Shannon Lee's Letter to his rep.
Representative Wu, The New York disaster puts an unbelievable amount of pressure on all of us to act, and act now. I have heard over and over again that "we must make sure that this can never happen again." And my heart seethes with the need to strike back, to take action, to do whatever we have to, to make any sacrifice. I hear people calling for tighter security measures, for air marshalls on every plane and for new restrictions on carry-on items, for the outlawing of the E-Ticket, for more armed guards at security checkpoints. And part of me says, "Anything to catch these people, to make sure it never happens again." But I do not want to live the rest of my life under armed guard. I do not want someone with a gun to tell me when I can use the bathroom on a six hour flight. I am not willing to allow terrorist thugs to force me to live in fear. If living a free life in a free country means that there is a chance that I, or even my wife, or my children, will be killed by someone who believes that their point is more important than our lives, then so be it. In living a life freer than theirs we will have made our statement. Better to do nothing but rebuild and mourn when terror strikes, than to have men with guns telling us what to do. When I think of the risk to my young children, my blood runs cold; but when I imagine explaining to them as adults that I gave away their liberties because I was afraid, it runs even colder. Our Founding Fathers, including some of my own ancestors, pledged their Lives, their Fortunes, and their Sacred Honor to the cause of liberty, and they fought knowing that their homes and their families were at risk. Can I do differently? If we are to have terror, I say that the best response possible is to live free. Rebuild, go on. If we can find the persons responsible, whether they be private individuals or governments, we should do what we can to make sure they cannot act again. But I am willing to put my freedom before my life, just as my father did in Laos, just as my great uncles did in Germany, just as my ancestors did in the Revolution. The antithesis of terror is courage. It takes courage to know that airplanes may fall out of the sky, and to still fly. It takes courage to understand that you are a target, and yet still stand up. But Americans have always done just that, on the battlefield and in our daily lives. I feel that I owe it to those who have died to defend my liberty, and to my children who will someday inherit it, not to give it away out of fear. Respectfully, Shannon Lee 9/14/01From alt.poly, i believe, via uk poly;
My daughter's married lover is missing.
Liam. Liam Colhoun,
sometimes mispronounced Calhoun.
He forgives you when you do that,
almost chagrined,
as if the tricky spelling were his fault.
Liam, married to Helen.
Their boyfriend's name is Harry.
My daughter, you may know, is Rose.
It's important to say their names.
Names, not numbers, go missing.
Rose lives in San Francisco these days.
She was booked on USAirways 318,
due in Wednedsay night at 10:16 at LGA.
Liam was to meet her flight and bring her home to us
--us being Albert, Bob, & me.
He'd be wanting then to get back to Helen
and their four-year-old daughter Brigid
but, yes, he would come in for a tea.
The rest of the weekend-this weekend--
Rose would stay with Harry or all of them chez Colhoun.
For Rose that is also "home."
I am telling you these things
because the focus of the weekend was a romp in Central Park:
the Poly Pride Picnic, hurray.
"Poly" is short for polyamorous,
which gets underscored by Spell-Check;
the computer politely suggests ploy or polio.
Means openly having more than one lover
of maybe more than one gender.
This weekend the Poly's would say,
"We are what we are; we do what we are;
it's our right, our joy, our duty to celebrate."
Rose was making the trip cross-country
To wave that particular flag
And so I wave it here for her.
We will never get things right in the world
until we are happy that love
comes in more different flavors
than Ben and Jerry's.
The Poly Pride Picnic
is not my particular feast--
hey, I'm fifty-nine--but
I'd cater it if they asked.
The poly's are no better than the mono's
nor are they any worse.
We all know Hallmark loves
that succumb to dread and hate--
from Niagara Falls to the swamp,
just like that.
O, don't you think I sometimes wish
that Rose were happily engaged
to a tall New England Jew--
liberal and bright, saving the world
and a strong second serve?
Hers and hers alone,
with a wedding for me to cook
and grandchildren already named?
But we love whom we love.
My Rose loves Liam,
and her love for him hurts no one
by being different from other flavors of love.
Her prayer that he is alive
deserves our fervent echoes.
Rose does ask for prayers.
Her voice shimmers with hope
I don't have to tell you
the terrible weight of hope.
Helen called Wednesday from Queens
to ask my help in seeking Liam's name
on a list of survivors at the New School,
a few blocks from where we live.
Last seen wearing khakis and a beige button down shirt.
Moustache and goatee, two tattoos.
And our wedding ring--a puzzle ring, Helen said,
and a celtic cross with a garnet stone,
a gift to him from Rose.
Her wedding ring and the cross from Rose;
described in the same steady voice.
My daughter's lover's wife keeps her faith
even when the world falls apart.
There are so many ways to love.
If we open our hearts to them all,
maybe we'll crowd out the killer hate.
Liam Colhoun,
sometimes mispronounced Calhoun,
worked on the eighty-first floor
of Tower Number One.
He called home after the hit,
and his boss remembers (she thinks)
seeing him outside and okay
at ten o'clock.
He isn't in Hawaii surfing.
New Jersey, maybe, concussed,
and his wallet vaporized-
how strange that such an image comforts.
His cell phone doesn't answer but I never hear mine either.
Bring home the men who have only ever loved one woman
and the men who have only loved men
and the men who have only wondered
what is this thing called love.
Bring home my daughter's married lover.
Bring home everyone's Liam.
--Nancy Weber
Gipsy Trail, 15 sept 2001