Must be a piece on the '93 truck bombing, I think, still brushing aside the last cobwebs of sleep. Guess it's a slow news day.
But they keep talking about airplanes. I don't remember any airplanes ...
The cobwebs part.
Down the stairs. Into the kitchen where my father is watching TV. "What the hell is this I'm hearing ... ?" and then I see. Both 110-story towers belching black smoke like non-compliant factory chimneys. My father is telling me that terrorists have crashed airplanes into them.
Nasty business.
I still haven't caught on: What a waste of a perfectly good Beechcraft.
It is my last thought in the blissful, naive, pre-Sept. 11 world.
"Look, here comes the plane, watch this," my father says.
I watch.
I see.
Ho-lee cow. (Although "cow" is not the operative word, we'll use it here.)
And as the "ho-lee cow" moments rack up one after the other on the day which we'll forever call "Nine-One-One," I realize long before the President ever speaks the words, that we are now a nation at war. A new kind of war for a new century, but a war nevertheless.
As in any war, there is ground to be lost and gained, territory to be contested. But the battlefield today isn't in any geography book, it is in the homeland of America's hearts and minds. The terrorists seek to breach our collective psyche, to lay waste to the peaceful mindscape of safety and security we Americans enjoy to a degree unique in the world.
In this war, we are the strategic objective.
We are also the ground troops.
Which is why, after picking my jaw up off the floor in the aftermath of Tuesday's horror, I set out to fight my war.
By keeping a doctor's appointment up at the Medical Center.
Wednesday morning, I woke up. I got out of bed. I scratched myself. I made a cup of coffee, ate breakfast, watched TV.
As I do every morning of my life.
I hit the freeway, went in to Houston for my appointment, and drove back to the Island.
At 6:30, I went over to Luby's and had my usual supper of broiled chicken, cabbage, bread and coffee.
I always do that on Wednesday.
Then, I went home, watched some TV, sent a couple of e-mails, ate a Popsicle, brushed my teeth, went to bed, and slept quite soundly.
What I'm saying here, is that my answer to those who would co-opt my world of peace and freedom for theirs of tyranny and terror, is to look them squarely in the eye, and say, "No." I turn my backside to them and proudly go about the humdrum, day-to-day life that is my cherished birthright as a free American.
I refuse to be their hostage.
Make no mistake. I trust our military professionals to ferret out the perpetrators of Nine-One-One and rain down 31 flavors of fiery hell upon their misbegotten heads.
But while cruise missiles and smart bombs can deal out a world of hurt to these murdering bastards, the real war will be won on the ground, by us -- as in you, me and the little old lady next door -- living our daily lives.
Because terrorism's victory lies not in body counts, but in the tally of souls they drive into psychological bunkers.
Every American who balks at an elevator door -- who dives for cover when a garbage truck backfires, who casts a fearful glance skyward at every passing jetliner -- is a victory for the terrormongers.
America is at war.
We are the soldiers.
Our weapons are rush-hour traffic, high-school football games, shoping carts, and "fries with that?" -- all the ho-hum, heroic minutiae of free people living their lives, unbowed by the gruesome face of foreign fanaticism.
Victory against terrorism is normalcy. Terrorists only win when people are terrorized.
In this new war, every trip to the mall -- every boring afternoon at the laundromat -- every mile of the daily commute -- is a cannonball from the good guys.
"Fries with that?" Let freedom ring.
