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Dulce Et Decorum Erat

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DULCE ET DECORUM ERAT

The one recent event that has burned itself into all of our memories would have to be the tragedy of September 11, 2001.  All of us know what happened that day, and I do not need to recall it for anyone.  And surely, everyone remembers the feeling of unity and brotherhood that followed the event.  Every single person truly felt proud to be an American, and we were all willing to stay close together and work hard to pull through that time of darkness.  But, of course, such feelings as those often spoil into jingoism, and this was no exception.

My first reaction to the event was a feeling of vulnerability.  I felt weak and helpless after the attacks, and the fear pumped out from the media only made things worse.  I was afraid of terrorists flying more planes into buildings, sending anthrax through the mail, setting off dirty bombs in city streets--any possible permutation of terrorists, deadly weapons, and dead Americans.  The list of Americans killed grew longer and longer, and I grew more and more afraid that my name would be on the list.  I remember opening an envelope and seeing a small amount of thin white powder come out, then nearly breaking down.

And after vulnerability came anger.  I was pissed off at Osama bin Laden and al Qaeda for attacking America, and vented out my anger by drawing ridiculous cartoons of them dying slapstick deaths as a result of their near-ridiculous stupidity.  I collaborated with my friend Greg to sketch out little six-panel joke strips every free period, on the back of Latin worksheets.  One example I remember well was this one: Osama and al Qaeda were fighting Americans in Tora Bora, and decided to use grenades.  However, after each terrorist pulled the pin out from the grenade, he threw the pin at his American adversary, not the grenade.  The result was a slew of explosions with humorous onomatopoeia words, Osama bin Laden flying one hundred feet into the air and cursing the Americans in my version of Arabic (which was a bunch of ridiculous-looking squiggles), and America winning the War on Terrorism.  Osama would continue to die by my pen in inane ways for about a year.

On the first anniversary of the attack, my school held an assembly.  I first thought this was going to be an open dialogue discussion on the event, or a memorial ceremony, or something that would make me feel good about living here.  Before entering the auditorium, each student was presented with a typical 9/11 T-shirt.  These are the kind of T-shirts which appeared about two weeks after the incident.  They usually have one or more of the following on it:

• A bald eagle.
• A picture of the towers (sans flaming wreckage.)
• An American flag.
• “God Bless America.”
• “United We Stand.”
• “Never Forgive, Never Forget.”
• An NYPD/FDNY logo.
• “Let’s Roll!”

We were encouraged to wear our shirts during the assembly.  I did not.  I disagreed with how we had begun marketing off of a tragedy.  I had started to become very annoyed at all of the assorted bumper stickers, shirts, baseball caps, statues, and probably even condoms that were always bringing back my memories of the post-attack fear and constantly telling me to “Never Forgive, Never Forget.” Also, the shirt was too small.

The assembly was not what I expected it to be, and definitely not what I wanted it to be.  Somebody had hooked up a projector to a laptop computer, and on the laptop was one of those really cheesy 9/11 memorial pages that twelve year old girls put up on their blogs.  These are the ones that have choppy animations everywhere of waving American flags and flying bald eagles, have a pink background with light blue text (the ultimate eyesore), a very sappy poem about the event, and a mammoth T-shirt graphic on the bottom.  This one, horror of horrors, also had an electronically synthesized version of “God Bless America” playing loudly in the background.  Our principal, Mr. Nolan, loudly read the poem out for us and scrolled the screen down, while the synthesized music was playing full blast.  This poem was about the last moments of the people on the fourth flight, which crash-landed in Pennsylvania.  They had re-taken the flight from the hijackers, but did not know how to fly the plane, so they crashed it where it would not hurt anyone.  This is where the phrase “Let’s Roll!” was associated with the tragedy, because it was the last words heard by those people who the victims had called on their cellphones.  

The poem on this website repeated the phrase “Let’s Roll!” probably every other stanza, and by the time Mr. Nolan was done blasting it out at us, I was thoroughly sick of it.  Mr. Nolan then began yelling out incredibly jingoistic statements.  One of these has burned itself into my mind, much like the tragedy itself did one year before:

“We are Americans!  Our flag should fly higher than any other!  We’re the best country on this earth, and nobody can tell us otherwise!”

He then led the school in a chorus of “God Bless America.”  Teachers walked down the aisles and passed out miniature American flags to everyone.  All the students rose up and began swaying in unison to the beat of the music.  In my mind, they were not swaying to “God Bless America.”  They were all marching to the drums of war.

I thought this was enough, surely, to satisfy every sane person’s appetite for jingoism.  Then logically, judging by what happened next, Mr. Nolan was insane.  He led the entire school in an obnoxious, flag-waving (literally) chant of “U-S-A!!  U-S-A!!”  complete with fist pumps and “raise-the-roof” motions.  This 9/11 memorial had almost turned into something out of Jerry Springer.  I remember going to the school pep rally a few weeks later, and remembering how nearly identical it was to this travesty.

I did not stand up with my fellow students.  A teacher came over to me and told me to stand with them.  I said I could not.  It’s impossible for me to stand, miss.  I can’t do it.  She asked me if my legs were broken.  I said it was not my legs, it was the love for my country.  She gave me the look that people give psych ward patients.

When it was over, all the students began to move towards the exit doors, and it looked like a sea of 9/11 commemorative T-shirts.  And in the background, they had closed the webpage, and were now playing John Lennon’s “Imagine” on the loudspeakers.  This was a song that preached unity, peace, and no belief in state or religion, contrasted with what Mr. Nolan had said naught but five minutes earlier.  A more fitting exit tune, if it had been written then, would be the theme to the 2004 major motion picture “Team America: World Police:”

“America, FUCK YEAH!
Coming again, to save the motherfucking day!
America, FUCK YEAH!
Freedom is the only way!
Terrorists, your game is through,
‘Cause now you have to answer to...
America, FUCK YEAH!”

And that is how I lost my patriotism.  I don’t regret it, really, even if those Osama bin Laden cartoons were pretty funny.  I’m actually pretty glad I lost it.  As my title states, Dulce et decorum erat, pro patria mori.  That is, it WAS sweet and beautiful to die for my fatherland.  Then it got pushed over the edge.
This is the story of how I lost my patriotism.

On the title: Dulce Et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori was said by one of those Roman writers, I forget who. I think it was Horace. It means "It is sweet and beautiful to die for your homeland." Most people shorten it to "Dulce Et Decorum Est." I've changed it to "Dulce Et Decorum Erat." 'Est' means 'is,' and 'erat' means 'was.' In other words, I was patriotic, but now I'm not. Oh snap.

Everything in here is true. Absolutely everything.
© 2005 - 2024 MjolnirIF
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tigerkt's avatar
I understand. So many citizens that wear USA cheaply and wave the flag like it's a team banner for a pro football team. I wouldn't say that you lost your patriotism. You got disillusioned, of course. But you still had love for your country in the face of being cheaply American. Just remember your nationalism is bigger than you and me; it's bigger than a school assembly; it's bigger than Mr. Nolan and midi music behind a poem. Patriotism is a spirit that is all the good in the founding of this country. It's hard to keep the bad out, especially when it follows it around like a lost puppy dog. Puppy dogs are a lot cuter though. Patriotism is where you live and how that girl down the street smiles at you, how that one song on the radio always picks you up, or how good a coke goes with pizza.

Sorry for making this so long. You seem like an intelligent guy, and I enjoyed reading this essay.