No Comment — November 25, 2009, 12:55 pm

A Thanksgiving Meditation

On November 10, President Obama, General Casey, and others spoke at a memorial service at Fort Hood, Texas. I was traveling at the time and missed this event, and just came back to it on the recommendation of some friends. It’s worth taking the time to watch this entire event, and the White House should be commended for offering it unedited.

Obama’s remarks displayed considerable rhetorical skill and nuance. Following in the tradition of Ronald Reagan, he mentioned each of the victims by name and spoke briefly about each. “Neither this country — nor the values that we were founded upon — could exist without men and women like these 13 Americans,” he said. “Their life’s work is our security and the freedom that we too often take for granted. Every evening that the sun sets on a tranquil town; every dawn that a flag is unfurled; every moment that an American enjoys life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness — that is their legacy.”

Obama’s remarks fit in a genre that stretches back to Thucydides, who recollected a funeral oration delivered by the Athenian leader Pericles. Indeed, he adhered even to the form and structure of the Pericles speech. That is no coincidence for the former professor at a school that has long made the Athenian speech required reading for undergraduates, and saw in those words the birth of a democratic idealism. But Obama would also know it indirectly from Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, which, as Gary Wills demonstrates, followed the ancient oration step-by-step. This is not to say that Obama’s remarks, memorable as they were, will be seen by future generations as equal to those of Pericles or Lincoln, but it points to the timelessness of these salutes to the fallen warrior. The dead are seen as embracing the values of the state in whose service they fell.

The speech closes with an exhortation to honor not simply their memory but also their service and civic virtue. In this, the tradition broke with the orations of the Homeric era, which called somewhat crudely on others to follow in battle to honor the dead. Thucydides recalled these words:

If then we prefer to meet danger with a light heart but without laborious training, and with a courage which is gained by habit and not enforced by law, are we not greatly the better for it? Since we do not anticipate the pain, although, when the hour comes, we can be as brave as those who never allow themselves to rest; thus our city is equally admirable in peace and in war. For we are lovers of the beautiful in our tastes and our strength lies, in our opinion, not in deliberation and discussion, but that knowledge which is gained by discussion preparatory to action. For we have a peculiar power of thinking before we act, and of acting, too, whereas other men are courageous from ignorance but hesitate upon reflection.

It is appropriate that the President gives this salute at the same moment as he contemplates a commitment of more blood and treasure to a military mission in a distant corner of the globe. It is important that he consider and weigh carefully the sacrifice that will be asked, comparing this with the political interests of the state. The sacrifice can be demanded if the cause is right, but this demand must not be made lightly.

Thanksgiving in the English-speaking world has long been associated with military ventures. Thanks is given for victory over a foe. But in the tradition known to our forefathers, atonement for transgressions followed or preceded the feast day. The festive was joined with the somber and introspective. Thanks should be given for those who serve, facing deprivation, sacrifice, and death. But it is also fitting that thanks should take the form that Pericles, Lincoln, and Obama suggest: a renewed sense of community and a new commitment to honor the highest and best values in our society. In a time of vituperative and even violent political rhetoric, that call badly needs to be heard.

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Ashley arrived for her prenatal appointment at Black Hills Obstetrics and Gynecology, in Rapid City, South Dakota, wearing a black zip-up hoodie and Converse sneakers.1 To explain her absence from work that morning — a Tuesday in April 2015 — she had told a co-worker that she was having “female issues.” She was twenty-five years old and eight weeks pregnant. She had been separated from her husband, with whom she had a five-year-old son, for the better part of a year. The guy who’d gotten her pregnant was someone she’d met at the gym, and he’d made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing more to do with her. Ashley found herself hoping that the doctor would discover some kind of fetal defect, so that her decision would be easier. She glanced across the waiting room at a television playing a birth-control ad and laughed darkly. “Jesus, Lord, it would be so nice if someone just pushed me down a flight of stairs.”

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Ashley arrived for her prenatal appointment at Black Hills Obstetrics and Gynecology, in Rapid City, South Dakota, wearing a black zip-up hoodie and Converse sneakers.1 To explain her absence from work that morning — a Tuesday in April 2015 — she had told a co-worker that she was having “female issues.” She was twenty-five years old and eight weeks pregnant. She had been separated from her husband, with whom she had a five-year-old son, for the better part of a year. The guy who’d gotten her pregnant was someone she’d met at the gym, and he’d made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing more to do with her. Ashley found herself hoping that the doctor would discover some kind of fetal defect, so that her decision would be easier. She glanced across the waiting room at a television playing a birth-control ad and laughed darkly. “Jesus, Lord, it would be so nice if someone just pushed me down a flight of stairs.”

In the exam room, she perched on the table with her feet crossed at the ankles, her blond hair brushing the back of her pink hospital gown. “I don’t know what’s available for me here,” she told her doctor, Katherine Degen, who sat facing her on a stool. “I figured nothing.”

 Some names and identifying details have been changed. 

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The baby was due in November, when Ashley, who was a nurse, hoped to be enrolled in a graduate program to become a nurse practitioner. Getting pregnant as a teenager had forced her to put that dream on hold, but she had thought that she was finally ready; she had even submitted her application shortly before the March 15 deadline. For the first time in her adult life, Ashley felt as if her plans were coming together. Then she missed her period.

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Ashley arrived for her prenatal appointment at Black Hills Obstetrics and Gynecology, in Rapid City, South Dakota, wearing a black zip-up hoodie and Converse sneakers.1 To explain her absence from work that morning — a Tuesday in April 2015 — she had told a co-worker that she was having “female issues.” She was twenty-five years old and eight weeks pregnant. She had been separated from her husband, with whom she had a five-year-old son, for the better part of a year. The guy who’d gotten her pregnant was someone she’d met at the gym, and he’d made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing more to do with her. Ashley found herself hoping that the doctor would discover some kind of fetal defect, so that her decision would be easier. She glanced across the waiting room at a television playing a birth-control ad and laughed darkly. “Jesus, Lord, it would be so nice if someone just pushed me down a flight of stairs.”

In the exam room, she perched on the table with her feet crossed at the ankles, her blond hair brushing the back of her pink hospital gown. “I don’t know what’s available for me here,” she told her doctor, Katherine Degen, who sat facing her on a stool. “I figured nothing.”

 Some names and identifying details have been changed. 

“Big, fat zero, unfortunately,” Degen said, making a 0 with her fingers. The last doctor who provided abortions in Rapid City retired in 1986, three years before Ashley was born.

The baby was due in November, when Ashley, who was a nurse, hoped to be enrolled in a graduate program to become a nurse practitioner. Getting pregnant as a teenager had forced her to put that dream on hold, but she had thought that she was finally ready; she had even submitted her application shortly before the March 15 deadline. For the first time in her adult life, Ashley felt as if her plans were coming together. Then she missed her period.

It would be too difficult to attend school as a single mother of two, Ashley knew. She had made an appointment for three weeks from now at the nearest abortion clinic, in Billings, Montana, 318 miles away. But just a week and a half ago, her husband had said he wanted to get back together and offered to raise the child as his own. Was it a sign that she was meant to continue the pregnancy? As a rule, Ashley approached her problems with resolve. She was capable and tough; she liked shooting guns and lifting weights. She kept track of her stats and checked off her goals as she achieved them one by one. Yet the dilemma before her had shaken her confidence. She leaned back and turned to watch the ultrasound screen. The black-and-white image danced. A sharp, fast thumping emerged from the machine. As Degen removed the wand, Ashley wiped the corner of her eye.

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"She glanced across the waiting room at a television playing a birth-control ad and laughed darkly. 'Jesus, Lord, it would be so nice if someone just pushed me down a flight of stairs.'"
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