HOW HAS THE UNITED STATES — 
	SO SECURE IN THE WORLD OF 1900 —
	BECOME SO INSECURE TODAY?
	

Fifty-years before that fateful day, George F. Kennan's American Diplomacy: 1900-1950 addressed America's Foreign Policy—

"A nation which excuses its own failures by the sacred 
untouchableness of its own habits can excuse itself into 
complete disaster."

I had just arrived at the government employment office, a little early, for an orientation meeting about their job search services. At the time, I lived just south of the Erie Canal outside Rochester, NY.

I must have left the house about an hour earlier, to catch a bus that heads north to the city, that morn. It could have been the #24 (the Marketplace Mall/RIT route). But, it was probably the #50 (MCC/Rustic Village bus), which stops right in front of my house. I don't remember any details. It was pretty routine.

The late '60s, early '70s were my self-enlightenment years (the years everyone experiences, that foments who you'll be as an adult) . At the time, I couldn't grasp why I was being told America was the "Land of the Free, Home of the Brave" and "all men are created equal" yet, blacks were fighting for their civil rights. Certainly, I wasn't alone in those ideas. I remained ignorant for many years; but that's another story.

I grew up in New Jersey, less than 15 miles from Manhattan. My hometown was small, about three-square-miles. No school buses. A 1000 student high school. We were very insulated from the broader political issues; I wouldn't say typical — but like many suburban communities, I think.

The awesome New York skyline was very familiar to me. I have a vague recollection, of my thoughts — my opinion — to someone's query about the "Twin Towers". It was probably around the time they were opening the World Trade Center. My response, a child's notion — seems a somewhat dysfunctional position — my disillusion, about the towers' rise above the Empire State Building. My penchant for the underdog.

I spent a decade enjoying New York City. In the mid '80s I worked at 1 New York Plaza. Located on the east-side, 1NY Plaza is the southernmost of all Manhattan skyscrapers. Looking out the west window on the 42^nd floor, the towers loomed.

A close friend worked for a carpenter's union in New York. When I told him where I'd be working, he thought it might be across the street from his current project. Less the details, the carpenters build forms that concrete is poured into — their part in erecting buildings — floor by floor.

Sure enough — I could see from the 42^nd floor, sharply downward, out the window, a construction crew on top of the building across the street. A co-worker had brandished a pair of binoculars, which I asked to borrow. A somewhat odd coincidence — I could see my friend on the roof below.

That summer, on Saturday, July 4, 1986, a group of friends and I took a bus to Manhattan's midtown Port Authority for the "Statue of Liberty Centennial Celebration". We walked West Side Highway (a.k.a. 9A, West Street) to lower Manhattan, enjoying the Hudson River view of "Operation Sails" the flotilla of tall ships.

Of course, that walk down West Street would bring us past the World Trade Center. I had driven by 100s of times, and thousands since. It was the closest I would ever get to those buildings.

Fast forward — 9/11, 2001.

I walked up the ramp of the employment office. I probably signed in. But I remember entering the meeting room, which was on the left from the entrance. I'm guessing it was shortly before 9:30 A.M.

I'm not sure. There may have been two to six people in the room; it seemed sparse to me, I was expecting more. I vaguely remember a guy and a gal. I know I proffered my usual pleasantries, you know — bright smile, nods, hello. . . . It settled. Then the guy said to me, "Did you hear? Plane hit the World Trade Center."

WHAT?!?! A small plane?

The room filled up. We had our meeting, and then broke; free to use their computers and job search sources.

The details — when I knew, that three planes hit buildings — escape me. I remember purposefully not writing them down. The moment still seems of little significance to me.

Not long after our meeting. A person announced all federal buildings were closing. She ordered us to leave. It seemed understandable.

Now what?

Well. I could go home. There was a bus stop across the street from this St Paul Street location. The #50 and the #24 are my bus choices, again. St Paul St., southbound, turns into South St. I could get either bus, here, or at the library a quarter mile or so down the street. I must have looked at the schedules. Usually, if I had time, I'd stop in the library.

As if a job search isn't depressing enough — I was deflated. I wanted to stay productive. I was in no great rush to get home. It is a beautiful day! I walked to the library.

Rochester's downtown Public Library is a fairly new facility. It's expansive and, there's something — comfortable — about it. I walked the long ramp. There were at least two televisions set-up at the information/help desks on the left side. The TV reception was poor. The library was a little busier than usual.

It was my first opportunity to see what was going on. I'm sure I knew we were under attack. I wasn't there long. Then, it looked like a building fell. It didn't look like people were paying attention.

I said, "That looked like a building fell!"

I think I turned and there were a few people standing around. I said or thought — that's impossible! The TV reception was extremely poor. I don't remember any sound.

I walked to the rear, to the used book store at the far end.

I enjoy history (old history books, for the historical perspective) and political books. But, I'll look at most anything, {you know}, that strikes me. I'm guessing (again), I bee-lined to the politics topics.

I don't know how soon it was before I must have seen it. American Diplomacy: 1900-1950, by George F. Kennan. Hmmm. I had never heard of Kennan. And then . . . I was in shock, when I read that line . . .

"A nation which excuses its own failures by the sacred 
untouchableness of its own habits can excuse itself into 
complete disaster."

Front Cover — Back Cover

Of all the coincidences, or serendipitous moments — I've had quite a few — this was the most profound — by far. A horoscope moment in hindsight. You know, like reading yesterday's horoscope to see if it matches what happened. No. This, was more like my horror-scope.

This one line, the context of one sentence, was affirming exactly what I was thinking. We brought this upon ourselves.

Who was this? Kennan.

Here I had, in my hand, all the reasons and solutions to and of the moment. It was very unsettling. Why now? Why me? I loved it and hated it — all at once.

I gasped. And looked up, with a smirky smile. Wondering for the moment, does anyone want to hear this?

Except for the cashier, I was the only one there.

I settled down. It's too late. No. Nobody does want to hear this. . . . No one I knew.

I paid for the book; silently grasping for an opportunity. It passed.

I walked out the book store door; and turned, towards the front. I think I wanted to scream out, "You idiots! Look! It's right here!"

The first page inside, the marketing leaf (if you will), quotes Kennan again.

"I firmly believe that we could make much more effective use of the principle of professionalism in the conduct of foreign policy . . . but I am quite prepared to recognize that this runs counter to strong prejudices and preconceptions in sections of our public mind . . . and that for this reason we are probably condemned to continue relying almost exclusively on what we might call `diplomacy by dilettantism.'"

Time to go home.

I was on that bus, the #50 or the #24. Just itching to say something. And, I did. More than a few sentences. And I cried, "I blame my government!"

Now, I realize, I was wrong.

It was probable the #50. There weren't many people on the bus. Nobody said anything. They were good sports.

I got home. And watched the events until midnight or so. It was then, after turning off the TV, I stood up, and then broke down. I wept in bed, then fell to sleep.

The rest of that week is a blur. But, I went to the movies 10:00 on Saturday night. I saw Bridget Jones Diary. That is a fact. The stub is in the book.

With a little help, I found a new job the next month. I started on my birthday.

Kennan's Book, American Diplomacy: 1900-1950, is in two-parts. The first, are six lectures. The latter, two essays. The quote is in the last paragraph of the forth lecture. You can read the complete lecture here — IV. WORLD WAR I (http://itsmy.us/kennan).

The last paragraph is all I would want to say, about American Diplomacy, to any American — who I would hope could understand it — who would just listen.

— Here it is . . .

I am talking about the behavior of the United States of America. History does not forgive us our national mistakes because they are explicable in terms of our domestic politics. If you say that mistakes of the past were unavoidable because of our domestic predilections and habits of thought, you are saying that what stopped us from being more effective than we were was democracy, as practiced in this country. And, if that is true, let us recognize it and measure the full seriousness of it - and find something to do about it. A nation which excuses its own failures by the sacred untouchableness of its own habits can excuse itself into complete disaster. I said in the first of these lectures that the margin in which it is given to us to commit blunders has been drastically narrowed in the last fifty years. If it was the workings of our democracy that were inadequate in the past, let us say so. Whoever thinks the future is going to be easier than the past is certainly mad. And the system under which we are going to have to continue to conduct foreign policy is, I hope and pray, the system of democracy.

I can't be the only one, who feels like they are progressively suffering from a PTSD; from the insanity that is — how we got to September 11, 2001 and, where we are — here, this 5^th anniversary.

As I look back the last five-years, as I write this, re-introducing myself to Kennan, I realize how prescient his message is. For now, I just want to soak in his words and ideas. I just have to keep telling myself — he couldn't fix it either.

I'm ready — to move on.

To learn more about George F. Kennan, start here.

Richard Pilkington is always on the job hunt. He is an IT Computer Operations and Data Management expert. He has worked over 20 years for various Fortune 100 companies including, IBM, Salomon, Inc, Warner-Lambert, International Paper, Bank of America and others. Richard is determined and committed to finding a public/community service firm to partner with his experience. The author is the founder of the Hudson Valley Biodiesel Cooperative. He can be reached at RPilkington (at) itsmc.com

This story is true. It is my story. I own it. You can change it, re-write it, add to it or delete it. You can make it your story. But, you can't tell me (or anyone else), that I (or they) can't write it, change it, tell it, copy it, publish it, record it, sell it or give it away.

Original Publication: http://itsmc.com/rpilkington/9-11-remembered_original.html, September 11, 2006