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Rather writes: "I fear that one of the most insidious casualties of our current age is a sense of peace."

Journalist Dan Rather attends the 'Truth' New York special screening at the Lincoln Plaza Cinema on October 23, 2015 in New York City. (photo: Mark Sagilocco/Getty Images)
Journalist Dan Rather attends the 'Truth' New York special screening at the Lincoln Plaza Cinema on October 23, 2015 in New York City. (photo: Mark Sagilocco/Getty Images)


What Is Patriotism?

By Dan Rather, Dan Rather's Facebook Page

26 November 17

 

fear that one of the most insidious casualties of our current age is a sense of peace.

We are buffeted by winds of chaos: scandal and outrage, whipped up into cyclones of distraction by the shattering of our democratic norms, the stoking of our basest tribal divisions and the dangerous incoherence of those infernal tweet storms. Our digital leashes have us tethered in body and mind to the instantaneous. It is so hard to press pause, let alone to turn it off, even for the duration of a cup of tea with a friend or a movie with a grandchild.

As a lifelong reporter, the stories emanating out of Washington, and every corner of the globe, are like a buffet of such abundance that my instinct is to try to sample everything. Just as meteorologists talk about 100-year floods or storms, journalists group once-a-year stories or the once-a-decade stories. Well these days there seems no shortage of once-a-lifetime stories about the cravenness, deceit, corruptions and cruelties of our age. We cannot allow ourselves to look away. We must bear witness. And yet there also must be a balance so that we can still find time to live.

That is why I tried to step back this holiday weekend with my family for some time on a human scale - the one-on-one bonds of love and shared experiences that really make life worth living. I have carved out moments of peace. I have embarked on walks, read, and shared long conversations without glancing at the latest headlines. I have remembered the joy of taking measured breaths and allowing the mind to wander.

I am at an age where I never know how many more moments like this lie ahead, but the truth is none of us really do. And that is why we all must carve out time for peace and reflection. I say all of this acknowledging what a luxury peace is and recognizing that we have thousands of men and women serving in difficult and dangerous military and diplomatic missions overseas and for them and their families, there is no peace. And I reflect on the millions of my fellow Americans who are suffering in the aftermath of hurricanes and wildfires. For them, there is no peace. And of course there are the millions of personal tragedies, accidents, illnesses, and cruelties that are part of the human condition.

We all must suffer through those, and that is why the added burden of the gratuitous and unnecessary chaos we see from our national leadership is so galling and damaging.

I know some of you have marked on this page about how often I mention my book WHAT UNITES US. But in my current mind, I cannot separate my thoughts from what is perhaps the most personal expression of myself I have ever shared with the public. In the book's essays are my greatest hopes and fears for a country I desperately love. And the book tour to which I will soon return has been so fulfilling for my body and soul. Meeting thousands of you in person and sharing in civil unrushed conversation refills my tank of optimism that we will make it through our trials. If you care about this mission or want to share this sentiment with others, I hope you find your way to WHAT UNITES US.

And if you have read this far in this post, I take you for a reader. So I will share a section of the book that is particularly resonant today. I have spent my time this weekend in Galveston and in the book's first essay. I reflect on my first trip here roughly 80 years ago. These are the memories of life that stay with you, and from which I fervently hope we can begin to mend our tattered social fabric. I hope you enjoy and I am eager for your thoughts on this excerpt and the book more generally in the comments section below.

(From the Essay "What is Patriotism?", WHAT UNITES US: REFLECTIONS ON PATRIOTISM)

When I was a young boy, we didn’t have much in the way of material possessions. But around 1940 or ’41, we got our first family car — a heavily used 1938 Oldsmobile that I can still see so clearly in my mind’s eye. Its previous owner had lived along the Gulf of Mexico, and it was thus considered a “coastal car,” which meant it was rusted, especially along the lower-left side. Its engine had also thrown a rod, blowing a big hole in the engine block, which had been patched. It was a bit of a rolling wreck, but I didn’t see it as anything but beautiful.
In my neighborhood, the notion of a family vacation was an unheard-of luxury, something you might see in the movies but never expected to experience yourself. Yet that year, as the Fourth of July approached, my mother had the idea of driving to the beach in Galveston to see the fireworks over the Gulf of Mexico. My father was a little unsure of trusting the new car to take his young family on the round trip of roughly 100 miles, but my mother was persuasive. When the morning of the Fourth arrived, I was giddy with anticipation.
A trip from Houston to Galveston these days is relatively easy. At that time it was a big deal. There were no freeways, so we took the two-lane coastal road, and I remember how hot the day was. The humidity must have been approaching 100 percent. All the car windows were down, and to help the time pass, my mother had us sing patriotic songs. First and foremost was “America the Beautiful.” She always thought it should have been made the national anthem, as it is less militaristic than “The Star-Spangled Banner” and easier to sing. I have inherited that opinion. We did sing “The Star-Spangled Banner” too, however, and there was a debate in the car about whether we should stop so that we could get out and stand while we were singing. We ultimately decided that we should probably keep going, our hands over our hearts as we sang. As proud Texans, we included several state songs in our repertoire (“Texas, Our Texas,” “Beautiful Texas,” and “The Yellow Rose of Texas”). I remember singing my heart out, and we repeated the songs over and over again, stopping to make sure my little brother and sister could learn the lyrics.
When we finally arrived in Galveston, it seemed magical. I can still taste the salt air and see the sun flickering on the rippling water of the Gulf. As we all sat on the seawall that had been built after the great hurricane of 1900, I thought this work of civil engineering was so marvelous it might as well have been the Great Wall of China. We played on the beach, and when the sun went down, we watched the fireworks. In retrospect, this was probably a modest show — low budget and low altitude — but I was transfixed. I had never seen anything like it. I oohed and aahed at the starlit night. I knew, after all, that “the stars at night are big and bright deep in the heart of Texas.”
We had no money for the extravagances of a hotel, so the five of us slept in the car, curling up every which way. As we drove back the next morning, we were all a little stiff, but for that moment life seemed perfect. I have often wished I could have bottled that day to taste its sweet innocence once more. I had no way of knowing then that the country would soon be engulfed in war, and that some of the happy families we saw strolling the beach would have fathers go off to battle and never return. I didn’t know that I soon would be stricken by rheumatic fever and confined to my bed. And I couldn’t have anticipated that my parents, whom I can still picture sitting contentedly in the front seat, would pass away relatively early in my life. All I knew then was that I liked the feel of the road and the sight of the scenery going past. I liked going places . . . and I still do.

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