The phrase, or something like it, shows up more and more often in letters to the editor: Well, I sure know who I’ll be voting against in November.
Voting against; not voting for. That’s the way politics is these days. For the voter, goals are measured by who is defeated, not who wins. For the elected official, success is measured by what is prevented, not what is accomplished.
Negativism and anger rule. Congress is in gridlock. The worst of partisans are running things. Moderation is seen as surrender.
What ever happened to an open mind? Curiosity about the opposition, and its points of view, might promote understanding. Instead, there is reflexive rejection of new ideas. Respect is built into the traditions of Congress, but it is not practiced there. And state legislatures, including Colorado’s, have adopted that unfortunate attitude. Town hall meetings used to be places for reasoned discussion; now some politicians are shying away from the practice because of all the shouting.
Every once in a while, though, there’s a rare show of grace that shows the better nature of people.
My wife and I flew to Minnesota last weekend, to visit her relatives. In the seat next to us was an Air Force noncommissioned officer.
As we left Denver, a ramp worker wearing a fluorescent vest came aboard, shook the NCO’s hand, and said to be sure to let the flight crew know if he needed anything. The ramp worker was a tall, soft-spoken man who looked like he was in charge of a large number of people.
Before the plane took off, a flight attendant came and offered to move the NCO to a seat in the first row of the coach section, on the aisle, and to stow his gear in the first-class cabin’s closet. He moved, thanking her with the same deference he showed to every one else he spoke with.
It wasn’t until we landed at the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport that we understood his role. The pilot announced on the plane’s intercom that there was a military escort aboard that evening’s flight, accompanying the remains of one of this nation’s fallen, as he put it. He would appreciate it, the pilot said, if passengers would remain in their seats until the escort had left the plane to attend to his duties.
Everyone did. Not one person popped up to open an overhead compartment or reached for a cellphone. It was in total contrast to the usual bedlam that breaks loose as soon as — and sometimes even before — the “fasten seatbelt” light goes off. That night, no one moved until several seconds after the military escort had left the plane.
Department of Defense procedures specify that “small honor guards will render appropriate honors plane-side at the arrival airports for all fallen active duty Service members.”
It was 11 p.m., very dark, with a light rain falling and airport lights reflecting in bright streaks on the wet tarmac. As passengers deplaned, they passed a large bank of windows where the aircraft’s cargo door could be seen, open to the night, its conveyer belt slanting down to the ground.
Dozens of passengers stopped to watch, wheeling their bags up to the window. It was several minutes before the NCO emerged from the cargo door, followed not long after by a flag-draped casket, making its way down the ramp. It was a somber, hushed moment as the casket was loaded onto a hearse. The NCO saluted. Police officers in a patrol-car escort saluted. So did a few cargo handlers.
And, on the other side of the glass, no one moved or said a word until the hearse slowly, silently pulled away.
Fred Brown (punditfwb@aol. com) is retired Capitol Bureau chief for The Denver Post.
