Mike is enjoying some well-earned gloating. That's a good looking range report.
As mentioned, I went last night to the Spirit of America gathering at the Cosmos Club in D.C. I met and greatly enjoyed a short conversation with the Major and his Lady. The highlight of the evening, I am sure they will not mind my saying, was meeting and listening to Omar and Mohammed from IRAQ THE MODEL.
But first, a story.
I had never heard of the Cosmos Club. The email invitation I got mentioned the address of the place, and the name, but nothing more about it. Emailed invitations are particularly informal; this one came from a US Marine, for a time after business hours; and it was at a place called a "club." So, naturally I assumed it was a bar of some sort.
It happened that I had another engagement in town that required semiformal dress, so I figured I'd take a bit of ribbing. Still, I had no way to change, so I planned to go in my suit. It's charcoal grey, in a traditional cut. I wore it with my black Ariat boots, my black Stetson hat, and a bolo tie.
The Cosmos Club turns out not to be a bar at all. It turns out to be... well, this. This is the place where the National Geographic Society was founded, in the 19th century. It is contained in a mansion with Second Empire architecture. The interior is as rich as the exterior, and includes numerous treasures of great value, brought back from the corners of the earth and donated by the members.
Well, I'm a gambler from way back, so I simply put on my best poker face and walked right in. The doorman bowed as I entered, and I went upstairs to the gathering.
After a few minutes, a gentleman came up to me and shook my hand. He introduced himself as LtCol Couvillon, United States Marines, and former military governor of Wasit province.
"I had to shake the hand of any man," he said, "who could get in here wearing cowboy boots and a bolo tie."
Turns out the past president of the Cosmos Club is a former officer of Marines, which is why we got to use the place. It was a remarkable evening. Listening to the Colonel gave insight into the state of Iraq, outside the river-regions where the insurgents have managed to operate. He said that he had requested red, white and blue soccer jerseys from Spirit of America during his time there, to distribute to Iraqis. He'd wanted them because the number one request he got was for American flags. Under the rules of engagement, however, Marines weren't to display the flag, so he had none to offer.
He spoke about the elections they held in Wasit province, where turnout of adults was so close to one hundred percent that he couldn't calculate the difference. He talked about the opening of art galleries, inaugural ceremonies for Iraq's first elected officials in more than thirty years, and the friendships his Marines and sailors developed with the populace.
Omar and Mohammed spoke later in the evening. I quote from memory and without notes, for what it is worth, but they impressed me deeply and I do not thing I will depart very far from the words they actually spoke. They had just come from a meeting with President Bush, with whom they were quite impressed. It showed that America was a place where anything could happen, Omar said: 'Yesterday I came to your country. Today, I met the President.'
Spirit of America is helping them to do great things in Iraq. One of the things they're doing is putting out newspapers at Iraq's universities, where support for the democracy is running high. Iraq, like many similar nations, has a more formal class structure than we have. Apparently, among the educated classes, there is a lot of hope for the future.
Another thing Spirit of America is funding is an Arabic-language blogging tool. This is to help these young, educated Iraqis gather and communicate online, and to help them build communities of like-minded men across the nation. It will be a way for them to speak directly, to have their voice heard rather than filtered through our media -- the only Western institution for which they had hard words.
But that is not all the tool will do. It will also allow the voices of tens of thousands of pro-democracy students to get out on the Internet, so that the young Arabs of surrounding nations can hear them, listen to them talking about taking control of their futures and the building of their country. This is what Jim Hake, the founder of Spirit of America, calls "viral freedom."
Omar in particular was adamant about the elections. He is sure Iraq will surprise us. 'Iraqis want to take their place among the nations,' he said. 'We want to help you fight this war against the terrorists.
'The Iraqi people will never disappoint you.'
He means, of course, the ones who have not chosen to join the insurgents. But he is dismissive of them, in spite of all they do. What we don't understand, he said, is that the kind of terror they can create is nothing to the people of Iraq. Under Saddam, terror was systemic. It was daily. It meant every night, listening for the police at the door.
'Compared to that, these insurgents are nothing.'
I knew Spirit of America was a good cause, but I didn't realize just how good. "Viral freedom." If you can spare anything to help spread it, click the tartan at the top right of the page.
I want to thank everyone who has been donating to the Leatherneck Bloggers. We're up to $350, which isn't much compared to the big teams -- but given the overlap of this blog's readership with one of those bigger teams (the FFF), I'm very pleased.
I've been invited to attend the Spirit of America's D.C. event tomorrow night, where I'll get to meet some of the folks behind Iraq The Model, an Iraqi blog. Some of the Marines behind the SoA efforts will also be there. It will be my pleasure to represent you. I don't know if there will be a question and answer period, or any opportunity similar to that, but if any of you have questions you'd like asked, I'll be glad to entertain them. Drop them in the comments.
For those of you who haven't donated, but would like to do so, I'll say two things more. First, donations are anonymous, so I don't know who gave or what they gave (except for myself and what I've given, naturally). Second, any amount is accepted. If you want to kick in a buck or two, or ten, that's fine. I won't know whether you were the one who gave a buck, or the one who tossed in a C-note. You'll have my thanks either way.
Winds of Change has posted a very useful look at American military force structure. It is designed for the layman, and treats only the recent history for the most part. Nevertheless, it answers several questions of current interest (e.g., "Do we have enough troops for Iraq?").
Since none of you have asked any questions about Warfighting, I'll propose one. "Maneuver warfare is a warfighting philosophy that seeks to shatter the enemy's cohesion through a variety of rapid, focused, and unexpected actions which create a turbulent and rapidly deteriorating situation with which the enemy cannot cope." How can this concept be brought to bear against a distributed enemy force, such as the Iraqi insurgency?
Maybe we should go back to "Death from Above" after all.
The New York Times > International > Middle East > INTELLIGENCE: 2 C.I.A. Reports Offer Warnings on Iraq's Path
The CIA is releasing classified memos again:
But over all, the officials described the station chief's cable in particular as an unvarnished assessment of the difficulties ahead in Iraq. They said it warned that the security situation was likely to get worse, including more violence and sectarian clashes, unless there were marked improvements soon on the part of the Iraqi government, in terms of its ability to assert authority and to build the economy."The situation is going to get worse, unless it gets better." Thanks for that, Poindexter.
My father liked to watch Westerns when I was a boy. He was a big television watcher when he was home, which was only on the weekends. His job had him up and gone before the sun rose, and the only time of the year you'd see him before sunset was the summer -- because the day was longer in the summertime. On the weekend, though, he'd be at home, working at home and car repair, and serving as a volunteer fireman, instead of doing his regular job.
Times change. The cowboy doesn't. While our culture might sell out; the cowboy stays true to his values (and his horse). Rock stars, rap stars, movie stars come and go--loudly. The cowboy remains--quietly. When our children watch the Twin Towers crumble on CNN, they worry for our security, our future, our very foundation. The cowboy represents that foundation, that self-reliance, survival instinct, and integrity. We know that he'll ride out of that dusty ruin and survive, and with the grace of God he'll get the cattle to Amarillo. There's a little bit of him in every American. That's why we need him.
John Fusco, Screenwriter; Hidalgo
He would usually find some time on Sunday afternoon to watch some television. The TV was always on when he was home, and it would usually show one of three things: a football game, a NASCAR race, or a Western movie. These were dependable features.
I had no time for Westerns -- I very much preferred Star Wars movies, more progressive, not mired in the past. We lived out on the edge of civilization, it seemed, although I knew that there was more civilization if you just kept going: run far enough from Atlanta and you'll hit Chattanooga. But there was a large swath of country that lay out beyond the uttermost suburb where you'd find cattle country and timberland. North Georgia ground isn't very good, so other forms of farming don't work well. But you can raise cattle, and you can raise short needle pine for pulpwood. This all felt very far from the action, to a boy; I recognized Luke Skywalker's complaint about being on the planet farthest from the bright center of things, and greatly admired Han Solo.
So, I would usually leave my father to his Westerns. I still spent a fair amount of time with him when he was home, though, helping him work on the cars and with other tasks around the property. He spent a lot of that time telling stories, one right after another. Almost all of them were about growing up with my grandfather, who had run a body shop and service station for long haul truckers on I-75. In the imagination of youth, it sounded a great deal like Mos Eisley: there was a cantina filled with dangerous, armed men where my young father sometimes had to go to get and carry back family friends, and which produced occasional fights and drawn guns. Hot rods as finely tuned as any starfighters had occupied my father's free time as a young man. Freightliners paused there to gas up, seeming like smugglers, hauling over their limit, often running on amphetamines as much as gasoline. High stakes poker games ran in the back, while mechanics fixed up the rigs in the bays.
In the center of it all was my grandfather, a great and heroic figure, always armed with his revolver, so fearsome that none of the dangerous men who occupied the fringes of the story ever dared to trouble him. This part of the story I knew to be perfectly realistic, for I'd met the man myself. He had no exact Star Wars comparison. Star Wars would have been a different movie with "Jack T." in it. He was big, and strong, and fearless, hard-drinking but not controlled by the whisky, dangerous but kindhearted to the weak. He took care of his family and his friends, kept the peace among those who were passing through, and ran off the ones who wouldn't abide by his rules.
I always wanted to grow up to be just like him. He was the best man I'd ever heard of or met, so I thought as a boy.
Of course you've realized by now what kind of movie features a man like that.
You never know, with stories, exactly how much is an expression of the great archetypes. A lot has been written about Star Wars archetypes: Han Solo the pirate, Obi-Wan the Wizard, Luke as the Young Hero. The most resonant fiction is built on these archetypes, which speak to the depths of the human heart.
It happens with true stories too, though. Jack T. was the Sheriff, or the Marshall; but the Sheriff in the Western is also the King. Like all of these archetypes, he can be good or bad. The Bad King is a tyrant. The Good King keeps order in the world, upholds and cares for the weak, looks out for the poor, drives off the vicious. He has the power to punish and to pardon, which is seen in every Western: the bandit is run off or killed, but the harmless town drunk is endlessly forgiven and helped in his times of particular adversity.
The world can be violent and cruel, filled both with lawful and the lawbreakers. But the stories tell us that it can also be a good place, a happy place, if there is a good King. If this is the story of the Western, it is also the story of the Beowulf, whose time as king is peaceful in spite even of the existence of dragons. His death brings wild mourning, and the folk expect both death and slavery to follow, even though the dragon was slain.
Americans don't want Kings, but we still need the man even if we don't want the office. We want a free-born man, chosen by his equals rather than by his birth -- and in this, it happens that we are following precisely in the footsteps of the Geats, whose kings were elected by the folk.
I inherited my grandfather's Stetson after he died. I wear it often, when I don't wear my own. I carry a revolver, legally and licensed in several states. I find, when I have time that I don't have to spend working, that there's little I want more than to settle in with a good Western. In this, I am just like many Americans, apparently including Doc. We are seeing in our own way the same, ancient things:
In the end, I suppose I did turn out to be just like my grandfather. I'm old enough now to know that he wasn't exactly the man who was painted for me. Having become him, I can see only too clearly some of the flaws he must have borne, which now I bear.
It was decidedly cool for Houston, a harbinger for the frost that would set in that night. Anyway, I was walking along in the cool of the evening with a Justin cowboy hat on my head, and Alice on my hip, when I looked up and I saw a most amazing sunset. It was all gold and burning over the rooftops. Little broad streaks of copper and gold clouds fixed high above in a sea of ultramarine blue, while I was drowned beneath in a cool breeze. It was just gorgeous. I paused from my errand for a minute, awed by a beauty that must have awed man in discrete moments throughout the ages, from ancient Greece to a greek eatery in modern Texas.
Also, I realize -- not quite too late -- that Jack T. was not the best man I've ever known. My father is. I wanted to be like his father not because his father was better than him, but because his father was the man he most respected and admired in the world. All I wanted was for him to respect and admire me just like that.
If the stories proved not to be completely accurate, they were nevertheless perfectly true. I may not always succeed at being a good man, but I know how. I know how to be a good man because my father told me. He told me about his father. Now I have a son, and I have to tell him. Nothing can capture the value of this gift, or the weight of this duty. I have heard only too often the laments of those who did not receive what I was given, who do not know how to pass on what I must.
The Western is our national epic. It is the way in which Americans, the ones who still remember how, pass on the eternal truths to the next generation.