THE HOME OF THE BRAVE?

After a day of shopping, I dropped off my eighty-four year old mother at her condo for active seniors and drove out the secured gate. I switched on the local public radio station, hoping for the centering sound of Bach or Mozart. Instead, an insistent voice implored Americans to wake up to the reality of our situation—that nuclear bombs are in the making, and if placed strategically in as many as three of our major cities, our culture will be annihilated. I wondered what a writer, piano teacher, and grandmother, albeit a world-traveled, risk-taking one who has spent most of her life in the Deep South, could do.

That’s the trouble as I see it. What can ordinary Americans do when our enemies lurk in territories with which we are unfamiliar? I’m not just talking about the ones in the Middle East; others loom in the shadows of the Internet and are disguised as our neighbors within small towns. And where are these “terrorist cells”?

For over two centuries we have known our opponents. Beginning with our flight from England, prosecutor of our inalienable rights of speech, press and religion, we traversed the seas, subject to storms, dysentery, and death. When we landed at last, there were elements of nature to contend with as we sought to live through that first cold winter, find food sources, and survive childbirth. We negotiated directly with the Native Americans.

After a time, adventurers headed west and fought new wilderness battles—snakes, lack of water, and the feared “red man” whose land they coveted. Here a man, mother or grandmother could pick up a rifle, sight the enemy, and fight back.

As the country was forged and battles fought, the enemy remained visible. We threw its tea into the harbor; then, Confederate and Union soldiers, in a terrible war among brothers, fought to the death with bayonets and cannons. Women fought demon rum with axes. Next came the big wars in which the aggressors were defined by their faces—Kaiser Wilhelm, Emperor Hiro Hito, Mussolini, Hitler, Stalin, and Mao. We built bomb shelters. Women joined the work force so the men could fight. They came home to ticker tape—all American heroes united in the fight for freedom.

Though James Beard’s recent quote in Bon Appétit’s 50th anniversary issue referred to food, the following sentiment reigned. “We’re Americans,” he said, “and we can do what we please.”¹ Indeed, that was the America led by JFK. Then came the day when thousands watched a parade in Dallas and saw their president shot. Over and over the scene was played out in our living rooms to assure us this thing had really happened.

By the time of the Vietnam War, television had become the vehicle for identifying the enemy. Previously, newspapers and controlled newsreels at theaters had informed the public, but now the stories of our aggressors were digested nightly along with the beef and potatoes on our TV trays. We longed for peace and love, not war. The government became the enemy. We took to the streets and burned the American flag—and sometimes ourselves—to prove how strongly we felt about it.

Nightly, we digested the fights for feminism and for racial injustice—we were there for the bra burnings and fire hoses and police dogs who forced back those marching toward The Promised Land. Martin Luther King pleaded with all people to be tolerant and peaceful. In the comfort of our La-Z-Boys, we watched as the embodiment of “The Dream” lost his life to a gunman.

Still, none of us could have predicted the attack by the faceless enemies who commandeered our U.S. aircraft into the very symbols of American power and success. The New York skyscrapers crumbled repeatedly before our eyes. We flew our flags to show a united front and said we’d never forget.

Five years later, talk of attacks on Iraq, on President Bush, and by Liberals and Conservatives have numbed the public. We’ve taken down most of our flags. Cell phones protect the location of the caller; e-mail, voicemail, and caller ID screen human communication, not only in the work place, but also between family members. Yet we find ourselves looking over our collective shoulders—nervous as long-tailed cats in a room full of rocking chairs. Bin Laden and his videotapes don’t frighten us nearly as much as the dark-eyed man next to us in McDonald’s.

Mama and her elderly friends, like many Americans, hang on every horrifying comment delivered by nightly news anchors, and Mother reports them to me each time I pick her up for shopping. She recounts the newest catastrophe and reminds me that prayer is all we’ve got left. Normally this inane comment on the part of my oft racist and self-righteous mother annoys me, and I lash out.

Lately, though, for lack of anything better, I’ve been thinking of turning to prayer myself. After all, this country began on a proverbial wing and a prayer. We prayed and printed “In God We Trust” on our money. We crossed treacherous seas and endured near-starvation to cultivate a country dedicated to religious freedom, freedoms of the press and speech, and a democracy in which all men were created equal. Together we raised the frontier barns and houses and poured foundations for our great cities.

Now, with our shadowy anti-American enemies capable of destroying us in large numbers—if not completely—the question looms: can we remain home of the brave?

¹Jones, Judith. “1960s: New Adventures in Cooking.” Bon Appétit. Vol. 51. No. 10. October 2006. 84, 90.