Some of memories’ most vivid stamps are those pressed by personal experience in times of big moment—occasions when one feels a part of history in some distant but intimate way. I still keep a newspaper I picked up on a trash strewn New York street last Friday. It is a reminder that in twenty hours I learned some things about others, as well as myself. “Black Out!” reads the headline from New York Sun, a new free tabloid circulated on the street corners of the Big Apple. The front page depicts a serene New York completely without light, the setting sun dipping behind the famous skyline. By the time I laid hands on a copy we were sixteen hours into the crisis and were only just beginning to understand fully what happened to us. Stores were closed, water was in relatively short supply and progressively fewer and fewer cabs had enough gas to ferry passengers around town. New York, usually the center of most major things, was only beginning to fathom that it had been home to only a percentage of the victims of the largest blackout in history.

I had arrived in the city to do research on a book of Jan Masaryk, the Foreign Minister of Czechoslovakia during he Communist coup of 1948. His untimely and tragic death remains one of the mysteries of the early Cold War. I planned to do research at the New York Public Library and so I checked into the Roosevelt Hotel, which is conveniently located within easy access of both the Library and the Metlife Building, where I was hoping to meet some business colleagues later in the day. With a little time on my hands I settled in for a brief “power nap” (ironically named, I later thought). I had just descended the slide into sleep when a man loudly yelled as he hit my door hard with his fists: “We are evacuating this hotel!!”

I scrambled for my most important things, nearly forgetting my room key and earrings. Adjusting my disheveled clothes as the door slammed behind me, I joined the others walking briskly. We descended the staircase a few doors from my room. The stairwell was dark—leading not to the ground floor but to the second floor, which was partially lighted by a limited-capacity generator. Moving in silence several of us looked for the second staircase down. We made a number of false starts, until we found our way to the ground floor and out of the building. Talking hadn’t been necessary; we had all proceeded with dispatch, blindly following whoever looked confident. All of us heeded the general instructions that were issued, without any thought to the wisdom of them.

By the time we had reached the pavement hundreds of people were already on the street. No one knew what had happened or what had caused the power outage. Was it from too many air conditioners running in a city and region which had been relentlessly subject to summer’s blistering heat? Or, was it the possibility that pulled at one’s gut: a terrorist attack like the one of September 11, 2001? After all, the government had periodically given out warnings, and had raised the alert level from yellow to orange. Nobody knew.

On the street the crowd was surprisingly calm. While no one really knew what had happened, there was a strong unspoken sense that it was not a terrorist attack. There were no sirens of first responders, no fire engines or police cars; just thousands of office workers, hoteliers and shopkeepers out on the street in search of an explanation. Strangers were standing together making jokes or offering the few cell phones that worked. I could not get a sustained signal from my own mobile phone, but a casually-dressed office worked offered me his, while I called family members to reassure them that I was fine. There was an air if not of carnival then at least of reprieve, as if a friend had called in a bomb threat to get his classmates out of a final exam.

After checking in at home, I was anxious to secure a bottle or two of water, more for my immediate needs than as any wise precaution. Somehow we all expected that a switch would be flipped at any moment and power would return—much as it seems to do after a brief but violent storm. I started up the street in search of something to drink.

Only blocks away it appeared that a gathering spot was forming around an outside café on the veranda of a church, St. Bartholomew’s, next to the Waldorf Astoria. There was a line to get in, and I waited. Tucking two bottles of water into my bag for later, I stood in line for $2- a- cup soft drink (I asked for Sprite—wishing to avoid anything with dehydrating caffeine in it.) As the heat of the day lingered, two young thirty-somethings motioned to a seat. I thanked them, claimed it and sat silently for some time, nursing my Sprite and watching others tuck into hamburgers, steaks and lamb chops, or anything else that could be grilled on St. Barts’ barbeque. The pit was working over time since no other restaurant seemed to be serving food (though they would soon realize everything in their refrigerators would spoil and would begin to offer their contents, sometimes for free, the next day.) For those eating at exorbitant prices that evening free refills of fresh water were forthcoming. After a while I made my way to the ladies room, inching along a dark corridor. It seemed rather like swimming in a pool of black ink. Only occasionally a flickering candle would show the way. Washing one’s hands in the cramped airless room was done only by instinct and feel. Still one was grateful. I reveled in the victory of finding a chair, a meal and an opportunity to find the facilities.

On my return, the two men who had befriended me introduced themselves as Chris and Mike from J.P. Morgan. Mike performed a real service for all of us that evening. Being up-to-date technically, he was carrying an electronic gadget called a Blackberry that put him in contact with the outside world. Not dependent on a power plug, his hand-held device gave him access to the Internet, which consumed much of his attention. He and his mother, sitting in the Cayman Islands, had been sending messages back and forth in real time. She sent Mike all the latest news she could glean from watching CNN. The northeastern states – New York, Connecticut, Ohio, Michigan, even Ontario— were in a stage of complete power outage. Sabotage was practically written off, though the source of the breakdown in the grid system was as yet unknown. At least our lives were not in danger. Mike got up and shouted the news to everyone on the veranda. He was rewarded with applause.

As dusk in the city deepened, I ordered a hamburger and while we ate we talked politics. In the course of our discussion it turned out that both men, like me, were lifelong Republicans. They had become disenchanted with the policies of President George W. Bush and his administration. In such an exchange of views, it was just as well that my last name remained secret. “Susan,” “Chris” and “Mike” seemed adequate, especially as our political conversations became more heated and more outspoken. Before long, Chris and I suggested we run Mike for public office. His passion, we thought, would sell. The excitement of the evening was in part heightened by the circumstances in which we found ourselves. But such occasions also offer an adventure in anonymity, and the prospect that you can be whoever you wanted to be and think whatever politically incorrect thoughts come to mind.

Soon I found myself handling the guys’ complex questions about the ways of Washington and their perception that our nation’s capital is now as corrupt as anything New York has ever seen. As the evening came to a close they introduced themselves, finally confessing to their full identities.

When it was my turn, they begged: “Come on, tell us who you are.”

“I’d rather not,” I replied.

“Why? Are you an administration dissident?” Chris asked.

“No.”

“Should we know who you are–are you one of those people on television?” Mike countered. “Come on, tell us, which program should we watch?”

“Hey, you’re right, Mike,” Chris chimed in. “She does look familiar.”

They were frustrated by my refusal. Despite this we exchanged warm handshakes when we parted—they goodbye of those who had bonded in a brief but meaningful way.

“I’ll support your campaign, Mike, with an anonymous donation.” I teased as I left.

Darkness had finally come upon the city. I went back to the hotel, walking down the street. Flickers could be seen from some of the rooms occupied again. Along the way, a stranger gave me a chemical light, of the sort handed out on the 4th of July. This act of kindness assured my safe return, first to the hotel and then up the dim and barely imperceptible stairwell to my room. Mike, Chris and the others had been convinced that the authorities were waiting until darkness to light the city again, on the basis that the cooler air would reduce the necessity for people to air condition their rooms. Like many of the other theories advanced that evening, this was mostly for talk. For when I awoke the next morning, after a fitful night in a stifling room without ventilation or windows that would open, the phone, the water supply and my cell phone were still not functioning.

By now, concerned that my family would worry, I dressed early– without benefit of a shower– and set off on what seemed like a never-ending hike up Park Avenue. I had to move beyond ten blocks to finally get a cell phone signal home. Family members told me that the airport was closed and that the only way out of the city was Penn Station. I went wearily back to my dark hotel. People were splayed all around the lobby, sleeping against their suitcases, no doubt unable to climb to their rooms at the top of the hotel. When I got to the fourth floor I gathered my two heavy bags and I pulled them down the stairs. After checking out by hand, using a makeshift piece of paper (no credit card machines worked), I left the hotel in search of water and some food, heading back in the direction of the Waldorf. As a traveler I had money with me, which was exceedingly fortunate. For those trapped in the city after an ordinary day at work, cash on hand and no working ATM machines posed a serious problem.

For a time I stood in a taxi cue, unable to get a ride, even though I had been at the head of the line for more than a half hour. “Only taking people to Kennedy airport,” said a tired taxi-dispatcher. “Or $400 per person to Philadelphia by car.” The dispatcher kept moving the cue, even though some of us had been there much longer than the newer arrivals, who piled into waiting limos for the most expensive ride of their lives. Sharing a story or two, several of us asked the dispatcher where he got the coffee he clutched in his hand. He looked at us curiously, as if we should know. “Starbucks coffee– only for those of us up who have been up all night,” he said with wilting authority.

After and hour and half, I surrendered. I would never be given a ride, no matter how long I stood in the cue—though by now the Waldorf had brought out chairs for people waiting in line. I guessed that my only way out of New York would be to walk to Penn Station—four long blocks over and twenty odd down. This would be challenging, since my bag on wheels tended to lurch to the left and I had to shift my computer case from one shoulder to the other.

As I walked I kept an eye out for food and water. No water was available at first; only sugared pink grapefruit juice or grape juice only pre-schoolers could love. Later when I did find a bottle of warm water for sale in a darkened convenience store, I had only twenty more blocks to go. A young woman, filing her nails and talking on her cell phone beside me, was roaring with irritation. Her part of Manhattan had already had its electricity restored, so she had come to work only to find her place of business shut for the duration. I felt lucky to find even hot water—but she had already forgotten the seriousness of the ordeal, snapping into her mobile phone that her day had now been ruined.

I had brought all the wrong clothes for what was by now a three hour trek through the urban jungle. Pulling two heavy bags along New York’s hot pavement—in a navy blue silk pants suit –I stopped occasionally to drink my water and plot strategy. Should I try another hotel taxi line or take my chances gaining the attention and sympathy of a driver careening down the street in one of the few empty cabs? After using several ear-splitting whistles, a thumb and forefinger party-trick I learned at summer camp as a girl, an Indian immigrant stopped for me. When I told him I was headed to Penn station, I was in luck. He did not have enough gas to take me further, he reported. As the car bumped along the all-but-empty streets, he briefed me on all he’d heard. Trains, he said ominously, were delayed—or when they did arrive they were dangerously over-crowded. As he spoke he made several abrupt detours because a number of streets had been cordoned off. Occasionally, he looked at his gas gauge, while drawing breath from his sermon on the vulnerability of modern man.

When we reached Madison Square Garden, I climbed out of the taxi, my pantsuit clinging to my legs and my white silk shirt damp from perspiration; I gave the driver double his fare and thanked him profusely. He had not asked for extra money. I wish I had given him more.

Despite the bottle of water, I was feeling generally dehydrated. It was with fatigue and some lightheadedness that I descended into what appeared to be Hades. Penn Station, built well below ground was filled to capacity with hundreds of people. Except for the light streaming down from the gaping holes that opened out onto the street and a few emergency exit signs, the enormous lobby was dark. No air stirred at all. Breathing deeply to compensate for it brought one up short—it was shallow air, devoid of oxygen and stale from hundreds of panting and desperate people.

“There’s not much oxygen,” I said with some concern to a man standing next to me.
“Don’t say that,” he shot back. “If I think about it I will have a panic attack.”

The boards were dark, the ticket counter closed. Only the occasional television screen warned passengers of trains that might come at some point. Rumors spread throughout the lobby and when a train arrived that was going to a major city, a wave of people would wash over to the gate. It was getting harder and harder to breathe. One rumor sent me down the wrong staircase, and grabbing my two heavy bags I had to lug them back up.

Some hour and a half later I boarded the train to Washington. The conductor had not slept in more than 24 hours and warned all of us crowded into the standing-room only train that she was likely to “lose it” at any moment. “Don’t talk at once or badger me with questions!!” Nearly five hours later we arrived in Washington, weary but grateful to have gotten out.

Modern man is indeed vulnerable. During the dawn of the Cold War, when Jan Masaryk lost his life, people could subsist on their own or as a small community. Now with communications, over population and globalization we are all linked. It is as if any break in that chain can cause a nearly irreparable rupture.

While occupants of New York, on this occasion, will be remembered for their relative calm and civility, I figure another twenty-four more hours of the blackout could have gotten nasty. The shortage of water, food and access to money, as well as the transportation crisis could well have fatally frayed the nerves of people who were, when I left, still just managing to hold up. But the crisis was over and the same region that suffers routinely from road rage had survived, for at least twenty four hours. It offered a glimpse of the possibilities in an interdependent world.

I learned some things about myself in all this. Aside from having only a tiny insight into the disorientation and displacement people in Iraq must be feeling without a return to basic services, I discovered that at least on this small test I had, in our pampered frame of reference, passed. While everyday irritations can sometimes get me down, when it comes to facing a crisis I am pretty good. When the drama unfolded I had, instinctively, three or four plans operating at any given time. I never panicked and for the most part I maintained my wits. I was not comfortable, but complaining either to others or to myself was a fruitless expenditure of valuable energy. My spirits remained relatively high, perhaps, because of a little help from some new friends.

But, and this is a big but, I did follow instructions without hesitation or thought, which we now know could be fatal in the midst of a terrorist attack. Next time I will have to be quicker, and more questioning. Evacuation is not always the right thing to do—especially in the case of a chemical or nuclear “dirty bomb” attack. It is key to have a sense of what is happening, even if it takes an extra minute or two. It is critical to stay alert and skeptical, even if those around you have a benign take on what is happening.

No one will be able to predict when and if such an experience will happen again, but I am much more sensitive to taking the basic survival measures. They include: always traveling with water, always carrying an adequate amount of cash, and always booking a hotel room on the lower floors.

There is only one part of the story I regret. While anonymity was part of the adventure, I am only a little sorry that I had indulged my pent-up political dissatisfactions—for what I gained in blowing off steam was lost by being unable to look up Mike and Chris. It would have been fun to stay in touch. And besides, now I’ll never know where to send that campaign donation to Mike when he, I hope, eventually decides to run for political office.

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This article’s location is at http://www.susaneisenhower.com/2009/03/09/this-american-moment-4/
Copyright © 2009 The Eisenhower Group. All rights reserved.

Washington D.C.—It gets dark earlier these late October days, and signs of the season are everywhere. In my neighborhood, inflatable Halloween witches and ghosts can be found dotting the yards as if lying in wait for little ghouls and goblins who will soon demand a “trick or treat.” Children, we know, love to be frightened, which makes October 31st one of their favorite and most anticipated holiday events.

As if taking this cue, at least one of the presidential campaigns and their supporters have gotten into the spirit of things. Dark forebodings about “the real” Barack Obama hover over the conservative blogosphere and airwaves like a thick brooding fog–and the McCain campaign itself has engaged in incendiary “robo” calls and misleading brochures. If you were to believe even half of what these outlets say you’d think a ravenous hound is about to emerge and rip still-beating hearts from the chests of Innocents. Their characterization of Barack Obama as a “closet terrorist,” a pedophile sympathizer and a would-be Marxist might inspire sheer amusement if the power of this primitive emotion called “fear” weren’t so powerful, and so deeply imbedded in our psyches from childhood.

I was always a kid who hated horror movies. Halloween was at the bottom of my holiday list. When I did ring bells for Snickers bars or Tootsie Rolls I always dressed up as Cinderella or Snow White. The one year I did go as a creature, I masqueraded as a “One Eyed One Horn Flying Purple People Eater.” But I did it so I could wear the lavender leotards, not because I intended to scare anyone. Nevertheless, most of my friends wanted nothing more than to don Dracula capes and leave girls like me clutching our fathers’ legs.

This year, decades after taking my own daughters up and down leaf- strewn streets for candy, the early darkness, the sting of cold air and the heightened sense of anticipation make me feel THE CHILL all over again. But this time the blood suckers are not the kids in costume, but the frenzied grown-ups telling terrifying political stories. Those purveyors of Grimm’s New Fairy Tales spin yarns on the internet and the radio about the arrival of an alien “other,” a person implanted here from birth with a diabolical mission to rise to power and subvert all that has been bright and American. This can be explained, they say, by the “fact” that Obama’s birth certificate never surfaced. (Then how did he get a passport? I ask myself.)

Apparently it is not enough that our country and the world are in the grip of an economic crisis of historic proportions, and that we have a two front war underway. The Socialist boogie man has also come back from the dead, and is poised to rear his ugly egalitarian head. The prospect of his arrival has left listeners of Talk Radio and cable television trembling. Without unflagging vigilance, the hosts warn us, Socialism will snatch all we hold dear from our beleaguered and tentative grasps.

A sitting US Senator, Mel Martinez (R FLA), actually suggested that Obama’s ideas were “Communist,” and Senator Joe Biden was questioned by a media host about Obama’s Marxist views. Biden rightly asked if it was a joke. No wonder. Obama’s proposals are about tax policy, not about ending our system of private enterprise. Ironically the far-reaching government intervention into our financial system, which is currently underway, was advanced by a Republican Administration that Senator Martinez and Talk Radio have supported through thick and thin. These measures to nationalize much of our financial system have received bi-partisan support because their objective is to save our capitalist system not to destroy it. Facts like these, however, ruin the alarmists’ storyline, and don’t provide the adrenaline rush required to mobilize the base of a political party that has no new ideas.

Fifteen years ago I used to be a regular talking head on foreign policy issues. I always tried to be accessible to everyone from all ends of the political spectrum. Citizen dialogue and education, I believed and still do, are the cornerstones of a vibrant democracy. I was on Christian Broadcasting as well as Pacifica Radio—and every ideological outlet in between. On either ends of the political spectrum questions were often tough, but they were always respectful and there seemed to be a mutual gratitude that somehow moderates, like me, could engage them and talk about ideas.

Recent experience tells me how far we have come in the coarsening of our public discourse. I have appeared on many television and radio programs in the last few weeks which were hosted by people who questioned my decision to support Senator Barack Obama for President of the United States. Compared to my earlier experience, these interlocutors are much more argumentative, their questions are far more aggressive, and the subtext that begins many of these encounters is often based on the premise that if you don’t see things their way, you are either unpatriotic, uninformed, or simply a fool. I was forced to ask one of these talk show stars if he had actually invited me on the air so that he could ridicule me. The same host proclaimed that Former Secretary of State, General Colin Powell, is a liar and doesn’t deserve to call himself a Republican. I provided a strong rejoinder to this, but was shocked all the same that anyone could say this about one of America’s great heroes.

We have had many chapters in American history with pages that testify to the sad fact that some Americans readily embrace “guilt by association” or “guilt by ethnicity, race or religion.” The Witch Hunt conducted by Senator Joe McCarthy in the 1950s is a vivid case in point. But in the old days those who smeared others and destroyed their careers and reputations did so mostly for the maintenance or acquisition of power. Today money may be the new, most potent driver of this phenomenon. Our new Merchants of Fear live handsomely and many sit atop multi-media empires, raking in more and more money the farther to the fringes they go. They are entertainers, who titillate their audiences with dark songs of betrayal, subterfuge and sometimes even treason. Whether right- leaning or left-leaning these Weavers of Tall Tales do not have the Republic in mind as they spin their fiction. They know their customers. They know what sells. Like the children at Halloween stores, many in their audiences get unacknowledged excitement from preparing and waiting for the THING to go bump in the night.

As a youngster I eagerly awaited November 1, All Saints Day– that sun-filled morning that followed the night of staged horrors. I always marveled that the world looked like a very different place. The masks were gone and our neighbors were just neighbors again, not Ax Murderers, Frankensteins, or Jack the Rippers.

We can expect more Grimm’s Brothers stories before November 4th—more comments taken out of context, more innuendo designed to erode Obama’s support and besmirch his character. But the election will be held after the long night of October 31st is over—at a time when Americans will begin to turn their attention to our finest traditions embodied in Thanksgiving, the greatest of all our holidays. As we reach the voting booth next week, we should pause and look at our communities and be grateful that this country has produced fine, talented people who want to serve their country in this time of dislocation and crisis. And we should, we must, shrug off the fear mongers who have profited hugely from selling us an election season that had far too many devils and demons.

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This article’s location is at http://www.susaneisenhower.com/2008/10/28/this-american-moment-3/

Copyright © 2008 The Eisenhower Group. All rights reserved.

The Consequences of No Consequences
by Susan Eisenhower

The nation held its collective breath these last weeks as the country waited to see if Congress would finally act on the emergency measures to “rescue” our economy, and what the impact would be. While it was understandable that ordinary Americans were skeptical of what the media termed initially a “bailout,” the majority of their representatives took this one step further. They refused to vote for legislation deemed, by their own party leaderships, critical for avoiding a global financial meltdown.

The reasons for this revolt have been analyzed extensively in the last week, and I am in agreement that ideology, poor communication and the complexity of the issues played a role. However, an erosion of trust—within the system and between the American people and their government—has become evident. Years of zero-sum partisan politics has taken its toll and for one spellbinding week, one could see this in all its transparent horror. “The [no] vote is a reflection of a lack of political capital, not financial capital,” New York University professor Mitchell Moss told the Washington Post on September 30. This week the market brought the problems we are facing into even sharper relief.

Trust is an intangible commodity whose real value becomes evident only when the supply of it is scarce. And without it, as we have seen, the very underpinnings of a system that relies on it can be threatened. But trust alone cannot fully explain the reason the United States has been having such difficulty in coming to terms with the crisis and its remedy. I am convinced that there is a cultural element to this. At the outset of the crisis, many Americans simply couldn’t believe this was really happening to us. As events unfolded they wondered if we had a government of Chicken Littles who had misinterpreted economic acorns for a collapsing sky.

Was this an inability to see the dangers to our system, a form of class warfare or cocky reassurance that we will always come out on top? We do not fully know. But I suspect that some of the responsibility rests with the fact that as a society we have grown unused to significant downturns and in the process have forgotten some of the well-worn truths of the past. Mort Zuckerman, property developer and publisher of U.S. News and World Report, confirmed the crazy thinking: “. . . so much was based on the assumption that housing prices would not go down,” he wrote.

This failure to observe caution and restraint—something Alan Greenspan, we now learn, was counting on Wall Street to do—was a big part of the problem. But one wonders, what happened to erase decades, perhaps centuries, of prudent behavior? During the cold war, for instance, caution and restraint were served up to us in thick, hearty doses. On the personal side we were told that if you had sex you could get pregnant; if you took drugs you would get caught; and if you failed to pay your debts an endlessly humiliating and life-changing bankruptcy awaited you.

In international affairs, we were warned that action would bring reaction. Foolish or reckless moves could lead to all-out war and, after the advent of the ICBM, possibly nuclear annihilation.

But then some attitude-changing things began to happen. The Pill eliminated the threat of pregnancy; lax enforcement and a generation of defiant experimentalists ended the taboo on recreational drugs; and bankruptcy, for far too many Americans, became a financial strategy rather than a personal tragedy.

Even more significant, on the world stage, the USSR’s “Evil Empire” went out “not with a bang but with a whimper”—along with the idea that actions have consequences. What kind of a victory, or even a war, was it if your adversaries gave up without a fight? If the Communists threatened the world, why did they tolerate their country’s dissolution without moving forcefully to save themselves? If they were such pushovers, was the restraint and caution we were taught by our elders outdated and/or bogus? We began to act as if these values simply belonged to another time.

Since becoming the world’s sole superpower, we have operated unchecked, unhampered and arrogant in our belief that we are masters of our universe—and everyone else’s too. Many people believed that the old rules in a “new economy” simply no longer applied. The word “consequences” became, until this month, oh so 1950s.

The depths of the financial crisis have now fully sunk in. On October 6, a CNN/Research Corporation poll revealed that six out of ten Americans now think a “depression is likely,” meaning an unemployment rate of 25 percent and widespread bank failures.

It is not clear if this real-and-present danger will unify this country or rip it apart. But one thing’s for sure: hard lessons are now being relearned by American families and their overseas counterparts. We have rediscovered that choices, and the attitude we bring to them, shape a set of consequences; and before any action is undertaken, a hard-nosed calculation on a range of outcomes must be a part of any initial decision.

Until we have confidence that our policy makers similarly understand the power of consequences—even as they advance new solutions to our current problems—it will be difficult to restore our faith in them as stewards of the public good. Once trust is lost it is hard to re-earn. But the stakes are now clear, and we know that the hard work must now urgently begin.

Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. — The rolling hills and orchards of Southern Pennsylvania are especially lush this year. Farmers’ road-side stands burst with some of the late summer’s most succulent picks. The still, heavy air and the rattle of cicadas and occasional bees add a sense of timeless tranquility. At night there is a fresh sharp snap of cooler air, hinting at the change of season still to come.

Amid the neat stone farmhouses and open fields of soy beans and corn, one must remind oneself that the Battle of Gettysburg was one of the bloodiest and most significant battles of the Civil War. It was the turning point of a conflict that split our nation in two. Lee, Meade, and Pickett left their historical mark on this land. And just less than one hundred years later, Eisenhower chose this place as his home and brought many visitors to his farm, including Khrushchev, de Gaulle, Nehru and Montgomery.

I grew up here. It is where I go for reflection.

Engaging one’s deepest self does not come easily these days. Tethered to cell phones and Blackberries, we lurch from one demand to another with scarcely a moment to think. Our impulses are reactive, not considered. They are short-term, rather than based on strategic goals or on building the future. This era of immediate gratification, as well as the twenty-four hour news cycle and the quarterly earnings report, have prompted us to keep our heads down with barely a glance at the horizon. We have become a nation of tacticians, with few strategists worthy of the name. The consequences of this are captured in the old adage: “If you don’t know where you are going, any road will take you there.” Given our national historical ignorance– and our refusal to look ahead– we risk becoming a nation of lost Hansel and Gretels with no clear way back after embarking on our dangerous, yet directionless journey.

Though little has been physically altered in Gettysburg since my grandparents first came to this small historic hamlet in 1917 and again in the 1950s, today prevailing attitudes have changed a great deal, as they have across the country. The can-do spirit of ordinary Americans has been shaken by unease and worry about the future. Our citizens are losing their homes in record numbers and a credit crunch threatens our institutions and the economy as a whole. Unemployment is rising, and those who do have jobs can barely afford to drive to work. If that’s not enough, our health care system leaves most Americans one accident or illness away from financial catastrophe. Our way of life seems jeopardized from within.

Add to this, we have many intractable problems overseas, including a new dangerous situation in the Caucasus. Georgia’s provocation over a disputed land, and Russia’s brutal response, could have been avoided if the Bush administration and people like Senator John McCain, who are close to the Georgian president, had managed this long-standing problem before it became a crisis.

In the end, the Georgians lost their military and now find themselves in an untenable position. The Russians lost considerable standing in the world because of their overreaction. And the United States suffered a strategic set back. It was known at the outset that we did not have a viable military option, and events painfully demonstrated that there was nothing the US could really do to protect the former Soviet republic. At the same time, this debacle cost us the ability to cooperate with Russia on issues that directly relate to our own national security: energy, Iran, terrorism, and securing nuclear materials. While the confrontation has eased a bit in the last few weeks, it is still worth noting that the situation could have become perilously dangerous. United States and Russia are still on nuclear “hair-trigger alert”—with only minutes to decide before launching nuclear Armageddon “on warning.” Over the longer haul, the prospect of “de-alerting” these existentially dangerous weapons, and thus reducing the potential for a catastrophic accident, is now close to zero because of these events.

On the home front our election campaign has reached an all time low. Trivialization of the issues has overtaken everything. Since the emergence of the GOP Vice Presidential nominee, Sarah Palin, the broadcast media has profited from a ratings bonanza, but has been unable to provide the Americans with adequate coverage of her as a candidate, except for the details of her family life, her early years as a beauty queen, and the thin contours of her career as a public servant. In large measure, they have allowed themselves to be cowed by accusations of sexism from the McCain campaign.

Weeks after the Palin choice, however, the serious media is finally pushing back and commenting on the candidate’s unprecedented inaccessibility and arguing that we should know more about the views of this candidate who could find herself “a heartbeat away from the Presidency.” Her debut interview with Charlie Gibson—on September 11—revealed a worrisome lack of familiarity with some of the most fundamental aspects of foreign policy. While Palin understood a Ukraine (or a Georgia) in NATO would require the alliance’s commitment to defend them against attack, her enthusiasm for taking this step—including starting a war with Russia—reveals little acknowledgment of Russia’s nuclear capability. Russia is the only country on earth that can blow the United States off the face of the earth– while taking much of the rest of the world with us.

It is no surprise that the McCain campaign has kept Governor Palin under wraps and plans to keep her at the Senator’s side for most of the weeks going into the election. Their use of Palin, as a symbol, is every bit as distasteful as the campaign practices they have aggressively deployed against McCain’s rival, Barack Obama. Despite the Arizona Senator’s original commitment to elevate the electoral process, McCain has approved campaign ads that smear Obama and twist his record –all efforts to play into our nation’s most unfortunate stereotypes. The target is one of Obama’s most compelling assets—his biographical narrative. Hints that “he is really not one of us” are consistently implied. (This reminds me of a terrible expression WASP snobs used to whisper to one another when meeting someone they thought socially or racially inferior: “Not One of Us, Dear,” they’d say, or “NOOUD” for short.)

This, of course, is dead wrong. Barack Obama is not only one of us, he is us. In a way, he is the embodiment of us as a nation, which is a melting pot of multi-racial and multi-ethnic lines. Any attempt to make Obama seem a little too “exotic,” a little too “elite” or “foreign” is, in effect, not only “Swift boating” the Democratic candidate, but “Swift boating” the very idea and promise of America.

One understands the tactics clearly—and what is behind it. Americans are led to believe that relating to a candidate is more critical than the issues themselves. This may have been an approach we could afford in past elections—but not today.

Despite my hopes, the election has turned into a circus and those we are counting on have let us down. There may be Democrats who are frustrated by Barack Obama’s cool, calm and collected approach to recent events—(I personally don’t want my President to be prone to panic…). But those of us who were once supporters of Senator McCain find it disturbing, but telling, that on the two major issues he’s faced in the last two months, both demonstrated his impulsive nature. The first was the impetuous role he played during the crisis in the Caucasus, responding to events as if he had already been sworn in as President. And the second was the slap dash way he chose a running mate with no national or foreign policy experience. If he was truly the maverick he claims to be, he could have chosen instead an experienced party moderate. But with the Palin choice, John McCain has shown us where he wants to take the Republican Party in the future—farther to the right. Given his age and his history of illness, it also reflects a disregard for his succession should he be elected as President.

Not far from where I write this– and where I penned “Reflections of Leaving the Republican Party” and my address to the Democratic Convention– my siblings and I often spent carefree summer evenings. We played hide and seek and caught fireflies in jam jars, before the dusk grew thick and the adults called us inside. The sound of crickets tickled the nighttime quiet and there was always a sense of exhaustion and peace when we finally came indoors. We felt safe, and happy and very lucky to be Americans.

I remember vividly that sense we had of security, even though the Cold War raged around us. We felt the country was in good hands and that those in power were thinking about us, and our futures, which were unfolding with each long lazy summer day. Such memories stand in sharp relief to today’s ugly and undignified electoral free for all.

As this campaign draws to a close, I wonder if we busy Americans will take the time, before each of us pulls the lever, to reflect on where this country is headed and what kind of values we really want to pass on as our legacy? Will our thoughts, and ultimately our choice, be a credit to our children and theirs?

In the years ahead will we manage to provide our children and grandchildren that sense of comfort and security we felt as kids? Will the futures we are crafting for them assure their chance to prosper in an ever-competitive global marketplace? Will we bequeath them a country that values genuine accomplishment and excellence; a country that stands above others as a beacon of tolerance and mutual respect? Or will we fail them and ourselves in this process, as we choose political expediency over sacrifice and stewardship?

I reflect on this as I drive along the back roads of town near my grandparents’ farm—on famous ridges, where statues remind us of what took place here. I say to myself: the American people deserve more; our democracy is better than what we have seen this election. Our country urgently needs, again, a sense of national purpose and a strategy for the future.

“Putting America First” should be a deliberate act of will and courage– not a hollow or cynical campaign slogan.

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