Who Here Gave Their Lives
Abraham Lincoln passed his last hours in a cramped back bedroom in a boardinghouse across the street from Ford’s Theater, mercifully unconscious, folded awkwardly onto a bed too short for him, laboring to breathe. A doctor had declared Lincoln’s head wound mortal on the scene, so the dignitaries and friends gathered around him had only to wait. Shortly after dawn, the inevitable arrived. Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, bereft, brought his emotions under control long enough to say, “Now he belongs to the ages.”
…Unless Stanton actually said, “Now he belongs to the angels.” Adam Gopnik wrote a wonderful piece on that debate for The New Yorker a few years ago and concluded, among other things, that either version is believable because either version is apt. But whichever word Stanton used, it occurs to me that Lincoln had always belonged to the ages; the ages lent him to us for a time. Out of the mythically humble beginnings, the awkward landscape of crags and dogged cowlicks that over the years became a map of grief and honor, the horror over which he found himself presiding and the straightforward sorrow with which he spoke of it to us, we built ourselves a saint. Once we had done this, the ages retrieved Lincoln, in the grisly and dramatic fashion accorded his status. And the angels must have, also.
Lincoln, I think, sensed this about himself — that he had a narrative destiny. On the narrow point, his life is a triumph of tragic plot-craft. The deaths of two of his sons seemed to bow him, physically, and sent his already high-strung wife into an accelerating tailspin of séances and compulsive shopping. His Cabinet initially held him in, at best, contempt; he had to fire and rehire the ineffectual George McClellan several times, then defeat him for a second presidential term.
But Lincoln had a gift for narrative as well, for what the nation should (or would) hear, and how. He could craft a powerful phrasing; he also understood when the phrasing, the words, would mean nothing. Interesting that the Gettysburg Address has become a rhetorical exemplar when Lincoln says, in effect, that there is nothing to say and no way to say it in the second place, that the dead and their sacrifice have already spoken. That the fallen, and where they fell, belong to the ages.
Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.
It is elegant and structurally balanced. Lincoln both hints at and warns against a hopelessness too dark and solid to lift. You can imagine Lincoln’s heavy lids, slowly closing against pain, and a prayer gathering in his mind as he wrote on the back of an envelope on a rattling train — a plea. Let something grow out of this ground that is black with blood. Any small thing. But he knows a speech is like daisies against a cannonade here, so he admits this, and he sits back down before the photographer can get set up. He puts his hat in his lap and vows to do right by these dead who belong to the ages. Or…the angels.
Don could belong to both, but the first slice of cake definitely belongs to him. Happy birthday, friend.
Tags: September 11th
I spent yesterday on a series of airplanes.
One of my main regrets for being out of range of internet access for a week and yesterday in particular was I knew I’d have to wait to read your essay. It always lands just right–not a feather or a cannonball but a perfect *thunk* of a small but felt thing hitting the earth–not bouncing or spinning or kicking up dirt, but a perfect, small, “I am here.”
Happy Birthday, Don.
One of the interesting things about Lincoln’s writings is how much you can see him working out a concept or a turn of phrase in his letters, before the speeches are made. It’s clear he thought a great deat about weighty things, and he valued being able to express a thought in a compelling way.
Which is a way of avoiding saying that I’m a blubbering mess at the Lincoln Memorial, in person, or in photos. I often wish I could climb up on that granite lap, to cuddle for comfort.
A lovely essay. As usual.
Beautiful. Thank you.
And Don, wherever you are: many people wish you well. Happy Birthday.
Happy belated to Don. I think of him every year and thought of you both yesterday as I wandered about Brooklyn doing my damndest to enjoy the city I love.
I started reading TN back in the day and lived in NYC till 2004. Your 9/11 post is one I think of often, and I check in every year. Can’t wait till you find Don. It will happen.
This was perfect. This was the only remotely 9/11 thing I did all day. I couldn’t watch any specials, hear anyone talk about where they were or what 9/11 means, or any of that…all I did was hang out with the ones I love, and be happy that they’re all still here.
I hope Don is out there, and had a lovely birthday, and maybe still thinks of you, once a year, and hopes to himself that you are still out there too.
Just… thank you. That’s all I can say.
Thank you for your words, Sars.
Do you think Don knows how many people send good wishes his way on this day each year?
Thank you, Sarah. For this year’s piece, and every year’s since it happened. Happy (late) Birthday, Don.
Every year, I take a moment outside the ones for the masses that died and say a prayer for my cousin who worked on the 93rd floor, and one for Don. I hope wherever he is, he’s living well and happy.
One a side note, have you ever attempted to find him through the media? I normally abhor “human interest” stories, but I think this is the kind of thing Anderson Cooper would love to hear about and probably comment on briefly.
I went on public radio (“The Takeaway”) and on the Beeb; I emailed Oprah to ask for her help (no response). That was last year, I think, or maybe two years ago, at which time I felt like I had exhausted the avenues that were on this side of “overly invested.”
I’m grateful Don was there, mortal or otherwise, and if I ever come across him, I’d love to buy him a beer (or latte) and spend an hour talking. With that said, at this late date, I’m no longer looking actively. If we’re supposed to meet again, we will, and y’all will be the collective second to know — but I can’t discount the possibility that he’s chosen not to make himself known, which I would have to respect, and either way, it’s time to let the mitzvah be enough.
Old Mediarama vibes die hard. My first thought yesterday morning was of you, and then of ((((((((((((((Don))))))))))))), wherever he is. ((((((((((((Sarah)))))))))))))
This is the first chance I’ve had to sit down and read your post about 9/11 as I do every year. What I love the most about the majority of the comments on this post is how many people (myself included) woke up on the 11th of September and quietly remembered the birthday of a complete stranger and immediately had something happy to remember before the mourning. I think that’s beautiful. Thank you Sars and thanks to Don, wherever he may be.
how many people (myself included) woke up on the 11th of September and quietly remembered the birthday of a complete stranger
The Tomato Nation’s kindness is mighty.
Lovely.
I had never read your original account of 9/11 and Don (https://tomatonation.com/stories-true-and-otherwise/for-thou-art-with-us), but went looking for it today. Thank you so much for writing it all down.
I’m so sorry you were there that day but so glad you were OK and that you and Don had each other.
Happy Birthday, Don.
“…and I still get a small sweet glow from imagining Don’s reaction, the day he finally finds out that the entire Internet wants to buy him a beer.”
@Kim: I do, too. Every year on 9/11 I come here and read “For Thou Art With Us” and imagine what Don will think about all this.
This is the only site I ever come to on 9/11. Sars, you always know just what to say. And Happy Birthday, Don.
Thinking of Don, and also of the gentleman who signed himself “Ben’s Shadow”; I don’t know if you ever heard back from him, but I hope he found healing and love.
God bless you, Sars. God bless you to Eternity and back.
Happy belated birthday, Don. Human or angel – doesn’t much matter. You were Divinely sent either way.