America: Too Weak for War?

As Gen. McChrystal threatens the nation with the "need" for more troops in Afghanistan, The Big Brother says he's "skeptical," and the liberals in Congress threaten to block any troop increase, I have one question I keep asking myself: Is American too weak for war?

I'm not talking militarily or financially. I'm not about to deliver some right-wing rant about peace-lovin' pussy liberals who hate America. Nor is this some longing for a fantasy time when America had to resolve to "get the job done" no matter the cost. I'm just wondering if we Americans are at a point in our history when we're no longer willing to conduct long military campaigns.

It's not as though Americans hate war. We're generally split down the middle before any military venture. But, as soon as the shock starts aweing, we pretty much follow the flawed "support the troops--not the war" logic into supporting our wars. The war-time President and the President's war are strongly supported time and time again. It's just how we do.

But, as time goes on, support inevitably wanes. The flagging support for Afghanistan and Iraq are no surprise, really. The same thing happened with Vietnam and Korea. Even our two most "just" wars--the Civil and World 2--suffered what would've been called "sagging poll numbers" after they dragged on year after year.

See, we Americans love our John Wayne wars--over in less than two hours--where the bad guys are evil and folks die stoically with very little blood--and nobody comes home permanently maimed to remind us of the sacrifice most of us really aren't willing to make (including, not-so-ironically, John Wayne, who refused to serve in WWII but made some classic WWII movies, instead).



The Duke refused to sign up for WWII
because his movie career was finally
taking off--but excoriated Vietnam War
draft dodgers


So, as I said, lagging support for Iraq (over six years now) and Afghanistan (going on nine) is absolutely no surprise. And yet, in terms of "blood and treasure," their unpopularity is a bit surprising. Not to diminish any life lost, but the Civil War saw some battles where over 10,000 bodies were left on the field; WWII saw something like 200 casualties a day; and Vietnam, 200 a week. In comparison, the 4,300 dead in Iraq and 800 in Afghanistan are quite light.

I've often heard it said that America has always been a "reluctant empire." But that's simply not true. Even before we became a country, Britain had its hands full trying to curb the Americans' appetite for land only to get another war with the French and a revolution for their troubles.

If I remember correctly, some of our forefathers thought the American experiment should have included all of North America including Cuba. One of the main reasons for the War of 1812 was our settling into the Northwest Territories and fighting the Indians there. And the Canadians and the British at the time thought we started the war in order to annex Canada. We were willing to buy land peaceably from Britain and France and to buy it at gunpoint from Mexico to make the US a continental power.

And, once we had all that land, we were willing to consolidate our gains by "any means necessary." Just like the Brits, we had no chivalric qualms with taking a Gatling gun to our technologically disadvantaged foes and open it up on warriors with spears, bows, arrows, and/or hatchets. And were more than fine with taking it to an unarmed village or two and kill women and children. All in the name of making America the "great country" it was meant to be.



Massacre at Wounded Knee, South Dakota--1890


But it's not as though we were alone in this. These were the times of "manifest destiny" and the "white man's burden." Sure, our European overlords spoke grandly of "honor" and "duty"--probably with a tear in their eyes--and many men died for those concepts. But when push came to shove, whitey would fuck shit up.

So, when the Phillipines revolted against American rule in 1899, Uncle Sam had no problem with slaughtering every Filipino over 10 [the cartoon above] he could find until the population was subdued. It wasn't like they were committing "crimes against humanity" or being particularly barbarous. They were doing exactly what their British, French, Belgian, and Dutch compatriots were doing all around the globe.

(However, with the Spaniards' invention of the concentration camp in Cuba in the 1896 and the first Armenian massacres in 1895, human rights were starting to become a concern in the international community.)

Even during WWII, America and Americans were willing to be as brutal as it took to achieve victory. Yes, there was the firebombing at Dresden and the A-bombs dropped on Nagasaki and Hiroshima--but Japan also underwent firebombing campaigns before Fat Man and Little Boy. In fact, the US high command, knowing that the Japanese lived in wood-and-paper dwellings, ordered napalm to be dropped on Tokyo. In three hours of bombing, American bombers killed over 100,000 Japanese. As Robert McNamara said in The Fog of War: "We were all war criminals."

With that statement, McNamara hit upon the key difference between the 19th and early 20th century and what we feel today: in light of Hitler and the Holocaust, the West has taken the notions of "war crimes" and "crimes against humanity" to heart.

The world can be a barbarous place, and, to be an empire, one must be more brutal than the next Hun. Yes, we still believe in the notions of honor and bravery. We Americans love to believe that we are spreading peace and freedom and democracy as we kill those pesky native populations who don't seem to appreciate the gifts are guns are giving them.

But, in a highly-mediated world, where pictures and broadcasts of our victims can be beamed across the planet in the blink of an eye, it becomes harder and harder to hold onto these high falutin' notions. We never saw the Filipinos we killed nor the Haitians nor Nicaraguans during our 20-year occupations of those countries. We never caught a glimpse of the 100,000 Japanese we killed in 180 minutes. It was easy to believe we were being right and just back then. But seeing tiny villages napalmed and a scalded Vietnamese girl screaming naked down the road was one of the images that made us question our mission in Southeast Asia. Now, some 40 years later, our hearing of accidentally bombing a wedding party in search of Taliban makes us wonder what the hell's the point in our being in Afghanistan.

After WWII, Western Europe basically gave up on the idea of empire. The British whipped a little Gikuyu ass but still gave up Kenya. The French tortured all day long in Algeria and still lost the war. The Europeans still had the technological edge over their colonies. But those same colonies were no longer afraid of them and were willing to fight while the Europeans simply no longer had the stomach to actually use their edge to slaughter their subjects into submission. They couldn't very well nuke Rhodesia, and even that was no guarantee they would win in the end.

With the Cold War, we Americans were willing to play at empire along with the Soviets. But we didn't really have what it took to actually maintain one. We simply petered out in Korea and Vietnam, and we ran with our tails between our legs out of Lebanon. In fact, in the last 60 years, unless our victories can be quick and "clean" (like in Panama, the first Gulf War, and Grenada), we've proven we don't want to be in it for the long haul.



Marine barracks bombing--Lebanon, 1983

Our leaders don't realize that our notions of "honor" and "duty" have been diminished over the years. We still talk a good game about them, but we really don't mean it. That's why, even after 9/11, our leaders decided to extol the virtues of a "professional military" because they knew we wouldn't tolerate an actual draft to fight their "war on terror"--even if it meant exacting revenge on Osama bin Laden.

In truth, maybe only military personnel and their families still believe in honor and duty. We know that a lot of our leaders who wrap themselves in the flags, trumpeting those concepts, didn't even fight crotch rot when it was their turn to go to Vietnam. Nope, they stayed home. Most of them don't even let their sons and daughters fight this "war on terror" today. Their lives, their children's lives, are just too precious to be lost for such antiquated notions. That's why a flaming liberal with working class roots like me has had more military in my family (from grandpa in WWII to an uncle in Vietnam and a half-brother in Iraq and everything in between) than most of them have. Our nation, as a whole, from top to bottom, from left to right, just is not willing to sacrifice what it takes to be an empire and to execute an empire's wars.

That's why we never did have a serious discussion about a draft. That's why we never really debated what this "war on terror" actually meant and what it would cost to wage it. That's why we borrowed money from China and actually cut taxes during war time. That's why Osama is still out there with a robust recording career. Why Obama walked into office with two wars going on without an end in sight. And why General McChrystal, without a real strategy of his own for Afghanistan, is begging for more troops.

Whatever their resultant strategy (which should really just be "Get bin Laden and Get the Hell Out!"), our military and political leadership should look at our two latest military adventures and all the post-WWII conflicts leading up to them and realize that we Americans, despite our bluster, are not just a "reluctant empire." We don't really want to be an empire at all. We don't want to force-march the Cherokee of their land. We don't want to mow down 10-year-old Filipinos. We don't want to enslave, ethnically cleanse, or napalm 100,000 people. And most importantly, we don't want to die or have our children die in the process.

Let's face it: We Americans are just too damned weak for war.



Victims of the Tokyo firebombing, 1945



[Author's Note: To all you patriotic, pro-war prosyletizers who may object to this editorial,

The draft ages for WWI and WWII were 18-45. If you were between those ages and did not sign up for either Afghanistan and/or Iraq, you pretty much prove my point--unless, of course, you already served. For those of you who did, I salute you and admire you for standing up for your principles. Please keep your head down and look out for my "little" brother.]

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Happy Anniversary, War!

Hey babe,

I know I originally didn't want us to get together. I did everything I could think of to stop our union--I cried, I screamed, I petitioned 'til my hand damned near fell off, I even protested to Congress and the President. It didn't matter what I wanted, what you wanted, for that matter. Some really powerful folks wanted us together. They even rubbed our faces in it with their damned "Mission Accomplished" sign.

And now here we are six years later. Six, brutal, bloody, terror-ific years later. There have been some good times. But, to be honest, dear, it's been absolute hell. Nothing's really changed. I still want out. But nothing's really changed. No matter how much I cry and scream and petition and protest some really powerful folks still want us together. I thought I did, but I still don't have a vote in all this. So, happy anniversary, Iraq. As Toni Tennille sang (without the Captain, oddly enough), it looks like our love is here to stay.


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W Made Me Vote--RNC Made Me a Democrat

According to family lore, I was practically born political. Little William, all of four years of age, as my father likes to brag, stood up before his dad's business school students and proudly proclaimed, "They're gonna 'peach Nixon away!"

For the next 18 years, I was a staunch Democrat. I vaguely remember loving the election results in 1976. I wanted Kennedy to beat Carter and then wanted him to step down because he was making it too easy for Reagan. I was disgusted all throughout the Reagan/Bush years. I was even depressed that the 1988 Pennsylvania primary happened five days before I reached my majority, and I would never be able to vote for Jesse.

As a lifelong Dem, I should've been ecstatic over Clinton, but I wasn't. I was disgusted. Just the year before I was canvassing for the party, going door-to-door, to drum up support for what ultimately became the Family and Medical Leave Bill. I'd gone out of my way to make sure Harris Wofford beat Dick Thornburg for the PA Senate seat. But by '92, Rodney King and the riots had happened. I just couldn't believe in the American Experiment any longer, and nothing Clinton could say would make me think differently. I did vote for Carol Mosely Braun for Senate, though, and Lenora Fulani for Prez. that year. But that was it. I didn't want to vote again.

I'd become a Leftist, an anarchist to be more exact (don't laugh). I didn't want to vote anymore. I didn't want to give my stamp of approval to a system I no longer believed in. And, while I believed there were some philosophical differences between Democrats and Republicans, I didn't think those differences were fundamental. They still believed in the System. It was chicken or beef with them--no vegetarian option in sight. And I had a big beef with a country that allowed Rodney Kings, Desert Storms, death penalties, etc., to exist. Things had to change, and our system was not built for the fundamental changes I wanted. In fact, I thought the system was built so that one, elected official couldn't make that much of a difference in how this country was run.


W. changed all that. Leftist Bill, of course, greeted his "election" with self-satisfied smugness. While the true believers screeched that the election "proved" that "every vote counts," 2000 actually proved quite the opposite. When all was said and done, Justices Scalia, Thomas, Rehnquist, O'Connor, and Kennedy had the only votes that truly mattered in a country of over 250 million people. Quite the opposite of the Democracy we've been taught to value.

2000 seems like a lifetime ago. I was smug in my own ignorance, I soon came to realize. I thought Bush was just a harmless, little savant who'd be gone in four years. Then 9/11 happened, and everything changed. I knee-jerked and was against the invasion of Afghanistan until I came to realize that every elected official in the history of the world would've invaded. It was the PATRIOT Act, the mass deportations, GITMO, FISA, all of it, that made me realize how dangerous the Bush Babee truly was.


The Iraq invasion put me over the top. Not only did I not believe the spiel nor did I disagree and protest the war, but that was one place where I could point to where it actually did matter who we had elected to the Presidency. Al Gore never would've ousted Saddam. No other elected official would've dared to get us into this elective war. None of them would've casually thrown out 30 years of military policy and committed our armed forces to a long, drawn-out war of occupation. No, this was personal for Bush, and if he'd have lost the Supreme Court vote, we never would've been bogged down in Mesopotamia.

The man had to be stopped. W. had to go. So, I registered to vote and, for the first time in 12 years, I did vote. For Kerry. And nothing depressed me more than W.'s re-election.


When 2008 rolled around, I figured I'd vote for the Dem who eventually won the nomination. I just knew that I didn't want the GOP in the White House again. When the primaries started, I only cared as a political junkie. I'm into the race horse, too, but I didn't feel personally invested.

I figured, despite common wisdom, Hillary would not win because of her baggage and lack of a (scrotal) sack. I thought Richardson was the most qualified, but America wasn't ready for a Latino POTUS. I liked Obama enough, but I thought he was a flash in the pan, someone white folks liked because he made them feel better about themselves ("See, I'm not racist--I like Barack Obama"). I just couldn't take the brother seriously. I figured, when the rubber hit the road and all those white people had to pull the lever, they'd ultimately go with the white guy, and the cutest white guy around was John Edwards.


But then Iowa happened, and I had to change my thinking. I mean, if all those lillies of the cornfields voted for the black man, I had to take Obama seriously.

Unfortunately, the Clintons came to the same conclusion. The attack was on, and it was dirty. There was Hillary belittling MLK and lauding LBJ for the Civil Rights movement (while I always marvel at LBJ's courage in pushing the legislation through, knowing his party would forever lose the "Solid South," let's be honest: LBJ died of old age; MLK, from a bullet), and then Bill totally discounted the black vote (after we vigorously supported him through thick and thin) saying "of course" we'd vote for Obama because he was black--never caring to admit that we black automatons didn't vote for Al Sharpton nor Carol Mosely Braun during their Presidential runs nor that we'd never support Alan Keyes. Our former Civil Rights heroes exposed themselves for chitlin'-eatin' table-scrappers perfectly willing to attack one of their own for the good of the almighty white folk. Andrew Young came out saying that Obama wasn't black, that Bill Clinton was blacker than him, and, in fact, Bill has "slept with more black women than Barack" (yeah, so did Strom Thurmond and Thomas Jefferson, what exactly was your point, Andy?). Then John Lewis was on The News Hour claiming that Obama was actually running a racist campaign. And I don't even want to talk about all the anti-Muslim shit the Clinton campaign pulled.


I watched and listened to all this in horror with RNC (Poohbutt's initials) in my arms. I can't speak for every black parent, but I was raised to believe that you fight the good fight, the right fight, in the hopes that those who come after you won't have to fight it. That you cannot end racism, maybe racism will never end, but you've got to do what you can do to chip away at its armor. That's what the generations before you--through the Middle Passages, through slavery and Jim Crow, through all of it--have done for you, and that's what you must do for your own children. I don't know how much I've actually done, but I had a child now. And there I was--with her and bottle in hand--watching Obama going through some of the same things I went through growing up writ large: attacks from blacks and whites for being too black, not black enough, a black radical, a sell-out, being all about race, not enough about race, of constantly using the Race Card. And I kept thinking, "This shit has got to stop."

So, for RNC and her future, I did what I thought I'd never do: I registered to vote as a Democrat (Maryland has closed primaries), and, because of my baby girl, I voted for Barack Obama. For her, I voted, I blogged, and while we were out campaigning for her grandfather, I (foolishly?) hoped that those white Virginian voters would look down at my little brown girl, while talking politics, and perhaps think that Obama might not be so bad, after all. Of course, none of this was enough nor decisive nor influential, but I did what I could.


And now, here we are, Inauguration Day. Barack Obama is now the 44th President of the United States (five minutes late--in true, black fashion). I don't know what all that means. None of us will for years to come. Perhaps we'll never know. I do know that a lot of my views of my country have definitely been changed forever. I know watching all the pomp and circumstance on the television while Poohbutt plays innocently with her blocks, I keep finding myself choking up. I know for the first time watching one of these things, I really and truly feel proud to be an American.

Having seen Lester Holt and Michael Eric Dyson choke up after speaking on NBC, I know I am not alone in this. I keep smiling, I keep choking up, I keep crying and holding my daughter and kissing the hell out of her chubby, little cheeks. I can't help thinking that this is the greatest event I've ever witnessed, and I feel blessed to be sharing it with her. I'm so glad my parents are around to see this. I wish my grandparents were, my great-grandparents. I wish that every African who survived and died during the Middle Passages could see this, every black person who suffered and died these past 400 years of oppression and humiliation could sit down and take this all in.


If somehow they can, I wonder what they're thinking. I wonder if they feel the pride I do at this very moment. I wonder if their eyes are also filled with tears of joy and honor.

Poohbutt has no clue why I'm crying right now. And nothing makes me happier than knowing that she will never exactly understand why her father was crying on Tuesday, January 20, 2009. She'll never know why I'll so fervently keep preaching to her, "You can be whatever you want to be in this world." She'll never understand that, on this beautiful day, I could say those words and actually believe them--unlike all the black parents before me. And she'll never, ever, ever quite get her old man and his hearty laugh when she screws up her face and rolls her eyes, and huffs, "Yeah, yeah, Dad. First black President. Whatever."

God, how I love this day!



[Author's Note: This, ironically, is my 100th post on Tome. Thank you, everyone for supporting and sticking with me. I hope we can continue to share. Keep on keeping on!]

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