Terrorists, I'm done worrying
Jul. 8, 2007 12:00 AM
Maybe it's fatigue, or Fourth of July affections.
Could be that I've simply grown tired of the threats, the malevolent drumbeat of those for whom justice and salvation flower in a car bomb's wicked shrapnel.
Or perhaps, while Sousa sang and fireworks rang, a twinge of patriotism itched where I'm happy to scratch. The child dutifully reciting the Pledge, hand over heart, is still within. He believes in the ideal if not always its execution.
The simple point is: I'm done worrying about terrorist threats.
The car bombs found in London and the SUV fireball that rammed through the Glasgow airport are the latest examples of the nut jobs' basic premise: They can kill their way to prosperity. Allow me to take a completely selfish view of that idea.
If they get me, they get me. But I'm not spending another minute worrying about my personal safety just because they happen to occasionally crawl out from under a rock, like snakes wanting sunshine.
That's not a death wish. It's a life decision. They will not kill this man on his knees.
I wasn't raised to fight - a fortunate fact, since as a child I was roughly the size of a bowling pin. I was taught to turn the other cheek because, if I didn't, it would get knocked to the other side of my face.
Two houses away lived the Hackfeld brothers: Slim, Jim and Leroy. (They're real, but those names aren't.)
Slim was the eldest, a nasty string bean with sideburns by age 10. Jim was my age and didn't talk much because he was dumb as a river rock. But he liked to fight. Leroy was the runt, a screeching little chicken hawk, swearing like an impish sailor from atop his Schwinn bicycle.
Their parents were useless. They controlled their kids like leaves control wind.
The Hackfeld boys were thorny annoyances in an otherwise quiet west Mesa neighborhood, a taunting and intimidating trio skulking our street and schoolyard. Whatever they wanted - an open swing, a skateboard ramp, a stray baseball left outside - they sought through fear.
For a long time, it worked. When they came outside, I stayed inside. In the school cafeteria, my chipped beef and butter sandwich was usually eaten in a far-off corner. On the playground, the safer choice was not to play. Their currency was fear, and they were rich.
After the destruction of Sept. 11and the thousands of innocents killed and maimed through religious and nationalistic violence in the years since, it's difficult to not feel that same fear again; the only difference is the devastation and global reach. It manifests in our midst.
Sky Harbor International Airport, understandably, seems a maze of security. Schoolyards are fenced off and bolted shut. We gauge our caution by color.
What do I plan to do with my fear? I'm taking it to Starbucks.
Maybe I'll have a nice espresso, then head home for some yard work and time in the pool. No, no . . . wait. How about a movie? Maybe the latest Bruce Willis film - good-guy cop wins, terrorists lose.
I will watch American Idol. I will peek at brainless entertainment magazines while standing in line at the grocery store, buying more food than needed. I will drive my nice car with my nice stereo and enjoy my small bit of Western excess.
I will also give my time and money to worthy causes. The shirt I buy may help fight AIDS in Africa. The dollars I throw into a jar may feed a homeless child or plant crops in rural Iraq.
I will also trust that my government, for all its flaws, is doing its best to protect the life I enjoy every day. I will be thankful to those who watch over me.
I will live, terrorists. I will live well and happily. If your bombs find me, some other American will take my place. Fear has no value where freedom prospers.
And what about the Hackfeld boys?
Seems one fifth-grade day, Jim decided a playground game of touch football would become tackle - and I had the ball. When I dusted the grass off my backside, I pounced on him like a mad dog on a steak bone.
I'd never won a fight before or since. Slim, Jim and Leroy left me alone after that day of fists and sunshine.
The autumn air seemed a little crisper. The birds, I am quite certain, were cheering from the telephone wires, flapping their wings to applaud the mighty bowling pin.
The game went on, and I never again stayed inside.
