
Why were I and the other parents at my son's private school so surprised by
his choice? During World War II, the sons and daughters of the most powerful
and educated families did their bit. If the idea of the
immorality of the Vietnam War was the only reason those lucky enough to go to
college dodged the draft, why did we not encourage our children to volunteer
for military service once that war was done?
Have we wealthy and educated Americans all become pacifists? Is the world a
safe place? Or have we just gotten used to having somebody else defend us?
What is the future of our democracy when the sons and daughters of the
janitors at our elite universities are far more likely to be put in harm's way
than are any of the students whose dorms their parents clean?
I feel shame because it took my son's joining the Marine Corps to make me take
notice of who is defending me. I feel hope because perhaps my son is part of a
future "greatest generation." As the storm clouds of war gather, at least I
know that I can look the men and women in uniform, in the eye. My son is one
of them. He is the best I have to offer. He is my heart."
By Frank Schaeffer
The Washington Post
"Before my son became a Marine, I never thought much about who was defending
me. Now when I read of the war on terrorism or the coming conflict in Iraq, it
cuts to my heart. When I see a picture of a member of our military who has
been killed, I read his or her name very carefully. Sometimes I cry.
In 1999, when the barrel-chested Marine recruiter showed up in dress blues and
bedazzled my son John, I did not stand in the way. John was headstrong, and he
seemed to understand these stern, clean men with straight backs and flawless
uniforms. I did not. I live in the Volvo-driving, higher education-worshiping
North Shore of Boston. I write novels for a living. I have never served in the
military.
It had been hard enough sending my two older children off to Georgetown and
New York University. John's enlisting was unexpected, so deeply unsettling. I
did not relish the prospect of answering the question, "So where is John going
to college?" from the parents who were itching to tell me all about how their
son or daughter was going to Harvard. At the private high school John
attended, no other students were going into the military.
"But aren't the Marines terribly Southern?" asked one perplexed mother while
standing next to me at the brunch following graduation. "What a waste, he was
such a good student," said another parent. One parent (a professor at a nearby
and rather famous university) spoke up at a school meeting and suggested that
the school should "carefully evaluate what went wrong."
When John graduated from three months of boot camp on Parris Island, 3,000
parents and friends were on the parade deck stands. We parents and our Marines
not only were of many races but also were representative of many economic
classes. Many were poor. Some arrived crammed in the backs of pickups, others
by bus. John told me that a lot of parents could not afford the trip.
We in the audience were white and Native American. We were Hispanic, Arab, and
African American, and Asian. We were former Marines wearing the scars of
battle, or at least baseball caps emblazoned with battles' names. We were
Southern whites from Nashville and skinheads from New Jersey, black kids from
Cleveland wearing ghetto rags and white ex-cons with ham-hock forearms defaced
by jailhouse tattoos. We would not have been mistaken for the educated and
well-heeled parents gathered on the lawns of John's private school a half-year
before.
After graduation one new Marine told John, "Before I was a Marine, if I had
ever seen you on my block I would've probably killed you just because you were
standing there." This was a serious statement from one of John's good friends,
a black ex-gang member from Detroit who, as John said, "would die for me now,
just like I'd die for him."
My son has connected me to my country in a way that I was too selfish and
insular to experience before. I feel closer to the waitress at our local diner
than to some of my oldest friends. She has two sons in the Corps. They are
facing the same dangers as my boy. When the guy who fixes my car asks me how
John is doing, I know he means it. His younger brother is in the Navy.
Why were I and the other parents at my son's private school so surprised by
his choice? During World War II, the sons and daughters of the most powerful
and educated families did their bit. If the idea of the
immorality of the Vietnam War was the only reason those lucky enough to go to
college dodged the draft, why did we not encourage our children to volunteer
for military service once that war was done?
Have we wealthy and educated Americans all become pacifists? Is the world a
safe place? Or have we just gotten used to having somebody else defend us?
What is the future of our democracy when the sons and daughters of the
janitors at our elite universities are far more likely to be put in harm's way
than are any of the students whose dorms their parents clean?
I feel shame because it took my son's joining the Marine Corps to make me take
notice of who is defending me. I feel hope because perhaps my son is part of a
future "greatest generation." As the storm clouds of war gather, at least I
know that I can look the men and women in uniform, in the eye. My son is one
of them. He is the best I have to offer. He is my heart."
Cemetery Watchman
My friend Kevin and I are volunteers at a national cemetery in Oklahoma and put in a few days a month in a 'slightly larger' uniform. Today had been a long, long day and I just wanted to get the day over with and go down to Smokey's and have a cold one. Sneaking a look at my watch, I saw the time, 16:55. Five minutes to go before the cemetery gates are closed for the day. Full dress was hot in the August sun. Oklahoma summertime was as bad as ever--the heat and humidity at the same level--both too high.
I saw the car pull into the drive, '69 or '70 model Cadillac Deville, looked factory-new. It pulled into the parking lot at a snail's pace. An old woman got out so slow I thought she was paralyzed; she had a cane and a sheaf of flowers--about four or five bunches as best I could tell.
I couldn't help myself. The thought came unwanted, and left a slightly bitter taste: 'She's going to spend an hour, and for this old soldier, my hip hurts like hell and I'm ready to get out of here right now!' But for this day, my duty was to assist anyone coming in.
Kevin would lock the 'In' gate and if I could hurry the old biddy along, we might make it to Smokey's in time.
I broke post attention. My hip made gritty noises when I took the first step and the pain went up a notch. I must have made a real military sight: middle-aged man with a small pot gut and half a limp, in marine full-dress uniform, which had lost its razor crease about thirty minutes after I began the watch at the cemetery.
I stopped in front of her, halfway up the walk. She looked up at me with an old woman's squint.
'Ma'am, may I assist you in any way?'
She took long enough to answer.
'Yes, son. Can you carry these flowers? I seem to be moving a tad slow these days.'
'My pleasure, ma'am.' (Well, it wasn't too much of a lie.)
She looked again. 'Marine, where were you stationed?'
' Vietnam, ma'am. Ground-pounder. '69 to '71.'
She looked at me closer. 'Wounded in action, I see. Well done, Marine. I'll be as quick as I can.'
I lied a little bigger: 'No hurry, ma'am.'
She smiled and winked at me. 'Son, I'm 85-years-old and I can tell a lie from a long way off. Let's get this done. Might be the last time I can do this. My name's Joanne Wieserman, and I've a few Marines I'd like to see one more time.'
'Yes, ma 'am. At your service.'
She headed for the World War I section, stopping at a stone. She picked one of the flower bunches out of my arm and laid it on top of the stone. She murmured something I couldn't quite make out. The name on the marble was Donald S. Davidson, USMC: France 1918.
She turned away and made a straight line for the World War II section, stopping at one stone. I saw a tear slowly tracking its way down her cheek. She put a bunch on a stone; the name was Stephen X. Davidson, USMC, 1943.
She went up the row a ways and laid another bunch on a stone, Stanley J. Wieserman, USMC, 1944.
She paused for a second and more tears flowed. 'Two more, son, and we'll be done'
I almost didn't say anything, but, 'Yes, ma'am. Take your time.'
She looked confused. 'Where's the Vietnam section, son? I seem to have lost my way.'
I pointed with my chin. 'That way, ma'am.'
'Oh!' she chuckled quietly. 'Son, me and old age ain't too friendly.'
She headed down the walk I'd pointed at. She stopped at a couple of stones before she found the ones she wanted. She placed a bunch on Larry Wieserman, USMC, 1968, and the last on Darrel Wieserman, USMC, 1970. She stood there and murmured a few words I still couldn't make out and more tears flowed.
'OK, son, I'm finished. Get me back to my car and you can go home.'
Yes, ma'am. If I may ask, were those your kinfolk?'
She paused. 'Yes, Donald Davidson was my father, Stephen was my uncle,Stanley was my husband, Larry and Darrel were our sons. All killed in action, all Marines.'
She stopped. Whether she had finished, or couldn't finish, I don't know. She made her way to her car, slowly and painfully.
I waited for a polite distance to come between us and then double-timed it over to Kevin, waiting by the car.
'Get to the 'Out' gate quick. I have something I've got to do.'
Kevin started to say something, but saw the look I gave him. He broke the rules to get us there down the service road fast. We beat her. She hadn't made it around the rotunda yet.
'Kevin, stand at attention next to the gatepost. Follow my lead.' I humped it across the drive to the other post.
When the Cadillac came puttering around from the hedges and began the short straight traverse to the gate, I called in my best gunny's voice: 'TehenHut! Present Haaaarms!'
I have to hand it to Kevin; he never blinked an eye--full dress attention and a salute that would make his DI proud.
She drove through that gate with two old worn-out soldiers giving her a send-off she deserved, for service rendered to her country, and for knowing duty, honor and sacrifice far beyond the realm of most.
I am not sure, but I think I saw a salute returned from that Cadillac.
Instead of 'The End,' just think of 'Taps.'
As a final thought on my part, let me share a favorite prayer: 'Lord, keep our servicemen and women safe, whether they serve at home or overseas. Hold them in your loving hands and protect them as they protect us.'
Let's all keep those currently serving and those who have gone before in our thoughts. They are the reason for the many freedoms we enjoy.
'In God We Trust.'
Sorry about your monitor; it made mine blurry too!
If we ever forget that we're one nation under God, then we will be a nation gone under!
My friend Kevin and I are volunteers at a national cemetery in Oklahoma and put in a few days a month in a 'slightly larger' uniform. Today had been a long, long day and I just wanted to get the day over with and go down to Smokey's and have a cold one. Sneaking a look at my watch, I saw the time, 16:55. Five minutes to go before the cemetery gates are closed for the day. Full dress was hot in the August sun. Oklahoma summertime was as bad as ever--the heat and humidity at the same level--both too high.
I saw the car pull into the drive, '69 or '70 model Cadillac Deville, looked factory-new. It pulled into the parking lot at a snail's pace. An old woman got out so slow I thought she was paralyzed; she had a cane and a sheaf of flowers--about four or five bunches as best I could tell.
I couldn't help myself. The thought came unwanted, and left a slightly bitter taste: 'She's going to spend an hour, and for this old soldier, my hip hurts like hell and I'm ready to get out of here right now!' But for this day, my duty was to assist anyone coming in.
Kevin would lock the 'In' gate and if I could hurry the old biddy along, we might make it to Smokey's in time.
I broke post attention. My hip made gritty noises when I took the first step and the pain went up a notch. I must have made a real military sight: middle-aged man with a small pot gut and half a limp, in marine full-dress uniform, which had lost its razor crease about thirty minutes after I began the watch at the cemetery.
I stopped in front of her, halfway up the walk. She looked up at me with an old woman's squint.
'Ma'am, may I assist you in any way?'
She took long enough to answer.
'Yes, son. Can you carry these flowers? I seem to be moving a tad slow these days.'
'My pleasure, ma'am.' (Well, it wasn't too much of a lie.)
She looked again. 'Marine, where were you stationed?'
' Vietnam, ma'am. Ground-pounder. '69 to '71.'
She looked at me closer. 'Wounded in action, I see. Well done, Marine. I'll be as quick as I can.'
I lied a little bigger: 'No hurry, ma'am.'
She smiled and winked at me. 'Son, I'm 85-years-old and I can tell a lie from a long way off. Let's get this done. Might be the last time I can do this. My name's Joanne Wieserman, and I've a few Marines I'd like to see one more time.'
'Yes, ma 'am. At your service.'
She headed for the World War I section, stopping at a stone. She picked one of the flower bunches out of my arm and laid it on top of the stone. She murmured something I couldn't quite make out. The name on the marble was Donald S. Davidson, USMC: France 1918.
She turned away and made a straight line for the World War II section, stopping at one stone. I saw a tear slowly tracking its way down her cheek. She put a bunch on a stone; the name was Stephen X. Davidson, USMC, 1943.
She went up the row a ways and laid another bunch on a stone, Stanley J. Wieserman, USMC, 1944.
She paused for a second and more tears flowed. 'Two more, son, and we'll be done'
I almost didn't say anything, but, 'Yes, ma'am. Take your time.'
She looked confused. 'Where's the Vietnam section, son? I seem to have lost my way.'
I pointed with my chin. 'That way, ma'am.'
'Oh!' she chuckled quietly. 'Son, me and old age ain't too friendly.'
She headed down the walk I'd pointed at. She stopped at a couple of stones before she found the ones she wanted. She placed a bunch on Larry Wieserman, USMC, 1968, and the last on Darrel Wieserman, USMC, 1970. She stood there and murmured a few words I still couldn't make out and more tears flowed.
'OK, son, I'm finished. Get me back to my car and you can go home.'
Yes, ma'am. If I may ask, were those your kinfolk?'
She paused. 'Yes, Donald Davidson was my father, Stephen was my uncle,Stanley was my husband, Larry and Darrel were our sons. All killed in action, all Marines.'
She stopped. Whether she had finished, or couldn't finish, I don't know. She made her way to her car, slowly and painfully.
I waited for a polite distance to come between us and then double-timed it over to Kevin, waiting by the car.
'Get to the 'Out' gate quick. I have something I've got to do.'
Kevin started to say something, but saw the look I gave him. He broke the rules to get us there down the service road fast. We beat her. She hadn't made it around the rotunda yet.
'Kevin, stand at attention next to the gatepost. Follow my lead.' I humped it across the drive to the other post.
When the Cadillac came puttering around from the hedges and began the short straight traverse to the gate, I called in my best gunny's voice: 'TehenHut! Present Haaaarms!'
I have to hand it to Kevin; he never blinked an eye--full dress attention and a salute that would make his DI proud.
She drove through that gate with two old worn-out soldiers giving her a send-off she deserved, for service rendered to her country, and for knowing duty, honor and sacrifice far beyond the realm of most.
I am not sure, but I think I saw a salute returned from that Cadillac.
Instead of 'The End,' just think of 'Taps.'
As a final thought on my part, let me share a favorite prayer: 'Lord, keep our servicemen and women safe, whether they serve at home or overseas. Hold them in your loving hands and protect them as they protect us.'
Let's all keep those currently serving and those who have gone before in our thoughts. They are the reason for the many freedoms we enjoy.
'In God We Trust.'
Sorry about your monitor; it made mine blurry too!
If we ever forget that we're one nation under God, then we will be a nation gone under!
WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A TEXAN
by Bum Phillips
Dear Friends,
Last year, I wrote a small piece about what it means to me to be a Texan. My friends know it means about damned near everything. Anyway, this fella asked me to reprint what I'd wrote and I didn't have it. So I set out to think about rewriting something. I considered writing about all the great things I love about Texas. There are way too many things to list. I can't even begin to do it justice.
Lemme let you in on my short list.
It starts with The Window at Big Bend, which in and of itself is proof of God. It goes to Lake Sam Rayburn where my Grandad taught me more about life than fishin, and enough about fishin to last a lifetime. I can talk about Tyler, and Longview, and Odessa and Cisco, and Abilene and Poteet and every place in between.
Every little part of Texas feels special. Every person who ever flew the Lone Star thinks of Bandera or Victoria or Manor or wherever they call "home" as the best little part of the best state.
So I got to thinkin about it, and here's what I really want to say.
Last year, I talked about all the great places and great heroes who make Texas what it is. I talked about Willie and Waylon and Michael Dell and Michael DeBakey and my Dad and LBJ and Denton Cooley. I talked about everybody that came to mind. It took me sitting here tonight reading this stack of emails and thinkin about where I've been and what I've done since the last time I wrote on this occasion to remind me what it is about Texas that is really great.
You see, this last month or so I finally went to Europe for the first time. I hadn't ever been, and didn't too much want to. But you know all my damned friends are always talking about "the time they went to Europe." So, I finally went. It was a hell of a trip to be sure. All they did when they saw me was say the same thing, before they'd ever met me. "Hey cowboy, we love Texas." I guess the hat tipped em off.
But let me tell you what, they all came up with a smile on their faces. You know why? They knew for damned sure that I was gonna be nice to em. They knew it cause they knew I was from Texas. They knew something that hadn't even hit me. They knew Texans, even though they'd never met one.
That's when it occurred to me. Do you know what is great about Texas? Do you know why when my friend Beverly and I were trekking across country to see 15 baseball games we got sick and had to come home after 8? Do you know whyevery time I cross the border I say, "Lord, please don't let me die in_____"? Do you know why children in Japan can look at a picture of the great State and know exactly what it is about the same time they can tell a rhombus from a trapezoid?
I can tell you that right quick. You.
The samespirit that made 186 men cross that line in the sand in San Antonio damned near 165 years ago is still in you today. Why else would my friend send me William Barrett Travis' plea for help in an email just a week ago, or why would Charles Stanfield ask me to reprint a Texas Independence column from a year ago? What would make my friend Elizabeth say, "I don't know if I can marry a man who doesn't love Texas like I do?" Why in the hell are 1,000 people coming to my house this weekend to celebrate a holiday for what usedto be a nation that is now a state?
Because the spirit that made that nation is the spirit that burned in every person who founded this great place we call Texas, and they passed it on through blood or sweat to everyone of us.
You see, that spirit that made Texas what it is is alive in all of us, even if we can't stand next to a cannon to prove it, and it's our responsibility to keep that fire burning. Every person who ever put a"Native Texan" or an "I wasn't born in Texas but I got here as fast as I could" sticker on his car understands.
Anyone who ever hung a map of Texas on their wall or flew a Lone Star flag on their porch knows what I mean. My Dad's buddy Bill has an old saying. He says that some people were forged of a hotter fire. Well, that's what it is to be Texan. To be forged of a hotter fire. To know that part of Colorado was Texas. That part of New Mexico was Texas. That part of Oklahoma was Texas. Yep. Talk all you want. Part of what you got was what we gave you. To look at a picture of Idaho or Istanbul and say, "what the Hell is that?" when you know that anyone in Idaho or Istanbul who sees a picture of Texas knows damned good and well what it is. It isn't the shape, it isn't the state, it's the state of mind.
You're what makes Texas. The fact that you would take 15 minutes out of your day to read this, because that's what Texas means to you, that's what makes Texas what it is. The fact that when you see the guy in front of you litter you honk and think, "Sonofabitch. Littering on MY highway."
When was the last time you went to a person's house in New York and you saw a big map of New York on their wall? That was never. When did you ever drive through Oklahoma and see their flag waving on four businesses in a row? Can you even tell me what the flag in Louisiana looks like? I damned sure can't. But I bet my ass you can't drive 20 minutes from your house and not see a business that has a big Texas flag as part of its logo. If you haven't done business with someone called AllTex something or Lone Star somebody or other, or Texas such and such, you hadn't lived here for too long.
When you ask a man from New York what he is, he'll say a stockbroker, or an accountant, or an ad exec. When you ask a woman from California what she is, she'll tell you her last name or her major. Hell either of em might say "I'm a republican," or they might be a democrat. When you ask a Texan what they are, before they say, "I'm a Methodist," or "I'm a lawyer," or "I'm a Smith," they tell you they're a Texan.
I got nothin against all those other places, and Lord knows they've probably got some fine folks, but in your gut you know it just like I do, Texas is just a little different.
So tomorrow when you drive down the road and you see a person broken down on the side of the road, stop and help. When you are in a bar in California, buy a Californian a drink and tell him it's for Texas Independence Day. Remind the person in the cube next to you that he wouldn't be here enjoying this if it weren't for Sam Houston, and if he or she doesn't know the story, tell them.
When William Barrettt Travis wrote in 1836 that he would never surrender and he would have Victory or Death, what he was really saying was that he and his men were forged of a hotter fire. They weren't your average everyday men. Well, that is what it means to be a Texan. It meant it then, and that's why it means it today. It means just what all those people North of the Red River accuse us of thinking it means. It means there's no mountain that we can't climb. It means that we can swim the Gulf in the winter. It means that Earl Campbell ran harder and Houston is bigger and Dallas is richer and Alpine is hotter and Stevie Ray was smoother and God vacations in Texas. It means that come Hell or high water, when the chips are down and the Good Lord is watching, we're Texans by damned, and just like in 1836, that counts for something.
So for today at least, when your chance comes around, go out and prove it. It's true because we believe it's true. If you are sitting wondering what the Hell I'm talking about, this ain't for you. But if the first thing you are going to do when the Good Lord calls your number is find the men who sat in that tiny mission in San Antonio and shake their hands, then you're the reason I wrote this night, and this is for you.
So until next time you hear from me, God Bless and Happy Texas Independence Day.
by Bum Phillips
Dear Friends,
Last year, I wrote a small piece about what it means to me to be a Texan. My friends know it means about damned near everything. Anyway, this fella asked me to reprint what I'd wrote and I didn't have it. So I set out to think about rewriting something. I considered writing about all the great things I love about Texas. There are way too many things to list. I can't even begin to do it justice.
Lemme let you in on my short list.
It starts with The Window at Big Bend, which in and of itself is proof of God. It goes to Lake Sam Rayburn where my Grandad taught me more about life than fishin, and enough about fishin to last a lifetime. I can talk about Tyler, and Longview, and Odessa and Cisco, and Abilene and Poteet and every place in between.
Every little part of Texas feels special. Every person who ever flew the Lone Star thinks of Bandera or Victoria or Manor or wherever they call "home" as the best little part of the best state.
So I got to thinkin about it, and here's what I really want to say.
Last year, I talked about all the great places and great heroes who make Texas what it is. I talked about Willie and Waylon and Michael Dell and Michael DeBakey and my Dad and LBJ and Denton Cooley. I talked about everybody that came to mind. It took me sitting here tonight reading this stack of emails and thinkin about where I've been and what I've done since the last time I wrote on this occasion to remind me what it is about Texas that is really great.
You see, this last month or so I finally went to Europe for the first time. I hadn't ever been, and didn't too much want to. But you know all my damned friends are always talking about "the time they went to Europe." So, I finally went. It was a hell of a trip to be sure. All they did when they saw me was say the same thing, before they'd ever met me. "Hey cowboy, we love Texas." I guess the hat tipped em off.
But let me tell you what, they all came up with a smile on their faces. You know why? They knew for damned sure that I was gonna be nice to em. They knew it cause they knew I was from Texas. They knew something that hadn't even hit me. They knew Texans, even though they'd never met one.
That's when it occurred to me. Do you know what is great about Texas? Do you know why when my friend Beverly and I were trekking across country to see 15 baseball games we got sick and had to come home after 8? Do you know whyevery time I cross the border I say, "Lord, please don't let me die in_____"? Do you know why children in Japan can look at a picture of the great State and know exactly what it is about the same time they can tell a rhombus from a trapezoid?
I can tell you that right quick. You.
The samespirit that made 186 men cross that line in the sand in San Antonio damned near 165 years ago is still in you today. Why else would my friend send me William Barrett Travis' plea for help in an email just a week ago, or why would Charles Stanfield ask me to reprint a Texas Independence column from a year ago? What would make my friend Elizabeth say, "I don't know if I can marry a man who doesn't love Texas like I do?" Why in the hell are 1,000 people coming to my house this weekend to celebrate a holiday for what usedto be a nation that is now a state?
Because the spirit that made that nation is the spirit that burned in every person who founded this great place we call Texas, and they passed it on through blood or sweat to everyone of us.
You see, that spirit that made Texas what it is is alive in all of us, even if we can't stand next to a cannon to prove it, and it's our responsibility to keep that fire burning. Every person who ever put a"Native Texan" or an "I wasn't born in Texas but I got here as fast as I could" sticker on his car understands.
Anyone who ever hung a map of Texas on their wall or flew a Lone Star flag on their porch knows what I mean. My Dad's buddy Bill has an old saying. He says that some people were forged of a hotter fire. Well, that's what it is to be Texan. To be forged of a hotter fire. To know that part of Colorado was Texas. That part of New Mexico was Texas. That part of Oklahoma was Texas. Yep. Talk all you want. Part of what you got was what we gave you. To look at a picture of Idaho or Istanbul and say, "what the Hell is that?" when you know that anyone in Idaho or Istanbul who sees a picture of Texas knows damned good and well what it is. It isn't the shape, it isn't the state, it's the state of mind.
You're what makes Texas. The fact that you would take 15 minutes out of your day to read this, because that's what Texas means to you, that's what makes Texas what it is. The fact that when you see the guy in front of you litter you honk and think, "Sonofabitch. Littering on MY highway."
When was the last time you went to a person's house in New York and you saw a big map of New York on their wall? That was never. When did you ever drive through Oklahoma and see their flag waving on four businesses in a row? Can you even tell me what the flag in Louisiana looks like? I damned sure can't. But I bet my ass you can't drive 20 minutes from your house and not see a business that has a big Texas flag as part of its logo. If you haven't done business with someone called AllTex something or Lone Star somebody or other, or Texas such and such, you hadn't lived here for too long.
When you ask a man from New York what he is, he'll say a stockbroker, or an accountant, or an ad exec. When you ask a woman from California what she is, she'll tell you her last name or her major. Hell either of em might say "I'm a republican," or they might be a democrat. When you ask a Texan what they are, before they say, "I'm a Methodist," or "I'm a lawyer," or "I'm a Smith," they tell you they're a Texan.
I got nothin against all those other places, and Lord knows they've probably got some fine folks, but in your gut you know it just like I do, Texas is just a little different.
So tomorrow when you drive down the road and you see a person broken down on the side of the road, stop and help. When you are in a bar in California, buy a Californian a drink and tell him it's for Texas Independence Day. Remind the person in the cube next to you that he wouldn't be here enjoying this if it weren't for Sam Houston, and if he or she doesn't know the story, tell them.
When William Barrettt Travis wrote in 1836 that he would never surrender and he would have Victory or Death, what he was really saying was that he and his men were forged of a hotter fire. They weren't your average everyday men. Well, that is what it means to be a Texan. It meant it then, and that's why it means it today. It means just what all those people North of the Red River accuse us of thinking it means. It means there's no mountain that we can't climb. It means that we can swim the Gulf in the winter. It means that Earl Campbell ran harder and Houston is bigger and Dallas is richer and Alpine is hotter and Stevie Ray was smoother and God vacations in Texas. It means that come Hell or high water, when the chips are down and the Good Lord is watching, we're Texans by damned, and just like in 1836, that counts for something.
So for today at least, when your chance comes around, go out and prove it. It's true because we believe it's true. If you are sitting wondering what the Hell I'm talking about, this ain't for you. But if the first thing you are going to do when the Good Lord calls your number is find the men who sat in that tiny mission in San Antonio and shake their hands, then you're the reason I wrote this night, and this is for you.
So until next time you hear from me, God Bless and Happy Texas Independence Day.