I Hear America Calling: Remembering 9/11

             I Hear America Calling

Vigil strange I kept on the field one night;

When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day;

One look I but gave which your dear eyes return'd with a look I shall never forget,

One touch of your hand to mine O boy, reach'd up as you lay on the ground.                                                                                       Walt Whitman

Friday night we gathered at the football field to cheer for the players victorious. The band played and the cheerleaders cheered. The poms danced in the clear night air. This was done throughout the area at different stadiums as it has been for years. Somehow it was different, though.

Sunday we gathered in solemn remembrance of those who will no longer cheer on this earth. We prayed in the stands where prayer is not usually public. We wept and God seemed to weep with us as the rain fell lightly at the end of the ceremony. A friend commented that she "really needed this" referring to this public mourning time. The words were comforting. A time for the community to start the healing process. Different faiths, different races, different ideologies. All Americans.

The images still linger. The crashes, the burning of buildings, the terror. The images of those falling or jumping out of the buildings. Flying to a death most certain when nothing else seemed certain. The pictures that haunt us. The sounds of the phone calls, as if calling from the grave, to tell family members that they are loved.

Father Judge killed as he administered last rights to a dying firefighter. Angela Houtz, 27, doing her work at the Pentagon. The heroes of United Flight 93, like Todd Beamer who yelled "Let's roll" before attempting with at least two others to overtake the hijackers and crashing into rural Pennsylvania. Todd will not have the chance to see his third child who is expected in January. How do you tell your children that their mommy or daddy will not be coming home anymore?

Faces, varieties, postures beyond description, most in obscurity,

some of them dead,

Surgeons operating, attendants holding lights, the smell of ether,

the odor of blood,

The crowd, O the crowd of the bloody forms, the yard outside,

also fill'd,

Some on the bare ground, some on planks or stretchers, some in

the death-spasm sweating,

An occasional scream or cry, ...      Walt Whitman

We saw it happen and we couldn't look away. Glued to the gore that was being shown. Shown repeatedly. How many times did the jets hit the towers? The inferno was like watching a movie my daughter commented. The heat strong enough to topple the towers. The soldiers sent to rescue who needed rescuing. The soldiers who would not come out again. Those who have chosen to serve and protect, the police officers and the firefighters, as brave as any soldier in battle. Will we ever look at them and the job they do the same? The rubble, the ashes, the billowing smoke lingering as a reminder that none of us is invincible.

William Feehan, fire commissioner. Peter Ganci, fire department chief. Steven Olson, firefighter. Yamel Merino, EMT. People who were doing their jobs. People who were in the line of fire, unable to escape. Five thousand innocent men, women, and children who will not be here for the next Holiday. Where do their families go for comfort? Was Susan Hanson, 35, allowed to hold her daughter, Christine, 3, before the impact? What comforting words could she offer her or herself? How would we respond at such a time?

I went to sleep with the television on. I would awake to look at my wife and children, knowing for now that they are safe. Not knowing what tomorrow will bring. The stories of those looking for their loved ones, as they held pictures up to the screen brought a sense of hope. The knowledge of what happened brought a sense of dread. The dancer, Sonia Morales Puopolo, who will never grace the ballet stage again. The doctor, Paul Ambrose, whose hands will not be allowed to heal again. The spiritual counselor, Paige Farley Hackel, whose work is needed now is in a more spiritual palace. And the list goes on....

I hear the siren going by my office and am thankful for the work of our firemen. I can't imagine the chaos in New York and Washington, D.C. last week. When will it end? and at what cost? My generation has been sheltered in a way. We have not fully known war. Now that I have seen the effects, it is not something, I believe, that anyone wants to know. We will know it, though, at home and oversees. How do you fight a phantom enemy? How does a country that has learned to love life and tries to find ways to extend it fight an enemy that wants to die in order to secure a seat with their Allah?

There are no atheists in foxholes.      Unknown

At Sunday's gathering there were no outcries from the ACLU. There were no court orders to separate Church and State. There were those who were there for the glory of God and country. We were there in communion with our brothers and sisters. We were there to ask God to forgive us and to forgive our enemies. We were there because we had been brought to our knees and while we were down there, we had the chance to pray, to ask God's blessing on us and of those that are now with Him. We were there because not only is there strength in numbers, but there is comfort, as well. All of a sudden the world didn't seem like such a vast, and sometimes distant land. For a while we were a true community. The New York that we have envisioned, the hard, sometimes cocky, bully-like personality, was suddenly more vulnerable, friendlier, compassionate, and in need of help. We as a nation sensed that and have rushed to help. Washington, D.C., that bastion of bickering, political infighting, and deal-making partisan politicians, was now a place where innocent civilians and military personnel who help to protect our country had faces. The faces of humanity.

We shall remember September 11, 2001. We shall know where we were when we heard the news. Much like we know where we were when John F. Kennedy was assassinated or the generation before us remembers where they were when Pearl Harbor was bombed. The images are seared in our collective memory. And despite this, or because of this we have come together and put aside our differences for now, to stand as one nation, under God, indivisible. Our flags will fly, our bodies will be put to rest, but our country will grow stronger, not because we are more powerful (which we are), not because we have the best and brightest minds (which we do), not because we have the greatest leaders, but because we are a nation forged by the idea of justice and freedom. God will watch over us, because we believe in Him. No terrorist can take that away from us. Not today. Not tomorrow. Never.

Long, too long America,

Traveling roads alleven and peaceful you learn'd from joys and

prosperity only,

But now, ah now, to learn from crises of anguish, advancing, grappling,

with direst fate and recoiling not,

And now to conceive and show the world what your children

en-masse really are,

(For who except myself has yet conceiv'd what your children

en-masse really are?).                  Walt Whitman

The Tao of Steve (Prefontaine)

Roland Alton Tolliver, circa 1975

The Tao of Steve

By

Roland Tolliver

“To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift.”       --Steve Prefontaine

I haven’t found that there are too many heroes in life. There are a number of people that have worthy traits that are worth emulating. There are those people that have qualities that make them stand out in the world, whether it be in politics, education, sports, the performing arts, religion, and in that all important field of parenting. There is one person, though, that I have not been able to get out of my head since I was a teen. Over the years, I have found some bizarre connection with this man, who will have been gone from this live for the past 33 years this month.

Steve Prefontaine, known simply as “Pre” among those familiar with the man and his life, has generated untold stories of his running acumen, guts, and dedication. He was born Steve Roland Prefontaine on January 25, 1951, exactly seven years to the date of my own birth. Of course, there is the strange coincidence that his middle name and my first name are the same, as well. So, perhaps there was some pre-ordained reason that I was drawn into the near mystical fascination with this Olympic runner and his short, but productive life.

It was the summer before my freshman year in high school when Pre ran the infamous 5,000 meters race in the Olympics in Munich. These were supposed to be the “Happy” Olympics with a return to peace in the world. These Olympic Games will always be remembered for the 13 Israeli athletes and coaches that were killed by Palestinian terrorists after the Israelis had been taken hostage. A number of the athletes managed to escape and hide in the American dorms. Any innocence of the Olympics was lost that year and as recent history has proven too many times, the innocence of a terror-free world is but a dream. Besides Mark Spitz winning seven gold medals in swimming, Frank Shorter winning the marathon, and Dave Wottle with his white gold cap coming from last to first to win the 800 meter race, there is only one event that sticks out in my mind. That was the gutsy race that Steve Prefontaine ran in the 5000 meter final, only to finish spent and in fourth place. He was young, 21, competing against much more seasoned runners, and he almost won an Olympic medal. It was then that I realized that we can’t win all the time, but that we can always give a full effort in whatever we do in life. There have been a number of times in life that I thought it would be easier to just pack it in and give up, but then I think back to that summer and how many obstacle I’ve overcome in life since then.

One of my life’s highlights was living in Munich for a year while I was an undergraduate student and one of the highlights of that year was running a race that concluded on that same track that Steve and Frank and Dave and the U.S. Olympic team and athletes from around the world had competed on. I often go back to that day in my mind, knowing that so many people that have had great influence on my life are no longer here, but carry me through many days as spirit-like inspirations. “Run fast. Run strong,” they say. “Keep going. You can do it,” they remind me. “We’re watching over you. You are not alone,” they remind me. Whether it be my uncle, Wayne, who died in a one car accident almost exactly a year after Pre, or my mother, Mary, who died almost exactly five years after Wayne, or Pre, whom I never had the chance to meet, there words carry me through trying times. Their memories strengthen the loving and fulfilling thoughts and words of my bride and family today. I have found that while it isn’t healthy to dwell in the past, we can meld our history with our present to sustain us today and brighten our tomorrows.

Steve Prefontaine was not only the greatest runner in America during his career, but one who worked equally hard for equality and justice among competitive runners in our country. Many of the changes he fought for against the Amateur Athletic Union eventually came to fruition after his death. The entire Olympic process in our country eventually changed based on the rights he fought do diligently for. It is the essence of making a difference in one’s life that has stuck with me as much as his running prowess has over the years. It is one impetus for trying to make a difference in my community, my church, in my profession and within my family.

“Go, Pre!” his fans would shout at each of his meets. He wouldn’t be around to see the books written about him or the movies made about his short life. He would see the minions of followers that would be influenced by his accomplishments. Steve Prefontaine died in a one-car accident in Eugene, Oregon, the city of his greatest feats, early on the morning of May 30, 1975. There are many theories about the crash, but the only one who knows for sure is gone. No one should be held up as an idol, but there are people that influence who and what we become. We are all influenced by the people we meet in life or by the lives of the people we read or learn about.  For me, I’ve found myself following the Tao of Steve for much of my life and with God’s help hope to follow it for many years to come. One day maybe my children or others will be inclined to follow the “Tao of Roland”. Well, anything’s possible, right?!

Steve Roland Prefontaine, circa 1971

Dr. Roland Tolliver is a freelance writer from Freeport. He often wonders what it would have been like to be an Olympian. He may be reached at rtolliver@kastlepublishing.com.