Letter 110 (Spanish and English): Memorial Day 2015; reflexiones por un ex-patriota

“America has many faults and she has done wrong at times. Nevertheless, I shudder to think of the world of the last century without an America in it.”

“Los Estados Unidos, tenemos nuestros pecados, en verdad. Sin embargo, tiemblo de miedo en considerar este mundo durante el siglo pasado sin una América dentro de él.”

Resumen. La carta para esta semana no hará frente a la lucha libre entre anuncios nativos, versus márketing mediante contenidos. Tal discusión, aunque preparada, va a seguir en dos semanas, después de una carta sobre el quinto paso de la transferencia de tecnología.	Summary. The essay scheduled for this week – a comparison between native advertising versus content marketing – is ready to go to press. But, dahlinnn’, t’aint comin’ now. I am postponing its issuance for two weeks; next week’s letter will be the regularly scheduled discussion on tech transfer (specifically, Step-5).
Porqué retrasar con la carta programada. En algunos momentos durante el año, deberíamos tomar un momento para pensar en el final de todas nuestras actividades y porqué se quiera vivir la vida. Este lunes de hoy, es el Día de la Memoria en los Estados Unidos de NorteAmérica. Las dos lecturas, a continuación, presentan pensamientos previos sobre este Día de la Memoria.	Explanation of the postponement. There are moments during one’s life and during the year when the time is right to take a step back and look at the life (s)he is leading and toward what end such a life is being pursued. This exercise is not intended as some existential treatise on my part; I am far too superficial for all that. M. Albert Camus, however, has written some brilliant essays like ‘The Fall’, the ‘Myth of Sysyphus’ and the ‘Rebel’, that can fill you in smartly. For those razor-sharp insights, I thank former Peace Corps Volunteer, good friend and better man, Steven Walker of Los Angeles.
Reflexiones sobre un momento sagrado. Para mí, al menos, tengo un deber durante este día para meditar y darles gracias a tantos hombres estadounidense que han tenido el coraje para servir mi país, especial-mente en las guerras no populares. Los soldados son disciplinados pero casi nunca estúpidos. Saben cuándo una guerra no se apoya por la gente de vuelta a casa. Sin embargo, sirven su país a pesar de los sentimientos de sus compatriotas.	Reflections of an American holy-day. Today is Memorial Day in the United States. It is a sacred day for many Americans. The writings on hand for this week explain what the day is and its history, followed by an essay I wrote about a relative, a very brave relative, and his experience in the great and terrible Battle for Okinawa in the spring of 1945 with its echoes over time. But this Memorial Day, I want to salute those soldiers over the last fifty years who served their country in unpopular, at times arguably immoral, wars. Theirs is a courage, now appreciated by many.

El otoño de 1967. Fue el aniversario veinticinco de la batalla del Mar de los Coralinos, cuando la Armada de los Estados Unidos, junto con aquella de Australia, había terminado la expansión japonesa hacia el sur. Fue un gran día en Sydney; yo había acabado de cumplir diez años. El portaaviones, el U.S.S. Bennington estuvo en el puerto, visitando desde la guerra en Viêt Nam, para celebrar este gran día. Mi amigo y yo hemos remamos una lancha a través todo el puerto, casi matando a nosotros mismos dos veces en el proceso, para decir hola a los marineros norte-americanos. Yo era tan feliz porque estaba soñando del día cuando estaría en Viêt Nam, luchando para mi país.

Autumn, 1967: Sydney, New South Wales. We had been living in Sydney for five months and I had just turned ten. In early May, a small flotilla of the United States Navy steamed into Port Jackson (i.e., Sydney Harbor) to mark the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Battle of the Coral Sea. That battle had been the first allied maritime victory of the Pacific theater in World War II and had occurred in May 1942. The United States and the Royal Australian Navies turned back the Japanese advance toward Australia and New Zealand. My next door neighbor, an Aussie, double-dared me to join him in rowing a dinghy clear across the harbor, to Woolloomooloo Bay, to greet the Americans on the U.S.S. Bennington, an aircraft carrier in from the American Indochinese war. We were nearly rammed by the Empress of Australia, a massive car ferry, on the way over. And almost sucked under by the U.S.S. Sacramento, a  75,000 ton supply ship, on the way back. That day was a happy one for me because I dreamed someday of fighting in Viêt Nam, just like those sailors, just like my father’s cousin, the Captain of the U.S.S. Oriskany.

El invierno de 1969. Hace cuarenta-y-cinco años, estuve en mi nueva escuela. Mi familia había acabado de regresar a Pittsburgh desde Australia. Un día, para adular a mis nuevos compañeros de escuela (la mayoría de quienes eran desde familias contra la guerra trágica de Viêt Nam), hice una broma cobarde contra la destrucción masiva en Asia de la mano de mi país. Un compañero, pronto mi amigo más íntimo y un amigo querido hasta hoy en día, empezó a llorar, casi sin auto-control. No supe qué había sido el problema. Esa noche, durante la cena, mi abuela me dijo que el hermano de este niño fue matado en la provincia de Quang-Tri (cerca de Viêt Nam del Norte) en la primavera de 1967. No olvidé nunca este día; todavía, lloro en silencio cada vez pienso en eso, aún en este momento.

Winter, 1969: Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.  It was forty-five years ago when I entered a new grade school – my fourth in my short life. Mom and Dad had taken us back from Sydney to Pittsburgh, over the protests and whining of their two children. In that small private school, most families had soured on a deeply divisive and troubling war in SouthEast Asia by that year. One day, in a frankly craven effort to fit in with my new class-mates, I made some flippant remark against the war in Viêt Nam. Suddenly, a classmate started crying uncontrollably; the teacher ushered him out of the room with an arm around his shoulder. Of course, I felt like  total shit; no one explained to me what was going on. That classmate was soon to become one of my lifelong friends. That night, at my grandmother’s home, I found out that his older brother, the pride of his family, had died in combat in 1967, gunned down by the N.V.A. in Quang-Tri province, at the age of twenty-four, two years out of Princeton.

El verano de 1994. Veinticinco años más tarde, me encontraba en la Francia por la primera vez en dos décadas. Estaba manejando un coche (de transmisión manual, ¡por la primera vez!), y era ocupado en un esfuerzo espontaneo para establecer atrás relaciones franco-estadounidense por cincuenta años. Mi deseo consciente había sido solamente a visitar mi lugar favorito sobre esta tierra: la abadía benedictina, Le Mont Saint Michel. Como estaba manejando desde Caën a través de la Normandía, miré muchas muestras en colores rojo, blanco y azul que se leyeron: “Bienvenue a Nos Liberateurs”. (Tales muestras fueron para los ingleses y franceses, también.)

Summer of 1994: near Saint Lô, France.  After wrapping up a two-week business trip to Switzerland, I took a long week-end in France; it had been twenty years, and I desperately wanted to return to that place of carefree solitude, the medieval monastery, Le Mont Saint Michel. So driven was I to get there, that I had rented a stick-shift in Caën and forced myself to learn how to drive it on the often two-lane roadways of Normandy, likely muddling even further Franco-American relations. As I drove through the countryside that sunny day, I saw many crest-shaped signs in red, white and blue welcoming the liberators of June 6, 1944, the beginning of the great and terrible battle for France. The Benedictine abbey would simply have to wait.

Entonces, decidí que debería visitar el cementerio militar estado-unidense cerca de la playa sangrienta: Omaha Beach del seis de junio de 1944. Como San Pedro lo hizo, aparté la vista y lloré amargamente. Puedo recordar, especialmente, esas piedras sepulcrales que dijeron, “Aquí descansa en una gloria honrada un compañero en armas conocido sólo a Dios.” Me dije, en silencio, “Nunca sabré su nombre, frère américain. Sin embargo, que Dios me perdone si me olvida su sacrificio, jamás.”	Turning away from Le Mont Saint Michel, I drove to Omaha Beach and walked along it, wondering how those young men half a century before had managed to make that climb up that considerable hill, loaded as it had been with machine guns and Nazi artillery. Next, I went to the American Cemetery. What caught my attention were those marble grave-stones, without names for soldiers who had fallen without identity. Over and over again I could only whisper to myself as I saw each such grave, “Though your name shall never be known, God help us all if you are ever forgotten.”
El otoño de 2001 Como el gerente global de riesgos de crédito para la industria a seguros en el más grande banco entonces, el ataque contra el World Trade Center me hizo tan ocupado como enojado. El gerente de riesgo en Japón me dijo por teléfono que él se había herido por bromas malas comparando este asesinato en masa de miles de personas con el ataque japonés contra Hawaí sesenta años antes. (En esos días oscuros, pensabamos los muertos sobrepasarían más de diez miles; fue tres mil.) En mi opinión, Japón había probado su apoyo a los U.S.A. para más de cincuenta años. Sin embargo, el ataque contra el Puerto de Perla en diciembre 1941 había sido una sorpresa furtiva. Pero, la metáfora histórica no sintió correcta para mí. Después de investigación, informé por correo electrónico a los gerentes a través del mundo que yo no aceptaría la comparación, ni toleraría el chiste malo, entre el Puerto de Perla en 1941 y Nueva York en 2001. Los aviadores japoneses se habían centrado su ataque en los objetivos militares. Sí, el ataque había sido furtivo. Sin embargo, para comparar esos aviadores enemigos con esos asesinos en masa viles de Nueva York deshonraría a los japoneses.	9-11: Manhattan, New York. At the time of the mass murder at the World Trade Center in New York City and at the Pentagon in Washington, D.C., I was the Global Industry Credit Manager for the insurance industry for the largest corporate finance institution in the world. With people panicking over the likely magnitude of insured losses, I was a busy young man; actually a lot more busy than young. In speaking with the country risk manager for Japan, I found out that colleagues of mine had been comparing the day that lived in infamy in 1941 with the day of ignominy sixty years later. While I really should have been focussing on the estimate of the losses to be suffered by insurance companies, the meanness of those cutting remarks made me angry and so I took a break from the numbers-crunching. Over lunch, I researched the attack on Pearl Harbor and learned that few civilians died that day, mainly from falling anti-aircraft flak. In my weekly letter to the managers around the world, I disagreed decisively with those hurtful  comparisons between Pearl Harbor and 9-11. One was a surprise military attack. The other a mass murder calculated to kill as many innocents as possible. To compare the two would dishonour those Japanese airmen who had confined their warlike actions to military targets that fateful day. No, as an American, I could never embrace the sneak attack against Pearl Harbor. No, as an American, I would never equate the actions of the Japanese Air Force in December of 1941 with those of Al Qaeda in 2001. No, not the least.

El otoño de 2004. Yo había sido en Bagdád por algunos meses cuando visitaba el hospital militar con oreos u otras galletas para dar a los soldados heridos. Más importante, tenía conmigo un teléfono celular que podría alcanzar a los U.S.A. u otros países para que los heridos pudieran llamar a sus familias preocupadas. Solo esos soldados quienes no fueron demasiado heridos – o, como iba a aprender esta noche, más allá de esperanza – estuvieron en este hospital; aquellos con heridos graves serían transportados a Alemania con facilidades más avanzadas de cirugía. Esta noche fue diferente. La enfermera del ejército tan linda fue tan linda, como siempre, pero era muy desconsolada, como nunca, este viernes.	Autumn 2004: Baghdad, Iraq. Once I had settled into my work as a civilian advisor to the national police department of the ‘New Iraq’ (sic), I had started visiting Combat Support Hospital (the ‘CASH’) armed with my cell-phone and a bag of cookies. The cookies proved to be utterly superfluous, thanks to churches, the girl scouts and other groups back home. The cell-phone was the prize because it enabled the injured soldiers to call their loved ones and let them know they were okay. In actuality, that CASH was a triage station for the moderately or mortally wounded only. Severe cases with a decent chance for survival would be med-evacced out to Wiesbaden, Germany. That day, my buddette, a beautiful young nurse, almost always so enthusiastic to see me come in, had no spark, no life in her. No welcoming hug; no old man’s fleeting solace for me that day.
Le pregunté a ella cuál fue el problema. Una docena de soldados estado-unidenses fueron heridos pero irían a sobrevivir, con manos quemados. Sin embargo, el chofer del camión – lo cual se había golpeado por una bomba, ocultada al lado de la calle – no iría a sobrevivir. Decidí inmediatamente visitar su habitación para dar mis respectos y oraciones para él. Primero, daré mi teléfono a la enfermera para tocar las teclas de parte de los heridos para que pudieran llamar a sus familias. En andar a la habitación del soldado moribundo, un ‘soldado primero’ de la Infantería de Marina, yo había asumido que su cuerpo sería desmembrado y mutilado. Pero, no fue; el Lance Corporal Johnson parecía bien como un joven típica-mente americano que estaba durmiendo tranquilamente.	Presently, I asked her what was the matter. A dozen soldiers of the United States Army had been injured when a road-side bomb had exploded and sent a fireball through their compartment. The squad was alright; they had burned hands and other slight burns, all of which were expected to mend completely. Thankfully, with the opening in the back of that truck, the fireball had blown through too quickly to impose significant damage on them. The driver of the transport truck, however, a young Lance Corporal of the United States Marine Corps, had been mortally wounded. When that hidden explosive had detonated, that young Marine’s reaction – instinctive and, therefore, a clear marker of his character – had saved his fellows at the imminent expense of his own life. The right thing for me to do was go into his room to pray for, and to pay my respects to, him. I hesitated because I figured he would be burned all to Hell, perhaps dismembered; I did not much feel like puking. Surprisingly, the young Lance Corporal, Johnson, had not one scratch. He looked like he was sleeping serenely and would be throwing a baseball around with some buddies in the a.m.
Fui sorprendido. Pregunté al doctor si estaba verdaderamente muriendo ya que él pareciera, tan sano, tan entero allí. Sí, el doctor me explicó; el soldado, con ningún día más de veinte años, estaba muriendo lentamente desde la hemorragia interna. Me sentí tan impotente que yo había durante los momentos finales de ambos de mis padres. Al menos, el joven no estaba sintiendo mucho dolor. Este Lance Corporal Johnson – como tantos otros  estado-unidenses clásicos desde muchas generaciones – había reaccionado instantáneamente cuando la bomba había explosionado. Sin hesitación y con una mente clarísima, él había maniobrado el camión de manera oportuna para salvar sus doce compañeros, pero, al costo de su propia vida. Ahora, aquí estuvo acostado, muriendo, mi compatriota valiente.	So, I asked the doctor if this was actually the young man who was dying. The attending physician said yes, solemnly. That answer, I refused to accept; I pleaded that the boy was whole; no one could look that healthy and still be dying. No, Lance Corporal Johnson would be dead by morning from internal bleeding. The doctor winced slightly as he told me that. Brushing aside my personal feelings of powerlessness, I wondered how this could be; this All-American kid, probably from a small town in the great middle of the Republic, was twenty years old, at most. He had a girl back home, praying for him every night as she went to sleep; he had a mom; he had a dad; he had family. It was evilly unfair that he should never see them again. His clarity of thinking and his grace under pressure had led him to an early death. The whole situation proved once again that there is, at the core of our lives, an element of random chaos; that we hang onto institutions to create a sense of order. But, every once in a while, for example with the insanely unjust death of a good and simple young man – better than I, certainly – all these things fall to dust under the weighty and wicked majesty of fate and its unyielding insolence.
Después de haber llamado a sus familias, los otros soldados, se dieron cuenta que el Lance Corporal Johnson no iría a sobrevivir. El soldado con la personalidad más fuerte repetía a menudo, “El Marine, no va a sobrevivir” o “El Lance Corporal, no va a continuar.” Todos estaban muy tristes a causa del destino doloroso del hombre que les habían salvado. Me sentí completa-mente inútil. Hasta ese momento cuando pedí a Dios (en lo cual no creo completamente, excepto en circunstancias como éstas), “Dios, ¿qué puedo hacer?” Inmediatamente, me di cuenta que los soldados sintieron lo mismo que yo. No tenían el uso de sus manos, ya que las suyas se habían vendado. Por lo tanto, me acerque a la enfermera para tomar un lápiz y papel. Así, me senté con cada soldado para escribir sus pensamientos de gratitud para su camarada caído. Por lo tanto, la familia de Lance Corporal Johnson siempre conocería lo que su hijo heroico había hecho para preservar las vidas de sus compañeros. Tal vez, la mejor acción que he hecho en mi larga vida.	And Lance Corporal Johnson just lay there, resting in peace – at least not in discernible pain – as he would soon be resting, forever. The Army squad members had made their calls home. They were deeply grateful; such thanks were an ample reward, paid in a permanent currency of the heart (not to mention the largess of the U.S. tax-payer picking up the tab for that phone). Now they realized that the ‘damn Marine’ who had saved them would never wake up to accept their gratitude and give them shit for being 'just Army'. The squad leader kept moaning lightly, over and over again, “The Lance Corporal’s not gonna make it.” Again I brushed away those foolishly selfish feelings of helplessness. A thought came instantly; that intuition did not come from me, no not at all. Quickly, I walked over to the nurse. She was still sinking into her sorrow. I asked her for a tablet and pencil. Then I took these things and called the men together and suggested that I write down their thanks and gratitude and feelings for the compatriot they would soon leave behind. At least his loved ones would have these words of grateful remembrance, echoing a sincerity few can ever know, with them in the mournful months and years ahead. After all, with bandaged hands, the Army soldiers could not do it themselves. I opened that letter to the Johnson family with something like: 'Dear Mr and Mrs Johnson, I am a U.S. government official and am writing you to record the remarks of the men whom your son, Lance Corporal Johnson, saved today….' That took a good long while through many tears openly shed from American servicemen far braver, far greater than I. After proof-reading the letter, I walked it over to the Doctor and asked that this tesimonial be included with the Lance Corporal’s personal effects sent to his family receiving the crushing news. The doctor smiled; he was grateful.

El verano de 2010 Yo era casi listo para salir de Afganistán para regresar a los Estados Unidos y, después, ir a México para servir mi país una vez más. Yo iba a cumplir un sueño de muchos años para ser un cooperante del Cuerpo de Paz. Desafortunadamente, una patrulla del ejército se había emboscado; tres soldados fueron asesinados por el Talibán. La base militar – el equipo de reconstrucción provincial – tenía  un servicio en memoria de estos tres jóvenes valientes. Yo no podría hacer un saludo formal ya que soy un civil. Sin embargo, cuando oí el himno nacional alemán, puse mi mano sobre mi corazón, como lo había hecho durante los servicios para varios soldados norteamericanos. Esos soldados muertos del ejército alemán fueron mis hermanos, también; tuve un deber de honrarles como hombres valerosos que habían hecho el sacrificio último para que otras personas -- a quienes no conocieron -- sufriendo en pobreza y terror, ahora tendrían una oportunidad para dejar una mejor vida para sus niños.	Summer 2010: Kunduz, Afghanistan. Things were all set. Good bye, AfghanLand – Adirondaks, here I come. Then, hola México. Finally, after thirty-five years of dedicated procrastination, I would fulfill my lifelong, if not very high-flying, ambition of serving as a U.S. Peace Corps volunteer. Prior to my departure, a military patrol had been hit hard by the Taliban. Three soldiers had been murdered while on a foot patrol. The Provincial Reconstruction Team held a memorial service for the dead infantrymen. As a civilian official stationed in the field, I could not salute the dead men. As a small military band played “Deutschland Über Alles” and as my colleagues sang their country’s melancholy and almost mystical national anthem, you can bet your ass that my hand was over my heart, just as it had been for those fallen American boys over the years. After all, these young soldiers from the Bundeswehr had been my younger brothers in uniform, too. In a plain way, I had a duty to acknowledge their bravery and their sacrifice for the benefit of others. Those others, among the wretched of the earth, had known only terror, poverty and death at a young age. Thanks to these younger brothers in uniform, who spoke a different language, these adults and, more likely, their children of rural Afghanistan might someday know a better life, too.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rGEdunqTVfc  //  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mw96cSYo9dU  //  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DJNNzbWM4F8
Hoy en día, 2015 Como los santos de Dios de la iglesia episcopal, hay muchos norteamericanos honrados entre nosotros no tan famosos. Tenía el privilegio de conocer a muchos en Afganistán e Irák. Me duele mi corazón por sus sufrimientos; han dado tanto a mi querido país. En los U.S.A. ahora, oímos mucho sobre la generación más grande: aquella que lucharon en la segunda guerra mundial. Sin embargo, esta generación del ciudadano-soldado estadounidense ha servido en dos, tres o aún cuatro turnos de servicio en guerras sin la respalda de sus compañeros en situaciones muy peligrosas (ya que los enemigos parecían idénticos a los civiles). En este día, entonces, espero que todos nosotros tomemos un momento profundo para ellos, aunque la gran mayoría de nosotros lamentan, al menos, la guerra iraquí.	Memorial Day 2015: Tijuana, Baja California. Back in that grade school in 1969, we had a favorite hymn (from the then 1940 Hymnal of the Protestant Episcopal Church of the United States of America.): #243, “I sing a song of the saints of God”. The Episcopalians got it right: there are saints in everyday places, all around us – perhaps even ourselves once in a while. Looking back over those years in Afghanistan and Iraq, I have been privileged to know the everyday heroes that came predominantly from smaller American towns with Mexican names, Irish names, English names, Arab names, French names, Italian names, Jewish names, German names, Scot names, Japanese names, Chinese names and so many other names. My country rightly venerates those few veterans from World War II as part of the ‘Greatest Generation’. But, on this Memorial Day, I wish also to take a minute to  salute all those who served in unpopular wars, in Viêt Nam or in Iraq and, after so long, even in Afghanistan. Especially those in the most recent two wars; these younger brothers and sisters in uniform served two, three or four tours in places where they knew not who was good and who was evil, until – too often – bullets or explosions came their way. There was little that was glorious about these more recent conflicts, which makes the professionalism of these American soldiers in never giving up  and their sacrifice in always showing up all the more, well, glorious.
Idos pero nunca olvidados		Gone But Not Forgotten
EATING QRO: ARTÍCULOS DE NEDDY McDonnell III, Edward CFA PMP; el 31 de mayo de 2013 http://articulosdeneddy.blogspot.mx/2013/05/cidesi-articles-31st-of-may-2013.html
La lectura para esta semana se dirige a un día importante en el calendario de los U.S.A., el Día de Memoria.  Esta fiesta estado-unidense es uno de dos tales días dedicados a los soldados del pasado o quienes ahora en un lugar peligroso en servir a la República estadounidense.  En noviembre, se observa el Día de Recuerdo que corresponde a la fecha del armisticio para terminar los combates en Europa de la primera guerra mundial.  La esperanza inicial del día era para recordar a la humanidad que esta primera guerra mundial, tan llena de horror, sería la última.  No era verdad entonces; no es verdad ahora.  Sin embargo, este Día de Recuerdo pretende honrar a los veteranos vivientes de las guerras, de reciente pasado.		This week’s reading focuses on an important day in the American calendar, Memorial Day. This holiday – truly, a holy-day – represents a dual-remembrance of those soldiers in my country’s history who died in combat and of those in harm’s way today in service to my belovèd Republic. In November is a similar holiday, Remembrance Day, which corresponds to the end of the Great War (i.e., World War I). The hope for that Remembrance or Armistice Day had once been that all such terrible slaughters had ended, forever. Sadly, that proved not to be true then, nor is it true today, as we see blood-drunk gangsters slaughtering innocents across the Middle East. These days, however, that national holiday in November honours all veterans who have served the United States. As always, and in forthright humility, I salute their service to my country.

De otro lado, el Día de Memoria, se empezaba al fin de la guerra civil estadounidense entre 1861 y 1865, un evento tan traumático que su imprimátur todavía perdura ahora en la psicología estado-unidense. Esta guerra resolvió la naturaleza de la nación estadounidense y terminó la institución vergonzosa de esclavitud. Dicha lucha sangrienta mató a más estado-unidenses (de ambos ejércitos regionales) que la agregación de todos los muertos de guerra norteamericanos desde entonces. En verdad, de una perspectiva mexicana de hoy en día, una tal guerra tendría que matar a dos o tres millones de hombres. Con los muertos de tantos jóvenes soldados, el Día de Memoria fue comenzado, como se diga la historial, por esclavos liberados en mayo de 1865.

For its part, Memorial Day began at the conclusion of the Great Civil War of the United States, from 1861-1865, in which more of my fellow Americans died than every other war put together; the war between the states left a permanent scar on the American psyche. That war resolved the split personality of the Republic in favor of a unified whole (like Germany or Australia), rather than a league of independent states (like the European Union of today). The torrent of American blood swept away the shameful institution of slavery. Thus was Memorial Day initiated by freed slaves out of gratitude to the ultimate sacrifices made by many white – and, later, black – men to secure the basic liberties that had been allowed every Mexican since 1811, when the Reverend Miguel Hidalgo, banned involuntary servitude.

Estas personas quisieron mostrar su gratitud para los soldados muertes que habían sacrificado todo para que los negros del Sur pudieran gozar de sus derechos naturales (es decir, aquellos conferidos por Dios). Es porqué el Día de Memoria se llama “El Día de los Caídos”: para consagrar los sacrificios de estadounidenses matados en guerras pasadas.  Entonces, la primera traducción se escribía hace veinte meses sobre el diez de septiembre de 2011, como parte de una serie de tres discusiones para recordar el décimo aniversario el ‘día de ignominia’: el once de septiembre 2011.  Sin embargo, se adapta con el espíritu de la fiesta nacional del Día de Memoria.	Those young men died, wearing the Blue of Union and 360,000 in all, so people they would never know would be afforded the natural rights conferred by God upon every man at birth. So, too, did a great many die in World War II so that Europeans, especially those of Jewish heritage, might be secure in these natural rights again. In this sense, Memorial Day extends to those fellows from France, the United Kingdom, Australia, Scandinavia, New Zealand, the BeNeLux region and China who also died that their kinsman and neighbors live free. There is an, at best, ambivalent glory in their deaths – young lives were snuffed out casually like candles at the end of a sit-down dinner – but there is eternal greatness in, and a lasting gratitude for, their sacrifice. The reading that follows is the translation of a letter home to ‘friends and familiares’ on September 10, 2011. The essay lays out my own celebration – permanent imprimatur –  of my country’s ‘Holy Day of Obligation”, perhaps ‘Oblation’.
El diez de septiembre 2001		The Tenth of September 2001
LETTERS TO FRIENDS AND FAMILIARES: #40 McDonnell, Ned; el 10 de septiembre 2011 http://nedmcdletters.blogspot.mx/2011/09/tenth-of-september-2001.html
Durante los dos últimos días había estado ocupado, en recoger a mi hermana y una prima en el aeropuerto de Detroit-Metro, así como en prepararme para el funeral de mi tío, el sargento Henry McDonnell, prevista para la mañana siguiente. Yo había estado en Detroit durante unos días porque visité a mi tío en el final de su vida de ochenta-y-tres años y para darle las gracias por ser un buen tío y un excelente padrino y para decir adiós. Por supuesto, y de nuevo, me gustaría aparecer en lugar de mi padre, esta vez para honrar su hermano querido.		Things had been busy for the preceding couple of days, picking up my sister and a cousine at the Detroit-Metro Airport as well as getting ready for the funeral of my Uncle Henry McDonnell the next morning. I had been in Detroit for a few days because I had visited my uncle at the very end of his life to thank him for being a good uncle and for being my godfather. Most of all, I was in Michigan to say good-bye. Of course and again, I would show up in my father’s stead; this time for his belovèd brother.
El ritmo de preparación, finalmente, se había tranquilizado durante la segunda noche de la visitación en una funeraria local. Hacia el final de la noche, me tomé un momento para mí de mirar el retrato de la foto de mi tía Marion y el tío Henry en su día de boda. Ya ha transcurrido una década, el calendario de eventos han revuelto desde la memoria hasta el significado, a partir de la secuencia hacia la significación. Parecían jóvenes, tan atractivos, aún expectantes - hicieron mi tía Marion y el tío Hank.		The pace of preparation had finally slowed during the visitation at a local funeral home. Toward the end of the evening, I took a few moments for myself to look at the photo portrait of my Aunt Marion and Uncle Henry on their wedding day. Since a decade has elapsed, the timing of events has scrambled from memory to meaning, has migrated from sequence to significance. They looked young, lovely, expectant – my Aunt Kit and Uncle Hank did.
Años más tarde, me gustaría ver una escena en la película, "Cartas desde Iwo Jima", en la que Sam, el herido mortalmente soldado de los Marines de los Estados Unidos, hablando con el coronel japonés que le estaba consolando con la última de la morfina disponible. Sam le preguntó al oficial, "¿Es usted alguien famoso?"		Years later, I would watch a scene in the movie “Letters from Iwo Jima” with Sam, the mortally wounded United States Marine, speaking with the high-born, truly noble, Japanese Colonel who was comforting him with the last of the morphine available. Sam asked that officer, “No kiddin'? Yeh-you somebody famous?”
Dentro de tres años del descanso final de Hank McDonnell, yo pasaba varias horas en el hospital de combate en Bagdad, Irák, en visitar a otro joven soldado muriendo de los Marines de los Estados Unidos, Lance Corporal Johnson, mientras lentamente se alejó de los médicos que habían intentado todo lo posible para asegurar a este joven una vida plena. El escuadrón de infantería del United States Army, a quién ese joven les había salvado sin ayuda de nadie, con la singular virtud de sacrificio, se estaban sufriendo. La suya no era  la gloria del combate en esa habitación, pero una profunda mezcla fuerte muy humana de la culpa, la gratitud y el duelo amargo.		Within three years, I would spend several hours in the combat hospital in Baghdad, Iraq, watching over another young United States Marine – Lance Corporal Johnson – as he slowly slipped away from doctors who had tried everything to assure this boy a full life. The infantry squad whom that young man had saved single-handedly, with singular virtue and sacrifice, were hurting. Theirs was not yet the glory of combat in that room but the very human mixture of guilt, gratitude, grief.
De verdad, la maravilla de Sam en esa cueva remota en 1945 me perseguía ahora seis años antes de la película de Eastwood brilló en las pantallas de cine. Se puede ver, el sargento Hank. McDonnell, que él se parecía mucho a Sam (y, seis décadas más tarde, a Lance Corporal Johnson). Hank había aprendido a hacer lo correcto - y así lo hizo al unirse al Ejército de los Estados Unidos como un sargento, recién salido de la universidad. Las diferencias fueron dos. Hank McDonnell había sobrevivido y se había disparado a sobre la playa, no de Iwo Jima, pero de Okinawa, durante esa misma primavera, llena de sangre de los jóvenes, de cincuenta y seis años antes de 2001.		Indeed, Sam’s wonder-ment in that cave in 1944 haunted me now six years before the Eastwood film flashed across the screens. You see, Hank McDonnell was much like Sam. He had learned to do the right thing – and he did so by joining the United States Army, fresh out of college, eventually becoming a sergeant. The differences were two. Hank McDonnell survived; secondly, he was gunned down on the beach of Okinawa, not Iwo Jima, during that very bloody Spring of fifty-six years before 2001.
La escuadra de Hank no había avanzado mucho en esa playa cuando vio la cabeza de su hombre de las comunicaciones se destrozó un metro de él, bajo el fuego enemigo. Hank pronto siguió a su compañero, golpeando la arena con tres balas en su interior. Probablemente estaba muriendo y no podía moverse. Durante horas yacía allí en esa playa. Durante horas, oyó los ruidos sordos de balas golpeando la arena a su alrededor. Hank rezó a un Dios para en quién habían sido indiferente hasta unos momentos antes y, a través de la valentía de campo de batalla de los demás, él vivió.		Hank’s squad had not made much headway on that beach when he watched the head of his radio-man shatter, just a feet away from him, under enemy fire. Hank was soon to follow, striking the sand with three bullets inside him. He was probably dying and he could not move. For hours, it seemed, he lay there on that beach. For hours, he heard the dull thuds of bullets hitting the sand around him. Hank prayed and through the battle-field courage of others, he lived.
Dicho coraje, tal vez innata o tal vez la gracia del momento, estableció a Hank McDonnell encima de la mayoría, y aparte de casi todo el mundo. Mi tío Henry tomó la imagen de un amigo cortado salvajemente -- de la espera de su turno para morir -- dentro de él por el resto de su vida. Siempre bailando por mi mente, mis recuerdos rápidamente vagaron por delante hacia la tranquila celebración del octogésimo cumpleaños de Henry McDonnell en Tucson, Arizona en 1998. Como yo había hecho durante los cuatro años anteriores después de su muerte no oportuna, me estuvo asistiendo en el lugar de mi padre.		Such bravery, perhaps inborn or perhaps the grace of the moment, set Hank McDonnell above most, but also kept him apart from almost everybody. Apparently, war does that to many of the survivors. My Uncle Henry took that image of a friend severed savagely, of waiting for his turn to die, with him for the rest of his life. Only on the day following his death did I learn about what Hank McDonnell had seen, and survived, that crushing day so long before. Dancing as they do, my memories quickly shifted ahead to the quiet celebration of Henry McDonnell's eightieth birthday in Tucson, in 1998; I showed up in the stead of my father.
Mi regalo de cumpleaños para esta ocasión era un sobre delgado, al igual que aquello que había contenido la carta de rechazo que Hank había recibido de la Universidad de Yale cuando él se estaba graduando de la preparatoria de Philips Academy (Andover) en los años treinta; yo sufrí la misma puramente adolescente agonía cuatro décadas más tarde, en la Choate School. ¿Un sobre? ¿Y uno delgado? No mucho. Sin embargo, Henry McDonnell había ganado todo lo que yo podía permitirme el lujo de comprar que él podría valorar.		My birthday gift for this occasion was a thin envelope, much like the one containing the rejection letter Hank had received from Yale when he was graduating from Andover; I suffered the same tritely teen-age agony four decades later at Choate. An envelope? And a thin one? Not much. But Henry McDonnell had earned everything I could afford to buy that he might value.
Después de una cena de bajo perfil con la tía Marion, mi primo Peter, y su realmente magnífica esposa, Paula, le di mi regalo al tío Henry y contuve la respiración, deseoso de dar una buena impresión. Tío Henry abrió el sobre quizá molestado que yo le había dado sin convicción ochenta dólares, por cada uno de ochenta años. Leyó el formulario-carta de uno de hicieron mi héroes, el senador Robert Dole, dándome las gracias por una contribución de mil quinientos pesos - en honor del sargento Henry Egglesoe McDonnell, Jr – hacia la construcción del Gran Monumento de la Segunda Guerra Mundial en Washington, D.C.		After a low-key dinner with Aunt Marion, my cousin Peter, and Pete's truly magnificent wife, Paula, I gave my gift and held my breath, anxious to make the right impression. Uncle Henry opened the envelope, perhaps annoyed that I had lamely given him $80 for eighty years. He read the form-letter from one of my heroes, Senator Robert Dole, thanking me for a $100 contribution -- in the honor of Henry Egglesoe McDonnell, Jr -- to the World War II Memorial, then beginning construction in Washington, D.C.
Hank McDonnell acogió ese regalo: me había hecho a mi padre orgulloso. Dos meses más tarde, en una reunión familiar mucho más amplia para celebrar 'oficialmente' el cumpleaños del tío Henry, me encontraba solo, saliendo del baño, cuando Hank McDonnell, a punto de llorar como la noche cuando había dicho adiós a su hermano 'chico', apenas unas horas antes de que mi padre se había ido, dijo, en lo que me sonaba como un tono severo, "Ned, ven aquí."		Hank McDonnell welcomed that gift. I had made my father proud; that is a big deal for those of us who are Irish. Two months later, at a much larger family reunion to celebrate Uncle Henry’s birthday, I happened to be alone, walking out of the powder room, when Hank McDonnell, as close to crying as the night he said good-bye to his ‘kid’ brother (just hours before my father departed four years before), said, in what sounded to me like a stern tone, “Ned, come here.”
Ansioso como siempre y más que un poco inseguro, vi a mi tío alcanzar en un cajón y sacar una caja con tapas de cuero, del tipo que tiene el forro de terciopelo azul real, por lo general contiene joyas. En abrir la caja, Hank McDonnell me mostró sus medallas: una estrella de bronce y un corazón púrpura y otro que no reconocí. Sus palabras eran apenas audibles, "Rara vez he mostrado estos, Ned, pero yo quería que los veas."		Anxious as always and more than a little insecure, I watched my uncle reach into a drawer and take out a square, small leather-bound box, the type that has the royal blue velvet lining, usually containing jewelry. Opening that box, Hank McDonnell showed me his medals: a bronze star and a purple heart and one other I did not recognize. His words were barely audible, “I have hardly ever shown these, Ned, but I want you to see them.”
El anuncio hecho por el hermano de mi tía Marion, un sacerdote episcopal de muchos años en Carolina del Sur, que lideraría un tiempo de oración en honor a mi tío, me sacó de esa sueño de algunos momentos. Que un sacerdote episcopal - el hermano de mi tía - exhibiera la gracia para honrar el catolicismo de Henry McDonnell mediante un rosario me hizo darme cuenta de que Hank había sido muy afortunado. La riqueza de la familia de su esposa de más de cincuenta años resultó ser tan real como lo había sido evidente.		The announcement of the brother of my Aunt Marion, an Episcopal priest of many years in South Carolina, that he would lead a time of prayer to honour my uncle, snapped me out of that momentary reverie. That an Episcopal priest – my Aunt’s brother – would exhibit the grace to salute Henry McDonnell’s Catholicism with a Roman prayer made me realize that Hank had been very fortunate. The wealth he had married into turned out to be as real as it had been apparent.
Después de las oraciones, mi hermana y yo estábamos caminando fuera de la sala de visitación para volver a nuestro hotel, ya que los fuertes sentimientos de los últimos días me había dejado cansado. Mi querida prima, Nancy McDonnell, que había gozado - como su padre - un gran éxito en los negocios y que, de nuevo como Hank, entendía la importancia de una reserva personal, se quedó cerca de la entrada, completamente solo por un momento. Mi intención había sido para ofrecer a Nancy un paseo al aeropuerto después del funeral, no solo para ser gentil, sino con la esperanza de que ella pudiera decidir por mí si yo regresaría a Manhattan mañana, el once de septiembre de 2001, o esperar hasta el doce.		After the prayers, my sister and I were walking out of the visitation room to return to our hotel, since the emotion of the past days had left me tired. My cousine, Nancy McDonnell, who had – like her father – succeeded in business and, much again like Hank, understood the importance of a personal reserve, stood near the entrance, briefly alone. My intention had been to offer her a ride to the airport after the funeral, hoping that she would somehow decide for me whether I would head back to Manhattan tomorrow, the eleventh, or wait until the twelfth. It was September, a pretty slow time of the year for insurance companies.
En cambio, ella se quedó allí, con los ojos hundidos en el dolor de una hija. A pesar de mi estúpida mirada de Charlie-Brown por no tener las palabras propicias para decir lo que debería decir, Nancy McDonnell me miró, hizo una mueca de sacudir la cabeza sutil-mente, y dijo:		Instead, she stood there, her eyes deep in a daughter’s grief. Notwithstanding my stupid-ass Charlie-Brown look of not having the words to say what I should be saying, Nancy McDonnell looked at me, winced in shaking her head subtly, and said,
“Ya sabes, Ned, esto es el final de una época.”		“You know, Ned, it’s the end of an era…”

Letter 109 to friends and familiares: making sense of a film unfinished

"What needs to be remembered whenever the raw numbers of those who die or suffer are tossed about is that each of these numbers represents an individual, a man, woman or child who had physical needs and desires, loves and hates, beliefs and hopes. For more than fifty million individuals in the Second World War, these hopes were savagely disappointed. And even the survivors were scarred for life."

-- Bart D. Ehrman, 2008

He had been my closest friend in boarding school for about a year and I had not realized it.  In the old shingled dorm, charming on the outside but drafty on the inside, I walked into his room on the way to dinner one evening and said, “What is the object of a Jewish football game?” He seemed disturbed; obviously he did not realize that I was telling a joke.  “To get the quarterback. Get it?” And he did not; I chuckled, nervously now.

“Ned, my mother is Jewish.” My impulse was to say one of two things: that my Jewish blood-brother, dead for a year by then, had told me that joke or that I told Irish jokes.  He cut me off, almost testily, with a further rebuke. Not all jokes are harmless.  Of course, I went on to say something really awkward like, “Sorry, you did not seem Jewish…” It was a while before we spoke again, my best friend and I.

A quarter of a century later, I was out to dinner with a drop-dead beauty in New York City, a glistening example of good German-Swiss stock (an origin I shared on my mother’s side). We were talking about “Life is Beautiful” – a heart-felt and bittersweet film of a parent’s undying love while he himself was dying. She looked at me and said, “You know Ned, why do people keep harping about the holocaust?" Date over, though it was another forty empty minutes before I called for the check. The issue was not her insensitivity but her honesty; I felt the same sometimes.

This afternoon, as part of the Jewish Cinema Festival here in México, I watched a film recommended to me by a lovely couple whom I had met on the evening of the premiere, “A Film Unfinished”. This is the accumulation of footage taken by nazi film-makers inside the Warsaw Ghetto in the spring of 1942. Since the film is silent, it is narrated by readings from the journal of one of the Jewish elders in that ghetto; the later court testimony of one of the film-makers; other diary excerpts; and, three survivors of that ghastly ghetto. Like a "Frontline" installment on the holocaust.

Unlike most “real film footage” of war or catastrophe, which tends to be less horrific than those portrayed in fictional flics, these images are much harsher than even those of the “Pianist” or “Schindler’s List”.  This essay (my apologies for its length) seeks to record just how hard it can be, for me at least, to take in the enormity of what one is witnessing, even if only vicariously.  This letter is not meant to be self-centered nor do I really want to be judgemental.

If this re-telling connects with other people, great. If not, no harm done.  My first reaction that I noticed was a lot shifting in my seat. Then I settled into the detachment; I was viewing what I was viewing and that is it, utter passivity in the face of documented evil.  The reels did not feel real; besides the people looked horrible. It all felt a million miles away. Yet, I know this old trick of shutting-down, “I am really watching something that is only supposedly true; not part of me with no part in my life.”

So I made myself get out of myself and look closely at those ugly, filthy people on the screen. “That girl – she can only be sixteen; that would make her eighty-nine or so today. She probably died within a year…” She had lost half her hair from going hungry; her eyes, two darkening sockets of deathly derangement. Her teeth some hideous shade of grey. “What had she known as an eight year old? What had been her dreams? What was she hoping for? Had she had even a chance for intimacy with a boyfriend?”

Doing this with about twenty people of both genders and all three generations crammed inside that ghetto, the images flickered across the screen in all manner of expressions, mostly those of hunger, resignation, dread, defeat and death. The next trick in avoiding a dark corner of life did not take long to manifest: return to the physical.

Drowsiness crept over me; it was a struggle for me to stay awake and stay engaged in this exercise of conscience; I could only do it about half of the time. Frankly, I was very annoyed with my doing anything I could to escape the hollow feeling inside that I could have been on either side of that camera – a sobering realization.

And yet, there is that other side of the camera.  The book, Hitler’s Willing Executioners let nobody off of the hook. Nevertheless, I suspect many Germans were not exterminationist anti-semites, but were people who were scared; the Nazis had the guns and, if you mouthed off, you would be heading east, too, if not fortunate enough to be killed on the spot.

Their complicity proved as deadly but remains a bit more understandable. This kind of film provokes, within me at least, a kaleidoscope of feelings, contentions, memories and internal arguments that vary by angle, changing by day into night.  When my family first moved to an area of Pittsburgh where most of the Jewish families lived, I remember meeting a boy across the street. We were hanging out and talking, as twelve year olds were wont to do.

He asked about my family and I went through the usual stuff – ethnic backgrounds of my parents, where I was in school, where we had previously lived and even religions. I asked him about his family. His parents were Jewish; his dad from Poland and his mother from Cleveland. They had ended up in Pittsburgh. So, I wondered out loud whether he ever visited his paternal relatives in Europe. He said no, quite casually stating almost all of his father’s family had “died" and no one knew where the others were.

Just that matter-of-fact. Being pretty thoughtless, perhaps immature, I felt nothing about what my acquaintance was telling me; perhaps, I was just too young to get it. Even forty-five years later, I hope that is the explanation. But my new acquaintance seemed so casual about it. This film today – “A Film Unfinished” – went a long way toward answering definitively why the Jews in that ghetto had not put up more of a fight and had not done so far earlier than mid-1943.

RESPONSE: by mid-1942, these people were half-starved and really could do very little but make it through another day. The more energetic ones were pre-occupied with a desperate struggle each day to bring some comfort to so many, particularly loved ones, suffering so much. Had I been a parent, my primary allegiance would have been toward the protection and, to the very limited extent possible, comfort of my little ones. As an unmarried adult, my focus would have been on parents or other elders.

These people had not been casual; they had been crushed. The unendurable simply had become the everyday. Back to the German side of the camera.  It was a year or two after Kristallnacht. My mother was nine or ten years old. She and her two little sisters were busy growing up in the middle of that Jewish part of Pittsburgh, right in core of that community; perhaps one of the largest refugee destinations between New York and Miami.

They were trailing “spies” – these men wearing frumpy looking black clothes, with pirouetting black curls streaming down the sides of their heads, out from under their big black, funky fedoras. Definitely alien spies. (At least, that is how I remember story; almost certainly exaggerated by me over time.)

My grandfather had always been proud of his German Swiss ancestry. He was a gentleman, refined and charitable. When he heard about these mad-cap pursuits by his daughters, he was not furious; they were children, after all. Yet he was firm: leave these people in peace.  Something terrible was happening in Germany, he informed them. He did not know what or how bad it was, I suspect, but he knew it was atrocious.

Sometime before, my grandfather had made his way to a ski resort owned by an equally proud German-American family. The founding patriarch motioned my grandfather into the kitchen of the main lodge.  The wireless was on; there was a lot of static as those radio waves arrived from a continent and ocean away. Expectantly, my grandfather’s friend had said, “Listen, Frank…it’s Hitler!” My grandfather excused himself for 'he had to return home'. He never set foot in that ski lodge again; nor did he count that man as a friend.

Something terrible was happening in Germany, alright.  Yet, that man who owned that ski lodge was not a monster. He was a good family man. His children and theirs would make him proud. Unlike my grandfather, however, he had likely never worked closely, celebrated birthdays and done all the rest with Jewish colleagues and neighbours.

That thought and this movie today brings me back to square-1.  What Germany – and far too many Germans – did can never be countenanced. On the other hand, that Germany did it does not condemn Germans as uniquely evil; of course, they are not. Instead, it throws down a formidable gauntlet to the rest of us who deem ourselves as civilized.

The Bundeswehr Major and I had been chatting over dinner on his civil-military base in the Takhar Province of Afghanistan. He was a good man, earnestly serving his country as Germany sought to contribute to the peace and eventual prosperity of northern Afghanistan.  Many of the Germans I had worked with over the years were a bit defensive about the excesses of their country through two World Wars. Understandable.

Having worked in German or German-Swiss banks for the better part of my banking career, I had done a lot of soul-searching about working for them. My boarding school Latin teacher provoked the eventual acceptance, if not resolution, of the lingering doubts. He had been recruited into the Milgram experiments ten years before he was teaching me about declensions and conjugations. He had dropped out quite early in the process.

Under the “direction” of an actor garbed in the vestments of authority (reminiscent of other, recent blood-drunk impostors), many people had consented to inflict pain on a test subject (also an actor) who received increasingly powerful electric shocks for each wrong answer to questions posed by the true analysand. Fortunately, no pain was inflicted on the failing test-taker. A great deal of pain, unethically, had been visited on most of the test-givers who had not suspected that they themselves were the subjects of an experiment on compliance to authority.  

While I admired that teacher’s moral toughness and hoped I would emulate him later in life, I always had a sinking uneasiness that I might well have done the same as those others not quite as strong – those up-to-two-thirds of the subjects that “went all the way”, thinking all the while that they might be killing someone. As my life went on and studies in twentieth century history came my way, I realized that Germany provided both an odious example and a profound challenge.

That was what I was saying diplomatically to the Major in Afghanistan, “Let's think back to the beginning of the twentieth century. Greater Germany – Germany, Austria and northern Switzerland – was arguably the greatest civilization on earth: in the arts, in technology, in the sciences, in philosophy, in just about everything. Who could have imagined in 1900 that, within fifty years, this civilization would engulf the world in two world wars and commit these awful acts? My feeling is that, if something like this could happen in the greatest civilization on earth, it could happen anywhere." Update from May 2016.

And it has, repeatedly. Perhaps not on the same scale, but it has. The cruelest irony I find in post-holocaust history of heinous crimes against humanity is that those who focus their indignation on people are more likely to be trapped by the dark-side of human nature. After all, except for truly evil people so inured to their humanity that their souls have been extinguished by many depredations, most of us have what is magnificent and malevolent within us, just as Blaise Pascal had implied so long ago. Yet watching this “Film Unfinished” left me drowsy, avoiding reality, feeling slightly nauseated.

And it makes me think about the unfinished work that is the world we live in today. Too often – to the point that I am sick of hearing it – people whine about the absence of clear-cut good-versus-evil struggles that have made so many recent military adventures messy, confusing, thwarted, traumatic and, most tragically, immoral. Frankly, that smacks of being an excuse. We saw that excuse emerge in Cambodia; in the Balkans; and, in Rwanda. In each case, the great democracies again failed to act.

In our day, the timely use of military power might well have abated the appalling situation in Syria, bleeding white for four years now and in Iraq. This power, used at an earlier and better time need not have been solely or primarily kinetic (i.e., bangs and bullets). In both cases, a concerted effort to pressure the now disgraced shi´ite partisan dictator, Nuri al-Maliki, to honour the election of 2010 (when the U.S. had 75,000 troops in-country) and by exercising the humane use of power in the refugee camps in Jordan and Lebanon, might well have – I believe would have – saved thousands of lives.

It was clear, even at the time, that President Assad’s tactics were odious and beyond the countenance of civilized men and women. Additionally, it was clear at the time that Prime Minister al-Maliki was making a power grab at the expense of the Sunni minority, who had sided eventually with the U.S. against al-Qaeda. Former interim Prime Minister, Ayad Allawi, won the election of 2010. As a secular Shi´ite, with a track record of solid performance and an allegiance to Iraq ahead of ayatollahs, Ayad Allawi had the trust of wide segments of the population.

Yet President Obama not only failed to act in either case, he refused to admit to the moral gravity of the situation in Syria and (eventually) Iraq, casting the choice as a binary function of either exercising no military power (even non-kinetically) or launching an invasion. This consistently articulated choice was disingenuous and led to the death of so many more people. The same indecision unto death has whetted Russian aggression into her old empire.

Policy analysts assert that the U.S. policies of sanctions provide the most efficacious means by bring down the Russian economy; I am not convinced. Again, a firmer and non-kinetic military response may have contained the aggression and given vital assurance to N.A.T.O.'s newest democracies, nations like Poland, Romania and the Baltics, many of whom have stood by the U.S. Someday, I suspect, I will be watching a similar film about Syria and, yes, I will likely be shifting in my seat, shutting down, getting drowsy and feeling a slight nausea – all in an hour’s time.

Letter 108: tribute to a good man

PEACE CORPS II Explained	Explicación de la misión del Peace Corps-II
One of my duties in the Peace Corps is to bring a “Whitman’s Sampler” of American culture to my host-country counterparts. In actuality, I have fulfilled that mission with any number of Pittsburgh Steelers and Baltimore Ravens souvenirs for amigos and amigas. Additionally, I have translated two great speeches – one by President Kennedy on getting to the Moon (as a tribute to CPT Neil Armstrong) and the other delivered by Steve Jobs to a Stanford graduation. Nevertheless, the translations for this week require a humble tribute to another type of hero; one we do not see.		Una de mis tareas en el Cuerpo de Paz se llama -- Peace Corps-II -- en el que brindo a mis compañeros del país anfitrión un poco de la cultura estadounidense.  De hecho, lo he cumplido esta obligación con las traducciones de los discursos del presidente John Kennedy (para recordar el logro científico del Capitán Neil Armstrong) y el discurso del Sr. Steve Jobs a la Universidad de Stanford.  Las traducciones de esta semana buscan recordar otro gran estadounidense pero no tan famoso como dichos hombres mencionados.
Introduction to the translations: Mark Tuttle (1923-2012)		Introducción a las traducciones:  Mark Tuttle (1923-2012)
The best of American culture lies not in the news clips, history books or even time-honoured art. Those who represent this greatness will never show up in Wikipedia to record their grandeur. Still, these people show those of us, fortunate enough to be familiar with them, the true American nobility. Perhaps, CPT Armstrong was one renowned hero who most closely resembled these others.		La mejor parte de la cultura de mi país es aquella que no se puede saber a través de las noticias ni la historia nacional.  Estas personas nunca tendrán una escritura biográfica en Wikipedia para reconocer su grandeza evidente.  Sin embargo, ellos representan lo que es verdaderamente noble de mi país.  Quizás, el Capitán Armstrong fuera el más similar a estos héroes silenciosos.
Yet for every Neil Armstrong, one can find ten others not known but who embodied the same humility and decency of our greatest astronaut. These translations pay tribute to one such man. It is sad, truly sad, that so many, many people did not benefit from knowing this gentleman. Hopefully, these readings can give people some idea of the America I once knew.		Por cada uno Neil Armstrong, se puede encontrar diez que son tan buenos y humildes como era el astronauta.  Las traducciones semanales se enfocan en un tal hombre.  Es triste que todo el mundo no pueda beneficiarse de este hombre de mi vida.  Espero que estas lecturas les den una idea de la América que se sabía hace cuarenta años.
Although tiresome anglophiles like to presume that the British Empire triumphed on the playing fields of Eton and Harrow – two of England’s great boarding schools – that idea is rather too elitist for me as a product of the MidWest. In any case, this thought has its kernel of truth. Truthfully, I was very lucky to attend a school of similar stature in the United States; the boarding school of President Kennedy and Governor Adlai Stevenson who had graduated some forty to fifty years before.		Aunque les gustan a los anglófilos presumir que el Imperio Británico era ganado en los campos atléticos de Eton y Harrow (los dos colegios de internos ingleses los más prestigiosos), dicha opinión me parece como demasiado elitista para un estadounidense como yo.  Sin embargo, este sentimiento tiene una semilla de verdad adentro.  De hecho, asistí una tal escuela estadounidense como Eton o Harrow, la misma preparatoria de internos del presidente Kennedy cuarenta años antes.
But, it is not the attendance of people like Presidents Roosevelt, Kennedy, Bush and Bush that makes these schools special. What really counts about schools like mine – where I went in ninth grade 650 miles away from home – is the enduring and over-riding influence of certain teachers. In a sense, they are the counterparts of those masters of Eton and Harrow who assured victory against Napoleon by strengthening the character of the students under their charge, many of whom later emerged into far more public profiles of leadership. While I am not one of those leaders, remarkable teachers made my life a better one.		Pero, la asistencia de los presidentes Kennedy y ambos de Bush así como Franklin Roosevelt en dichas escuelas no las hace especiales.  Lo que es significativo de escuelas como la mía -- adónde fui cuando tenía quince años un mil kilómetros de mi familia -- es la influencia tan importante de algunos maestros.  Son los homólogos de esos maestros en el U.K. que ganó el Imperio por fortalecer el carácter de los estudiantes bajo su cargo -- esos niños del liderazgo emergente.  Por supuesto, no he sido un tal líder.  Sin embargo, me ha disfrutado de algunos grandes maestros.
In my case, no one did more for me than my cross-country coach, who actually never taught me a class (and, hence, we got along well) in four years, a generation ago. Still, this coach embodied, at least for me and for my life afterward, American greatness from an earlier time. In short, he was a “class act” in that he integrated erudition and humility into a gentlemanly code of honor.		Nadie más de mi entrenador de campo atraviesa (en inglés, cross-country; o ‘cross’ en las traducciones) quien nunca me había enseñado una clase en cuatro años allí, hace una generación.  Sin embargo, este entrenador representaba -- por toda su vida (soy convencido) -- la grandeza estadounidense de una época anterior mediante su erudición, humildad y honor de caballero.
In today’s world, teeming with ferocious competition without a moment’s respite (or so it seems), the significance of this man’s quiet greatness fades into shadows of ageing memory and creeping nostalgia. Somewhere along the line, many of us (e.g., me) forget what really counts in the short lives granted to us. The influence of such boarding school proctors deepens with their constant, daily presence in our lives. Differing circumstances aside, we all have had those special people in our lives who cared about us and our futures.		En nuestro actual mundo, lleno de competición feroz y continua, la significación de esta grandeza tranquila se retira en las sombras de nostalgia porque la gente se olvida qué es importante en esa corta vida dada a cada uno de nosotros.  La influencia de dichos maestros de los internados, se profundiza por su presencia constante e íntima.  Cualquier el caso, todos nosotros tenemos personas especiales en nuestras vidas quien se preocuparon de nosotros y nuestros futuros.
These translations of today are intended to salute those special men and women with affection and gratitude wherever they are at this moment. The translations are short and remember my unlikely mentor.		Con las traducciones de hoy, vamos a saludarles y felicitarles, dondequiera que ellos se encuentran ahora.  Las traducciones son cortas sobre mi mentor de adolescencia:
a tribute from my school; my personal remembrance; as well as, two anecdotes on how this refined gentleman helped, so much more than he likely ever knew, make me who I am.		un elogio de mi escuela; mi testimonio personal; así como, dos historias sobre cómo este caballero refinado ayudaba a hacerme el hombre que soy en día.
This coach important to me, who showed those lucky enough to know him the very best that America could produce, died two weeks ago (December 2012). Thank you all for your patience in spoiling this old man (i.e., me). Unfortunately, people often do not remember these great and modest men and women, except in moments of sorrow. Yet I must advise you that, in the stories that follow, I once had the capacity to be a “bad boy”; if not a macho man, at least a macho mouth.		Este hombre importante para mí, que representaba el mejor que los U.S.A. pueden producir, murió hace quince días. Quiero darles mis gracias por su paciencia en mimar a un anciano (es decir, yo).  Tristemente, no se oye de personas como mi mentor a menos que alguien tome el tiempo para saludarles y su grandeza olvidada.  Tengo que advertirles que, en las historias, yo podía ser un ‘bad boy’ (es decir, un mocoso, o 'macho-mouth') en ese entonces...

Former Choate Master, Mark Tuttle, Remembered

Choate Rosemary Hall; Wallingford, Connecticut; el 11 de enero 2013

http://www.capecodonline.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130108/OBITS02/301080311/0/rss4004#respond

Mark Tuttle, who taught mathematics and coached at the School for 33 years, died December 29, 2012 in Meredith, N.H. He was 89.  Born in Dover, N. H., on the oldest farm owned by a single family in the United States, Mark graduated from Harvard cum laude, and was captain of both the track and cross country teams there.

During World War II, he served in the Navy as an Ensign and then as a Lieutenant J.G. After the war, he taught at Exeter and at the St. Louis Country Day School in St. Louis, Mo., then earned a master's degree in education from Boston University and came to Choate in 1955.

At Choate, he taught "any and probably all math courses offered here," a colleague remarked at his retirement in 1988. When he was awarded the William Shute Chair in 1981, the citation called him "the mathematician's mathematician." He also served for a time as head of the Math Department.

But he is equally well remembered as the longtime coach of cross country. In 1988, fellow coach Jim Davidson remembered that before meets, Mark told his teams "story after story about previous teams or runners," as well as anecdotes about opposing teams, coaches, and courses.

Gilbert Chapman '79 noted that Coach Tuttle "had the individual race results typed and posted in the locker room the day after a meet. He was truly a great coach and mentor, who had a huge impact on my life as a runner." 

A former Athletics Director, he was inducted into the Choate Rosemary Hall Athletics Hall of Fame in 2000. He was also a dorm master for many years, and Third Form Boys Dean for more than a decade.

In Wallingford, Mark served on the town Conservation Committee and was a fundraiser for the United Way and the Red Cross, donating more than seven gallons of blood over the years.

An avid birder, he and his wife Marcia, who died in 1996, traveled extensively to watch birds, including to Canada, the Caribbean, Africa, and elsewhere; he recorded some 3,700 species.

He also enjoyed watching the Boston Red Sox. After he retired, the Tuttles moved to Cape Cod; Mark returned to New Hampshire for his final years.

Tribute to a gentleman who made modesty a virtue

Edward J. McDonnell III, CFA; CHOATE, clase de 1976

sobre FACEBOOK

Tired after a long week. Just read the very sad news of the death of my belovèd Cross Country coach at Choate. Mark Tuttle was one of the finest men I knew growing up. Such admiration was out of step with many of my class-mates because he was strict. Mr Tuttle never gave up on me, even when I was expelled and re-admitted. He still wrote a glowing recommendation for me for schools. There are those people in life to whom I owe so much that I know I will never pay down their spiritual largesse. You are a good man, Mr Tuttle, and I will miss your hallmark New England accent as enshrined in the old Will Ayres joke of, "On yeh mahhk. Get set. Stahhht!"

Una reminiscencia para mis buenos amigos de CIDESI

Ned McDonnell; Cuerpo de Paz; treinta-y-ocho años más tarde

It was the fall of 1974, a depressing time in the history of the United States.  President Nixon had been disgraced and only avoided imprisonment through the mercy shown by President Ford.  Viêt Nam was collapsing; the U.S. currency cratered for the first time in modern history.  America was in decline.

While the larger environment was gloomy, times in boarding school were not.  As a member of the Junior Varsity cross country team, often finishing at the head of the pack, I had hit my stride after two difficult years at boarding school where I had been terribly homesick.

We travelled to a rival prep school, the Hotchkiss School, for a race.  We were dominating Hotchkiss and three of us – the son of immigrants, the son of a prep schooled family and the son of a black ghetto – linked hands to take the first three places in unison in front of all of the parents at Hotchkiss visiting their little brats on Parents Weekend in Lakeville, Connecticut.

The parents looked depressed and then suddenly they got excited and started cheering.  To run in unison, we had had to run more slowly, but we were feeling very American in our unity amid diversity.  It occurred to one of us to turn around to see if these crazy parents had some reason to cheer.

There he was: a runner from Hotchkiss running hard, about to overtake us.  We let go of each other´s hand and dashed ahead to the finish line.  We easily triumphed.  The Hotchkiss parents were disappointed. 

My team-mates and I felt vindicated and a bit full of ourselves.  Suddenly, cutting right between us came the Choate cross-country coach, Mark Tuttle.  He went directly to the coach of the team from Hotchkiss.  He ceded the victory – rightfully – to the Hotchkiss runner because the three of us had effectively blocked him from the finish line.  None of us questioned that decision; we learned from it.

About a month later, we were travelling to a small New England town that was the home of Phillips Exeter, one of the largest and very best of the New England prep schools.  On the way, on a turnpike, our big blue ugly school-bus passed a rival team in a van.  Daring each other, three or four of us dropped trow and stuck our bare bottoms out the window to embarrass the other team.

Apparently, we succeeded.

The coach of that other team was not happy with our gesture of doubtful friendliness.  Since I wore a distinctive patch madras jacket (in November), the other coach was able to recognize me easily; better to dress down to sticking out.  After we arrived at Exeter, the other coach was speaking with Mr. Tuttle and pointing at me.  Mr. Tuttle called me over to them.

Scared though I was, I was prepared to be defiant, even macho, to show that I was not frightened, which, of course, I was.  I walked directly up to the two coaches.  Mr Tuttle asked me if I had displayed my buttocks to the rival team.  Of course, I replied that I had done so.  Mr Tuttle suggested I apologize to that coach.  So, I apologized.

Then he looked at me in the eye; or, in the eye, when I had the courage to look back, rather than at the floor.  Mr. Tuttle said firmly, with more disappointment than anger, “Being off the Choate campus does not permit you to stray beyond the bounds of politeness.”

All I could do was say, “Yes sir.”  He then smiled a little and gave me the heart to run that day’s race.  Later that year, when roaming the streets of Paris as a teenager, I realized that Dean Tuttle was my kind of guy.

 

Gran Maestro de CHOATE, El Sr. Mark Tuttle, se recuerda

Choate Rosemary Hall; Wallingford, Connecticut; el 11 de enero 2013

http://www.capecodonline.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130108/OBITS02/301080311/0/rss4004#respond

El Sr. Mark Tuttle, que enseñó matemáticas y entrenó en CHOATE durante treinta y tres años, fallecido el 29 de diciembre de 2012 de Meredith, New Hampshire. El Sr. Tuttle tenía ochenta y nueve años. Nacido en Dover, New Hampshire, en la más antigua granja pertenece a un sola familia en los Estados Unidos (desde alrededor del año 1637), el Sr. Tuttle se graduó de la Universidad de Harvard cum laude (con mérito académico), y fue capitán de ambos equipos del atletismo y del campo traviesa en Cambridge.

Durante la Segunda Guerra Mundial, el Sr. Tuttle sirvió en la Armada de los Estados Unidos de Norteamérica como subalterno y después como teniente. Después de la guerra, él enseñó en Exeter (la Academia de Philips en Exeter, New Hampshire) y en la Escuela Campestre de Saint Louis (en San Luis, Missouri). Luego, el Sr. Tuttle obtuvo una maestría en educación de la Universidad de Boston (en Massachusetts) y llegó a CHOATE (en Wallingford, Connecticut) en 1955.

En CHOATE, el Decano Tuttle había enseñado "cualquier y probablemente todos los cursos de matemáticas que se ofrecen aquí", comentó un colega en su retiro en 1988. Cuando se le concedió la 'Cátedra de William Shute' en 1981, la citación le llamó "el matemático de matemáticos". También sirvió durante un tiempo como jefe del Departamento de Matemáticas.

Sin embargo, el Sr. Tuttle es igual de bien, tal vez mejor, recordado como el entrenador de campo a través por muchos años. En 1988, su entrenador compañero, el Sr. Jim Davidson, recordó que antes de cada carrera, Mark dijo a sus equipos "historia tras historia acerca de los equipos anteriores o los corredores", así como anécdotas de los equipos contrarios, entrenadores y cursos.

El Sr. Gilberto (´Gib´) Chapman (clase de 1979 de CHOATE) señaló que el Coach Tuttle "siempre había los resultados de las carreras individuales escrito y publicado en el vestuario el día después de una carrera. Era verdaderamente un gran entrenador y mentor, quien tuvo un gran impacto en mi vida como corredor."

Un director de Atletismo, el Sr. Tuttle fue incluido en el Choate Rosemary Hall Atletismo Salón de la Fama en 2000. Él era también un maestro dormitorio por muchos años, y el decano de los niños de CHOATE en la tercera forma (igual al noveno grado) durante más de una década.

En Wallingford, el Sr. Tuttle formó parte del Comité de Conservación para el pueblito y era un recaudador de fondos para United Way (consorcio de organizaciones sin fines de lucro) y la Cruz Roja, donando más de treinta litros de sangre a lo largo de los años.

Un ávido ornitólogo, el Sr. Tuttle y su esposa, la señora Marcia, que murió hace dieciséis años, viajaron extensamente para observar aves, incluyendo a Canadá, al Caribe, en África y otros lugares donde habían registraron unos 3.700 especies.

También disfrutaba viendo a los Redsox de Boston (equipo de béisbol). Después de que él se retiró de CHOATE, el Sr. y la Sra. Tuttle se mudaron a Barnstable, Cape Cod (Massachusetts). Luego se mudó a New Hampshire para sus últimos años después la muerte de su esposa bien amada de cuarenta-y-siete años.

Tribute to a gentleman who made modesty a virtue

Edward J. McDonnell III, CFA; CHOATE, clase de 1976

sobre FACEBOOK

Cansado después de una larga semana. Acabo de leer la noticia muy triste de la muerte de mi querido entrenador de Cross Country en Choate. El Sr. Mark Tuttle fue uno de los mejores hombres que yo conocía en mis años creciendo. Tanta admiración estaba fuera de paso con muchos de mis compañeros porque era estricto. El Sr. Tuttle nunca me abandonó, ni siquiera cuando fui expulsado y readmitido. Todavía escribió una entusiasta recomendación para mí para las escuelas. Hay personas en la vida a quien le debo tanto que sé que nunca podré pagarles por su generosidad espiritual. Usted es un buen hombre, Mark Tuttle, y voy a extrañar su distintivo acento de Nueva Inglaterra, consagrado en nuestro vieja broma, "On yeh mahhk. Get set. Stahhht!" (es decir, "Alerten. Preparen. ¡Vayan!" pero en con una pronunciación única).

Una reminiscencia para mis buenos amigos de CIDESI

Ned McDonnell; Cuerpo de Paz; treinta-y-ocho años más tarde

Era el otoño de 1974, un tiempo deprimente en la historia de los U.S.A. El presidente Nixon había caído en desgracia y fue capaz de evitar la prisión sólo por la misericordia mostrada por el presidente Ford (un gran presidente estadounidense que era también, como Mark Tuttle, humilde). Viet Nam se derrumbaba y la moneda estadounidense se hacía lo mismo por primera vez en su historia. América estaba en decadencia.

Si bien el entorno más grande era sombrío, momento en mi colegio de internos no era. Como miembro del equipo junior de campo a través (‘cross’), a menudo terminando en la cabeza de la manada, yo había alcanzado mi paso después de dos años difíciles en la escuela (que fue mil kilómetros de mi familia), donde había sido terriblemente nostálgico.

Viajamos a una escuela preparatoria rival, la Escuela Hotchkiss, para correr una carrera. Estábamos dominando a Hotchkiss y tres de nosotros - un hijo de inmigrantes, un hijo de una familia educada por colegios de internos y un hijo de un gueto negro - tomamos la mano del otro para ganar los tres primeros lugares en unísono frente a todos los padres en Hotchkiss, visitando a sus mocosos, durante el ´Fin de Semana de Padres' en la aldea (¡con un solo semáforo!) de Lakeville, Connecticut.

Como se esperaba, los padres en Hotchkiss parecían deprimidos y esto deleitó a los tres de nosotros, mano a mano. De pronto, se emocionaron y comenzaron gritar fuertemente. Para ejecutar al unísono, habíamos tenido que correr más lento, pero nos sentíamos muy americano en nuestra unidad en la diversidad. Se le ocurrió a uno de nosotros para dar la vuelta para ver si estos padres locos tenían alguna razón para festejar.

Y, por supuesto, allí estaba él: un atleta de Hotchkiss corriendo duro, a punto de alcanzarnos. Dejamos ir el uno al otro la mano y corrimos delante hacia la línea de meta. Aun así, triunfamos. Los padres en Hotchkiss estaban decepcionados y ¡por buena razón!

Mis compañeros y yo nos sentimos reivindicados y bastante llenos de nosotros mismos. De repente, caminando rápido entre nosotros, llegó el entrenador de ‘cross’ en Choate, el Sr. Mark Tuttle. Fue directamente al entrenador del equipo de Hotchkiss. Él cedió la victoria - con razón - al corredor de Hotchkiss porque los tres de nosotros había efectivamente le impidió desde la línea de meta. Ninguno de nosotros dudamos la decisión; de hecho, nos enteramos de ella.

Alrededor de un mes más tarde, estábamos de viaje a un pequeño pueblo de Nueva Inglaterra, que era el sitio de Exeter, uno de los más grandes y mejores de las escuelas de preparación en toda Nueva Inglaterra. En el camino, en una carretera (I-95), nuestro gran azul feo autobús escolar pasó delante un equipo rival en una camioneta. Atreverse entre sí, tres o cuatro de nosotros bajamos los pantalones y nos sacamos nuestras nalgas desnudas fuera la ventana para avergonzar al otro equipo.

Evidentemente, tuvimos éxito.

El entrenador de ese otro equipo de 'cross' no estaba contento con nuestro gesto de amistad dudosa. Como yo llevaba un distintivo tweed a cuadros chaqueta, el otro entrenador era capaz de reconocerme. Después habíamos llegado a Exeter, el otro entrenador estaba hablando con el señor Tuttle y señalando hacia mí. Sr. Tuttle me llamó para unirme con ellos.

Asustado como estaba, yo estaba dispuesto a ser desafiante, incluso machista, para demostrar, con una valentía falsa, que yo no tenía miedo. Caminé directamente hasta los dos entrenadores. El Sr. Tuttle me preguntó si me había mostrado mis nalgas al equipo rival. Cogido in fraganti, le respondí que yo lo había hecho. El Sr. Tuttle me sugirió pedir disculpas a ese entrenador. Por lo tanto, me disculpé.

Luego el Sr. Tuttle me miró en el ojo.  Miré al Sr. Tuttle en el ojo, o bien, cuando tuve el coraje de no mirar hacia atrás a él, y no hacia mis pies. Sr. Tuttle dijo, con firmeza y con más decepción que la ira, "Estar fuera del campus de Choate no te permite actuar más allá de los estándares de la cortesía."

Lo único que podía hacer era decir: "Sí, señor". Luego sonrió un poco y me dio el corazón para funcionar en la gran carrera para ese día. Más tarde en ese mismo fin-de-semana, él recontó la historia con una risa a mis padres, en Connecticut con mi hermana.  Más tarde en ese año académico, cuando estaba vagando por las calles de París como un adolescente perdido, me di cuenta de que el Decano Tuttle, mucho como mi propio padre, sería  algún día mi tipo de hombre.