Courage, Honor, and Mastery

July 29, 11:36 p.m., Cicero police officer Douglas Pennock asked Sgt. Andrew Scherer, working in the evidence room, if he was expecting anyone—he had noticed someone at the back door. When Pennock opened the door to see if he could help, the stranger, an Army specialist just a month back from a 15 month tour in Afghanistan, raised a high caliber, semi-automatic assault rifle at the officer.

“’I can’t tell you the number of officers I’ve seen who probably would’ve shot this guy,’ said William Gaut, a former commander of detective in the Birmingham, Alabama, Police Department and a nationally recognized expert in law enforcement procedures,” adding that the officers “would have been justified…if they’d shot,” reported Hart Seely and John O’Brien, staff writers for “The Post Standard.” Instead, Pennock covered himself by partly closing the metal door, asked loudly about the rifle to alert Scherer, and talked the troubled veteran into surrendering the weapon. “Pennock did everything right,” concluded Gaut, adding that the officer deserved a medal.

Certainly people have the right to defend themselves, nor should firing on another person be characterized as easy, but taking the shot would have been the easy way out—facing down the assault rifle took far more courage, quick thinking, and good judgment. A local police spokesman, appearing at a public meeting about some recent burglaries, advised homeowners suspecting an intruder to “just get out—we can replace everything but people.”

A few years ago, I saw a piece aired by a television reporter embedded in a unit in Iraq. An experienced newsman long used to careful observation, he quickly noted that the village his unit was to patrol was uneasy—a rumor had spread that the Americans were on their way to attack the village mosque, and agitated Iraqi citizens were rapidly preparing some sort of defense. The colonel in charge of this unit, however, was faster. Just as the reporter realized what was happening, the colonel commanded in a calm, clear, but firm voice, “Everybody on one knee. Weapons down.” Instantly the unit dropped, rifle muzzles resting on the ground, held at 45 degree angles from the soldiers. “Everybody wave,” the colonel continued immediately, pacing calmly up and down the ranks to ensure compliance. “Nice and slow. Big smile. BIG SMILES. Wave. We’re all friends here. Everybody’s friendly.” And so it continued for several minutes while the situation gradually diffused. This could have been a massacre instead, even if in self-defense, but for a smart, quick-thinking commander.

I’m amazed and troubled by the number of people I hear bragging they’d fire first and question later, even if that meant killing some neighborhood teen breaking in on a dare. That’ll teach him—and save the television. Technically justified, but hardly good judgment, and hardly a demonstration of courage or honor. Shooting is just easier.

And people argue the same for national issues. Just attack! America doesn’t take that! Damn the consequences. One student, studying Tim O’Brien’s “The Things They Carried,” responded to the story’s account of a Vietnam village leveled in retaliation for a comrade’s death, “Well hell! They shot one of their guys!” It’s a frightening simplification, and a distortion of true courage and honor. [I had to end a relationship with a girlfriend, a Navy veteran, whose response to the Abu Ghraib abuse scandal was, “They’d do it to us—we should do it the them!” The same woman jumped for joy when her ex-husband was called up for Iraq, saying, “Let HIM get killed by a roadside bomb!”]

What is it about power that makes people in a hurry to use it? One karate instructor who ran a dojo franchise bragged about beating up a guy attempting to break into his car, hitting him, then again, and when he still didn’t fall, again…I found a new dojo.

“Everybody wonders at some point what would happen if they ever got a chance to use their martial arts skills,” notes one Aikido expert in an article I saw several years ago. He got his chance one day on the subway—a crazed Japanese gunman threatened the car load of passengers. But as he rose to confront the attacker, an elderly Japanese man calmly beat him to it, just talking to him. “At least you get it!” screamed the attacker. “You’re Japanese—you understand.” The story goes on, but it ends several minutes later with the attacker sobbing in the lap of the elderly man.

“That day,” recounts the Aikido expert, “I learned about true mastery.”

Writer

The Last Lie I Told

I know this strains credulity, but it’s true—I told my last lie in 8th grade.

Not that I was (or am, for that matter) any saint. My parents maintained that the lie was a separate, punishable action from the original offense, a rule I ran afoul of multiple times (especially since age seven—not sure why that age in particular).

Mr. Lane, my 8th grade Social Studies teacher, was one of three junior high school teachers who showed us that learning was important, that the subjects were relevant, interesting, even fascinating once we started to understand them. This trio also taught us to think for ourselves, frequently giving us structured tasks or group activities, getting out of our way, letting us make our mistakes, but then coming back and addressing our shortcomings. They pushed us, worked us, gave us lower grades then we were used to earning, redirected us, sent us back to thinking and working—and we loved it. They were my favorite teachers.

So when I didn’t hand in my Social Studies report (I don’t remember how many pages were required), it wasn’t any judgment against the class or the teacher—I just was a kid who got busy doing some other kid things and didn’t get to the assigned report in time. I sat cringing as the class passed in their work, knowing I was in serious trouble. Fortunately, Mr. Lane didn’t notice I hadn’t turned in a report, so I was reprieved for the moment, but I knew it would eventually catch up with me.

And that day arrived. While the rest of the class worked on an in-class assignment, Mr. Lane came over to talk with me. My stomach churned—I knew I was in deep trouble.

“I didn’t see your report,” he started. I hung my head. “Did you turn one in?” Nervous, I nodded. “OK—I’ll look through everything here and at home and see if I can find it.” I knew he wouldn’t, of course, but at least I’d bought another reprieve.

I worried all through class each day—my brief reprieve had become a week. It couldn’t last.

Finally, almost as a relief, the Day of Reckoning arrived. Mr. Lane called me over to his desk at the end of class. Here it comes. As my classmates filed out the door, I shuffled slowly to my doom.

“I’ve looked everywhere for your paper,” began Mr. Lane. I looked at the floor. “I tore apart everything, every pile, and it’s just not there.” My shoulders slumped. Fear grew by the second, anticipating my fate. “So,” Mr. Lane continued, “I’m just going to have to assume it was an “A” paper.”

My heart jumped into my throat. I looked at him, stunned. “OK,” I answered, lamely, and followed my classmates to our next class.

I should have felt relieved, elated, joyful. I didn’t. I felt two inches tall. I didn’t even feel some cliché emotion, like “I let my favorite teacher down,” for example. Instead, I knew I’d just had an interaction with a man who was a far better person than I, and I’d failed miserably. I didn’t like it. I still don’t, years later. Mistakes are one thing, but this was another. It was the last lie I told.

Today, I know at least some of my college students wouldn’t hesitate to lie about their work, judging from the number of blatant plagiarism cases I’ve busted. In my own way, I’ve offered them a small if unpalatable way out: “May I talk to you for a minute before class, outside? Do you realize that the deadline for dropping a course is this Friday? Are you aware that students aren’t allowed to drop courses to escape plagiarism charges? Now, if someone plagiarized one of these papers I’m about to hand back, my comments about that would constitute a plagiarism charge, subject to the formal policies laid out in detail in the College Handbook. However, if such a student dropped before I was able to return the paper and make the charge, I’m not sure I could do much about it.”

I don’t know what impact this has on students long term. I don’t even know if it’s the right thing to do. I wonder if Mr. Lane simply knew I was lying.

Our culture currently seems not to even blink at dishonesty. People have so long stolen copied music that they don’t even consider the ramifications. One folk artist even did a song about it (these lyrics are to the best of my memory):

So I copied it
Gave it to all my friends
A lot them gave it to their friends too
Cause I love ya man
I’m your biggest fan…

…and so forth, with the speaker in the song ironically wondering why the band isn’t more successful, even wondering if maybe they just don’t try hard enough.

One of my colleagues, a self-styled (and continually unpublished) novelist maintains, “I wouldn’t mind if someone made copies of my novel, so why should I worry about copying music?” I think the law and at least many of the musicians might view the case differently.

My younger brother, Mr. Values, downloads copied DVDs. “Hey, they’re on the Internet,” he says. “I don’t know if they’re stolen or not!” I mentioned we could say the same about TVs sold from the back of a truck in a parking lot. Uncharacteristically, he had no retort.

Seemingly, if you can get away with it, it’s moral.

And how do you argue against that, when the Bush administration claims lying as executive privilege? The ridiculous spin on Iraq, the mind-numbing audacity of Alberto Gonzalez—these are just the obvious points with bipartisan agreement, let alone the host of other nonsense.

As a society, we’re like alcoholics—we arguably COULD stop, COULD get help—but we want to lie.

And the lack of truth shall continue to render us less and less free.

Writer

Memorial Moment

Twice a year, in November and May, the U.S. officially celebrates its men and women in uniform. Veterans Day can slide by quickly with a speech and a raised flag, given its midweek status in late fall, but Memorial Day, a three day weekend and the unofficial start to summer, is more likely to inspire a parade—along with a party, a barbeque, and a fair amount of beer.

As a kid, I biked all over our suburb’s streets, and consequently, some vigilant porch sitters and I noticed each other, spoke to each other, and began to look forward to our visits. What I remember most is talking about World War II. I can’t say I learned a lot about the war itself, but I clearly saw that something about this was a really big deal. I listened respectfully and intently, tried to understand the period novels I read, and when the subject came up in social studies, I paid attention.

Growing up in the sixties, I was to learn a lot more about armed conflict. As one speaker put it, “List four people you know between the ages of 18 and 24. Now cross off the first name on your list. That’s what war in Vietnam meant.” Ironically, President Johnson made Memorial Day an official U.S. Holiday, in 1966.

Today, the cry is constant—support the troops. God, I hate that word. Sounds better when “troops” are killed rather than “people”? But why the animosity often associated with the cry? Where are the groups crying, “Oppose the troops!”? Oh yeah—no such groups. Who doesn’t support the troops? And frankly, maybe that support shouldn’t be so blind. The massacre at My Lai? Prisoner abuse at Abu Grahab? The “retaliatory” murder of an innocent Iraqi citizen? One of my acquaintances, a Navy veteran, insists that we must support all of the troops no matter what.

I can’t agree. Such myopic reasoning allows troops to become little more than political pawns—any opposition brings the cry “Support the Troops!” Take Rumsfeld’s insistence—against the advice of the Pentagon—to run the Iraq war on the cheap. Friends, families and neighbors chip in to help buy the body armor the government neglected to supply. Soldiers raid junk yards to protect their vehicles from road side bombs. Where’s the support for the troops there? And when the Bush administration’s policies have clearly failed, the President grasps for a magical solution—more troops, with no clear plan, but clearly ready to sacrifice more lives on the chance he can still save face. So Congress finally tries to use the only real weapon it has to stop this nonsense—cut funding. Time for the cry—“Support the Troops!”

I’m quite ready to honor the troops, to remember those who gave so much to their country. But I’m not happy about it, especially now. I’m not naïve—as former President Carter noted when awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, war is sometimes a necessary evil. At the same time, however, “it is always an evil,” and not a course of action a country should so rashly follow.

So today we honor fallen troops. I am grateful to them, but I’d rather we were honoring them as the parents, spouses, doctors, lawyers, scientists, teachers, businessmen, mayors, and citizens they should have been.

Writer