Peggy Noonan

I love immigrants. That’s not important or relevant, but it’s where I start. I love them so much I often have the impulse to kiss their hands. I am not kidding. I love them because they are brave. They left their country and struggled their way to this one to get a better life. (It’s good to remember that that’s not an insult to us but a compliment. They’re saying: Your way is better.) I love immigrants because they make themselves lonely for their children. They go to a place where few share their language, their memories, their references. They do this so their children will have a greater chance at happiness. I love immigrants because they invest in the future with the biggest thing they can invest with: their life.

Immigrants often start out in hard jobs for low wages, and of course are not applauded for this but sort of looked through, not noticed. I love immigrants because I am close enough to the immigrant experience to, simply, identify with them. My grandparents had Irish accents, spoke Gaelic at home, came from poor, obscure farming areas, and understood themselves to be different from those who’d been in America for many years. To be an immigrant in America is to experience a low-key, sometimes barely conscious estrangement from the main. It passes in a generation or two, and America is worth the price in any case, but estrangement deserves sympathy.

I love immigrants from all places, of all colors, ages and backgrounds. But my feelings are particularly strong toward Mexican and other Hispanic immigrants, and when I think of why, two things come to mind. One is that most of them are Catholic, which for me means that for all our differences in language and experience I share with them the biggest essential. They love Our Lady of Guadalupe and so do I. They know Jesus. You don’t get more basic than one’s deepest beliefs, one’s understanding of the truest facts of life. So Mexican immigrants are more like me than some of my neighbors are, and in my heart I don’t see them as immigrants but cousins. (I am aware it is a faux pas to admit this. In the modern world we’re not supposed to like our own. Sorry.)

The second thing is just a memory. It was a few nights after 9/11 and in New York, still rocked and shocked by what had happened, we had taken to massing spontaneously on the West Side Highway to cheer the trucks carrying workers who were going downtown to dig us out of the rubble. We stood there—all the orthodontists and attorneys and editors of Manhattan, the kings and queens of the city, suddenly irrelevant—cheering members of the Iron Workers Local and sanitation workers and cops and medical technicians.

One night, about 11 p.m., I was walking home with friends, going north on the wide, dark highway, and we came upon a woman, a thick middle-aged woman, dark skinned and dark haired. She was with a baby in a stroller. She was, I think, not the mother but the grandmother. They were there alone, in the darkness. Affixed to the stroller was a hand-lettered sign, and on the sign were these words: “American You Are Not Alone—Mexico Is With You.” All alone and she came out with that sign, at that time. I have tried to tell that story in speeches and I can never make my way through it, and as I write my eyes fill with tears.

Is this sentimental? Well, nations run on many things, including sentiment.

*   *   *

This week I went to the immigration march in New York. We massed on the Brooklyn Bridge and then marched into lower Manhattan. I just wanted to be there and see who was marching and hear what they said.

There were many thousands of people—it was dense, packed, a long moving line of people. It took an hour and a half to get across the bridge because every 20 yards or so the organizers would stop, play drums, and chant chants for local and national TV cameras. They’d stop, enact joy and fervor, and then walk on. Everyone was cheerful and peaceful.

Most of the marchers were young, in their teens and 20s and 30s. I asked a young man who’d rolled a newspaper into a bullhorn what he was saying when he led the crowd in chants. He didn’t speak enough English to answer quickly. Then he said, “We are saying, ‘We are here, look at us.’” I thanked him and patted his arm. I said, “God bless you,” and he nodded and marched on. Then he broke his stride, turned his head and said, “God bless you, too.”

I walked along with a young black woman, an American in her mid-20s, who was chatting in English and Spanish with those nearby. She was clearly in some organizational position, and she was carrying an American flag. Someone said something to her about it. She was on her cell phone, but after she snapped it shut, she laughed and said, “I am having an affair with this flag. I am having a love affair with this flag. Don’t tell my husband.” Everyone laughed, including me. But it was clear all the American flags were a strategic decision. All those Mexican flags in the marches in L.A. and elsewhere 10 days ago had been a public relations disaster. So now it was all American flags.

There were signs saying “We are here” and “We are America” and “A nation of immigrants.” It was obvious that this was all well organized: people in orange plastic pullovers directing the human traffic and chants, lots of hand-lettered union signs. Cars on the bridge below the walkway sounded their horns in rhythm with the chants in a manner that seemed coordinated. At one point a young Hispanic woman called out, “The Irish are coming!” It was like a scene from a movie where someone says, “Here come the Fighting 69th!” We looked for the Irish on the drive below, but there was no sign of them. My people, hardy and tardy.

The overwhelming impression I had was that the marchers were peaceful and high-spirited. Some seemed resentful or mildly snarly, but they were in the minority—and young, emphasis on young.

We curled past the courthouses of downtown, up Broadway, to Chinatown. Chinatown is of course largely populated by immigrants, legal and illegal, but they were not in the march. In fact, I did not see a single Asian in the march. They were all working, in the shops and on the street. They had no intention of letting yet another New York march get in the way of business. And you know, the marchers seemed to sense it. They didn’t spend long in Chinatown. As far as I could see they didn’t make it to Little Italy, either.

*   *   *

Where does all this leave me? Does my feeling for immigrants, and my afternoon at the march, leave me supporting open borders, or illegal immigration? No. Why should it? To love immigrants is not to believe America has no right to decide who can come to America and become a citizen. America has always decided who comes here. That’s why it all worked.

While the marchers seemed to be good people, and were very likable, the march itself, I think, violated the old immigrant politesse—the general understanding that you’re not supposed to get here and immediately start making demands. It would never have occurred to my grandparents to demand respect. They thought they had to earn it. It would never have occurred to them to air mass grievances, assert rights, issue a list of legislative demands. Especially if they were here unlawfully.

I happen to think America in general has deep affection for immigrants, knows they are part of the dynamic, a part of our growth and our endless coming-into-being. But when your heart is soft, and America’s is, your head must be hard.

We are a sovereign nation operating under the rule of law. That, in fact, is why many immigrants come here. They come from places where the law, such as it is, is corrupt, malleable, limiting. Does it make sense to subvert our own laws to facilitate the entrance of those in pursuit of government by law? Whatever our sentiments and sympathies as individuals, America has the right, and the responsibility, to protect the integrity of its borders, to make the laws by which immigrants are granted entrance, and to enforce those laws.

I think open-borders proponents are, simply, wrong. I think those who call good people like members of the voluntary border patrols “yahoos” are snobs. I think those whose primary concern is preserving the Hispanic vote for the Democratic Party, or not losing the Hispanic vote for the Republican Party, are being cynical, selfish, and stupid, too. It’s not all about who gets what vote, it’s about continuing a system of laws that has allowed America to become, among many other things, a place immigrants want to come to. And it’s about admitting immigrants in a coherent, orderly, legal manner, with an eye first to what America needs. That’s how you continue a good thing, which is what we’ve had. That’s how you leave Americans who’ve been here for a while grateful for immigration, and immigrants, and loving them, and even wanting, sometimes, to kiss their hands.

It has been a week of movement, of comings and goings that have reminded me of the wisdom of a friend, a businessman. He told me, a decade or so ago, that it is important to remember, especially when you have a problem or a particular challenge, that life is not a painting. Life is not static; it moves. In a painting of a room, say, everything is set in one position forever. But in life the curtains move with the breeze, people enter the room, and leave it. So whatever problem you’re facing, realize that life one way or another will change it to one degree or another, and at whatever speed.

This is the kind of advice that goes under the heading, “Man needs more to be reminded than instructed.” It reminded me then, and I’m thinking of it this week.

*   *   *

Tom DeLay leaves, and does it in a distinctive and helpful way. He faced the facts—a damaging political controversy would continue as long as he stayed on the scene; he could lose a seat for the party he actually cares about in a bruising battle for re-election—and left. To lose your career and maintain your equanimity—to retain, even, your joy—is most remarkable. By leaving he denies the opposition a rich target. At the same time he leaves the more consequential parts of his legacy—the groundbreaking Republican victory of ’94, welfare reform, etc.—intact. Good for him. A year ago no one would have predicted the curtain would move in this way.

Katie Couric leaves the Today show, where she has presided 15 years, to go to the “CBS Evening News.” This is leaving something important (the demographic and huge profitability of “Today”) for something less important, the fading network evening news shows that used to be appointment television and now seem more like relics. Still, relics that get substantial, if aging, numbers. Ms. Couric’s move may suggest a renewed interest on the part of the old Tiffany Network to reimagine and reinvigorate the nightly news. I suspect, however, that the move is strategic. CBS chief Les Moonves just spent a lot of money to take the queen of morning news off a competitor’s No. 1 morning news show. He rocks “Today” and puts everything in play.

When there’s a big move on a big news show, there’s the possibility things will shake out to your advantage. Viewers look around the dial, or rather hit new numbers on the clicker. (Odd that we call it the clicker when it doesn’t click. It’s like the way newspaper poets write of television: they always speak of the “flickering images.” But TV sets haven’t had flickering images in 30 years. They don’t flicker; they seamlessly, relentlessly whomp out their pictures, their tape.) Maybe they’ll give the “CBS Morning News” a chance. Maybe NBC will take a major blow. Either way, it unfreezes the field.

Where there is movement there is possibility. Mr. Moonves is hoping the curtains will move and people enter the room.

The rise of Katie Couric to the “Evening News,” however, raises an interesting question, and may be suggestive of the media environment of the future. I am not referring to the fact that Katie’s a woman and will be the first to “fly solo,” as everyone is saying. It’s not 1967, and she’s not replacing Walter Cronkite, who counted. We’re all happily used to women bringing us the news.

It’s this. The evening news shows have traditionally had an air of greater formality than the morning news, where the parameters for comment and personal views were understood to be broader. They have two hours to fill, not 23 minutes, of course personal views emerge. Ms. Couric’s on-air comments the past decade have led many people to understand that her political and cultural beliefs are pronounced, rigid, and part of her public presentation of herself. And that this is true in a way that does not apply to the beliefs, whatever they are, of Bob Schieffer, Brian Williams and Elizabeth Vargas. (Yes, Dan Rather also consistently signaled and declared his views, but in the end that contributed to his ouster.)

Is the appointment of Katie an acknowledgement by CBS that it doesn’t feel it has to care anymore about political preferences, that the existence of Fox News Channel has in effect freed up the network broadcasts to be what you and I might call more politically tendentious and they might call edgy? In a fractured media environment where everyone can have a voice, why wouldn’t the broadcast networks take the new freedom as new license? After all, if America is one big niche market, liberals make up a big niche.

I’m wondering how the network news divisions are viewing the lay of the land. The answer will tell us something about the future American media environment.

*   *   *

There’s another thing that I think may well become a part of the story as the electronic media make their way through the next few years. It is a sense I think I am correctly picking up that network news staffers are about to launch a round of quiet and internal questioning of the media’s coverage of the war in Iraq. Conservatives who are reading this will think I’m about to say, “Network staffers are wondering if they’ve been too negative, too tough on the war.” I don’t think that’s what they’re wondering. I think they’re about to start asking themselves if they were skeptical enough, tough enough; if they dodged controversy, if they feared too much being called left-wing and antiwar. If I’m right, how this debate goes internally will also have implications for the future media landscape.

Gen. Tony Zinni came out this week with a book questioning whether America should have gone into Iraq. On “Meet the Press” he called for Donald Rumsfeld’s resignation. I have not yet read Gen. Zinni’s book, because I am immersed in “Cobra II” by Michael R. Gordon, chief military correspondent of the New York Times, and Bernard E. Trainor, a retired Marine Corps lieutenant general. The book is a recounting of military professionalism, courage and determination in the invasion of Iraq, and a stinging indictment of failures of vision, judgment and knowledge by civilian leaders inside and outside the Pentagon. It hurts to read. If the book is a reliable reflection of reality (one senses, in reading it, that it is at very least a true reflection of part of what happened) it is sobering indeed.

The Iraq story is not over. We are there. We must give our troops everything they need, and remain cleaved to them in gratitude and loyalty. More will be written, more books and commentaries, and memoirs, too. For now, from me, two thoughts that have bubbled up from the national conversation this week.

The first is optimistic. Our troops in Iraq are the best of us: brave young men and women willing to put themselves in harm’s way for their country. But they are by and large something else: very good, and kind, and generous human beings. Every day for three years they have, as part of their mission and in their off hours, been interacting with Iraqi kids and young people. Those kids, those young people, having been exposed to who Americans are—their kindness, their helpfulness, their humor and good nature—will never forget it.

Will this have implications for the future? Yes, I do believe it will. After World War II, half of Europe had been defeated by America, bombed by it. And yet America had the broad support and affection of Western Europe in the crucial quarter century after that war, in part because of efforts such as the Marshall Plan, but also because of exposure, both prewar and postwar, to American GIs. Europeans came to know who Americans were. American leaders and diplomats did plenty to help America’s standing, but in the end the glory went, I think, to the GI Joes, and some Janes too, who won and occupied with American grace.

We will find, down the road, that many in Iraq will hold affection and respect for America because of the Americans they met and came to know in our armed forces in the first years of the 21st century. And this will have implications, and they will not be unhappy.

The second thought is less happy. Tony Zinni was against the Iraq war before it occurred, opposes it now, has written about it. Fine. But the history recounted in “Cobra II,” and the testimony of Gen. Zinni, suggests a lot of generals—a lot—were against the war in the run-up, for reasons that were many and serious. If this is correct it begs questions: Did they feel they could not speak? Why? What dynamics went into the decision? Or did they speak and we didn’t hear, or didn’t weigh what was said seriously enough? Did they speak inside? To what degree did the inside listen? Or were the generals and colonels, in fact, split? Were the generals more supportive than is now being suggested?

What really happened? I suspect books will be written on this too. I suspect we are all going to learn a lot, and some of it may be quite painful.

*   *   *

Caspar Weinberger was buried at Arlington this week. He was a great man, a prudent warrior who two decades ago helped rearm America after years of confusion, loss and neglect. He hated war, having fought in World War II. It was enormously moving that Margaret Thatcher, that great lady, 80 and felled twice by strokes, journeyed from London to attend the funeral of this man who made such a difference in our national life and the world’s life.

Whenever I saw Cap Weinberger he seemed like a happy man. You can be happy when you know you are doing work you are supposed to be doing, work that helps the world, and human beings, and your country. The words that came to mind when I thought of Cap this week were: a life well led. What a great thing when you can know you’ve had that.

I had a great experience the other night. I met some of the 114 living recipients of the Medal of Honor, the nation’s highest military award. It was at their annual dinner, held, as it has been the past four years, at the New York Stock Exchange.

I met Nick Oresko. Nick is in his 80s, small, 5-foot-5 or so. Soft white hair, pale-pink skin, thick torso, walks with a cane. Just a nice old guy you’d pass on the street or in the airport without really seeing him. Around his neck was a sky-blue ribbon, and hanging from that ribbon the medal. He let me turn it over. It had his name, his rank, and then “1/23/45. Near Tettington, Germany.”

Tettington, Germany. The Battle of the Bulge.

When I got home I looked up his citation on my beloved Internet, where you can Google heroism. U.S. Army Master Sgt. Nicholas Oresko of Company C, 302nd Infantry, 94th Infantry Division was a platoon leader in an attack against strong enemy positions:

Deadly automatic fire from the flanks pinned down his unit. Realizing that a machinegun in a nearby bunker must be eliminated, he swiftly worked ahead alone, braving bullets which struck about him, until close enough to throw a grenade into the German position. He rushed the bunker and, with pointblank rifle fire, killed all the hostile occupants who survived the grenade blast. Another machinegun opened up on him, knocking him down and seriously wounding him in the hip. Refusing to withdraw from the battle, he placed himself at the head of his platoon to continue the assault. As withering machinegun and rifle fire swept the area, he struck out alone in advance of his men to a second bunker. With a grenade, he crippled the dug-in machinegun defending this position and then wiped out the troops manning it with his rifle, completing his second self-imposed, 1-man attack. Although weak from loss of blood, he refused to be evacuated until assured the mission was successfully accomplished. Through quick thinking, indomitable courage, and unswerving devotion to the attack in the face of bitter resistance and while wounded, M /Sgt. Oresko killed 12 Germans, prevented a delay in the assault, and made it possible for Company C to obtain its objective with minimum casualties.

Nick Oresko lives in Tenafly, N.J. If courage were a bright light, Tenafly would glow.

*   *   *

I met Pat Brady of Sumner, Wash., an Army helicopter medevac pilot in Vietnam who’d repeatedly risked his life to save men he’d never met. And Sammy Davis, a big bluff blond from Flat Rock, Ill., on whom the writer Winston Groom based the Vietnam experiences of a character named Forrest Gump. Sgt. Davis saved men like Forrest, but he also took out a bunch of bad guys. And yes, he was wounded in the same way as Forrest. That scene in the movie where Lyndon Johnson puts the medal around Tom Hanks’s neck: that’s from the film of LBJ putting the medal on Sammy’s neck, only they superimposed Mr. Hanks.

I talked to James Livingston of Mount Pleasant, S.C., a Marine, a warrior in Vietnam who led in battle in spite of bad wounds and worse odds. I told him I was wondering about something. Most of us try to be brave each day in whatever circumstances, which means most of us show ourselves our courage with time. What is it like, I asked, to find out when you’re a young man, and in a way that’s irrefutable, that you are brave? What does it do to your life when no one, including you, will ever question whether you have guts?

He shook his head. The medal didn’t prove courage, he said. “It’s not bravery, it’s taking responsibility.” Each of the recipients, he said, had taken responsibility for the men and the moment at a tense and demanding time. They’d cared for others. They took care of their men.

Other recipients sounded a refrain that lingered like Taps. They felt they’d been awarded their great honor in part in the name of unknown heroes of the armed forces who’d performed spectacular acts of courage but had died along with all the witnesses who would have told the story of what they did. For each of the holders of the Medal of Honor there had been witnesses, survivors who could testify. For some great heroes of engagements large and small, maybe the greatest heroes, no one lived to tell the tale.

And so they felt they wore their medals in part for the ones known only to God.

In a brief film on the recipients that was played at the dinner, Leo Thorsness, an Air Force veteran of Vietnam, said something that lingered. He was asked what, when he performed his great act, he was sacrificing for. He couldn’t answer for a few seconds. You could tell he was searching for the right words, the right sentence. Then he said, “I get emotional about it. But we’re a free country.” He said it with a kind of wonder, and gratitude.

And of course, he said it all.

*   *   *

What this all got me thinking about, the next day, was . . . immigration. I know that seems a lurch, but there’s a part of the debate that isn’t sufficiently noted. There are a variety of things driving American anxiety about illegal immigration and we all know them—economic arguments, the danger of porous borders in the age of terrorism, with anyone able to come in.

But there’s another thing. And it’s not fear about “them.” It’s anxiety about us.

It’s the broad public knowledge, or intuition, in America, that we are not assimilating our immigrants patriotically. And if you don’t do that, you’ll lose it all.

We used to do it. We loved our country with full-throated love, we had no ambivalence. We had pride and appreciation. We were a free country. We communicated our pride and delight in this in a million ways—in our schools, our movies, our popular songs, our newspapers. It was just there, in the air. Immigrants breathed it in. That’s how the last great wave of immigrants, the European wave of 1880-1920, was turned into a great wave of Americans.

We are not assimilating our immigrants patriotically now. We are assimilating them culturally. Within a generation their children speak Valley Girl on cell phones. “So I’m like ‘no,’ and he’s all ‘yeah,’ and I’m like, ‘In your dreams.’” Whether their parents are from Trinidad, Bosnia, Lebanon or Chile, their children, once Americans, know the same music, the same references, watch the same shows. And to a degree and in a way it will hold them together. But not forever and not in a crunch.

So far we are assimilating our immigrants economically, too. They come here and work. Good.

But we are not communicating love of country. We are not giving them the great legend of our country. We are losing that great legend.

What is the legend, the myth? That God made this a special place. That they’re joining something special. That the streets are paved with more than gold—they’re paved with the greatest thoughts man ever had, the greatest decisions he ever made, about how to live. We have free thought, free speech, freedom of worship. Look at the literature of the Republic: the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, the Federalist papers. Look at the great rich history, the courage and sacrifice, the house-raisings, the stubbornness. The Puritans, the Indians, the City on a Hill.

The genius cluster—Jefferson, Hamilton, Adams, Madison, Franklin, all the rest—that came along at the exact same moment to lead us. And then Washington, a great man in the greatest way, not in unearned gifts well used (i.e., a high IQ followed by high attainment) but in character, in moral nature effortfully developed. How did that happen? How did we get so lucky? (I once asked a great historian if he had thoughts on this, and he nodded. He said he had come to believe it was “providential.”)

We fought a war to free slaves. We sent millions of white men to battle and destroyed a portion of our nation to free millions of black men. What kind of nation does this? We went to Europe, fought, died and won, and then taxed ourselves to save our enemies with the Marshall Plan. What kind of nation does this? Soviet communism stalked the world and we were the ones who steeled ourselves and taxed ourselves to stop it. Again: What kind of nation does this?

Only a very great one. Maybe the greatest of all.

Do we teach our immigrants that this is what they’re joining? That this is the tradition they will now continue, and uphold?

Do we, today, act as if this is such a special place? No, not always, not even often. American exceptionalism is so yesterday. We don’t want to be impolite. We don’t want to offend. We don’t want to seem narrow. In the age of globalism, honest patriotism seems like a faux pas.

And yet what is true of people is probably true of nations: if you don’t have a well-grounded respect for yourself, you won’t long sustain a well-grounded respect for others.

*   *   *

Because we do not communicate to our immigrants, legal and illegal, that they have joined something special, some of them, understandably, get the impression they’ve joined not a great enterprise but a big box store. A big box store on the highway where you can get anything cheap. It’s a good place. But it has no legends, no meaning, and it imparts no spirit.

Who is at fault? Those of us who let the myth die, or let it change, or refused to let it be told. The politically correct nitwit teaching the seventh-grade history class who decides the impressionable young minds before him need to be informed, as their first serious history lesson, that the Founders were hypocrites, the Bill of Rights nothing new and imperfect in any case, that the Indians were victims of genocide, that Lincoln was a clinically depressed homosexual who compensated for the storms within by creating storms without . . .

You can turn any history into mud. You can turn great men and women into mud too, if you want to.

And it’s not just the nitwits, wherever they are, in the schools, the academy, the media, though they’re all harmful enough. It’s also the people who mean to be honestly and legitimately critical, to provide a new look at the old text. They’re not noticing that the old text—the legend, the myth—isn’t being taught anymore. Only the commentary is. But if all the commentary is doubting and critical, how will our kids know what to love and revere? How will they know how to balance criticism if they’ve never heard the positive side of the argument?

Those who teach, and who think for a living about American history, need to be told: Keep the text, teach the text, and only then, if you must, deconstruct the text.

When you don’t love something you lose it. If we do not teach new Americans to love their country, and not for braying or nationalistic reasons but for reasons of honest and thoughtful appreciation, and gratitude, for a history that is something new in the long story of man, then we will begin to lose it. That Medal of Honor winner, Leo Thorsness, who couldn’t quite find the words—he only found it hard to put everything into words because he knew the story, the legend, and knew it so well. Only then do you become “emotional about it.” Only then are you truly American.

I have been reading “Freedom at Midnight,” the popular classic of 30 years ago that recounted the coming of democracy to India. The authors, journalists Larry Collins and Dominique Lapierre, capture the end of the Raj with sweep and drama, and manage to make even the dividing of India and Pakistan—I mean the literal drawing of the lines between the two countries, by a British civil servant—riveting. But the sobering lesson of this history, the big thing you bring away, is this: They didn’t know.

Mountbatten and Nehru and Jinnah were brilliant men who’d not only experienced a great deal; they’d done a great deal, and yet they did not know that the Subcontinent—which each in his own way, and sometimes it was an odd way, loved—would explode in violence, that bloodlust would rule as soon as the Union Jack was lowered.

*   *   *

On Aug. 15, 1947, independence day, in the Punjab, in the city of Amritsar, as local authorities performed the jolly rituals of the transfer of power, a group of local Sikhs went on a rampage in a Muslim neighborhood, killing its male inhabitants. That night, Amritsar’s railroad station became a refugee camp for thousands of Hindus who’d fled what was now Pakistan’s part of the Punjab. As trains arrived, huge crowds scanned the cars for relatives and friends, for children left behind in the flight. Suddenly a train came in but there seemed no one aboard, which was odd. The stationmaster, Chani Singh, waved the train to a halt. The teeming crowd on the platform froze into “an eerie silence.”

From the book:

Singh stared down the line of eight carriages. All the windows of the compartments were wide open but there was not a single human being standing at any of them. . . . [He] strode to the first carriage, snatched open the door and stepped inside. In one horrible instant he understood why no one was getting off the Ten Down Express in Amritsar that night. It was a trainful of corpses. The floor of the compartment before him was a tangled jumble of human bodies, throats cut, skulls smashed, bowels eviscerated. Arms, legs, trunks of bodies were strewn along the corridors of compartments.

He heard a strangled sound and called out, “You are in Amritsar. We are Hindus and Sikhs here. The police are present. Do not be afraid.”

“At his words a few of the dead began to stir. The stark horror of the scenes that followed would be for ever a nightmare engraved upon the station master’s mind.” A woman shrieked as she held her husband’s severed head. Children began to weep as they held the bodies of their slaughtered mothers.

“In every compartment in every carriage the sight was the same.” On the last car he saw, written in whitewash, “the assassins’ calling card. ‘This train is our Independence gift to Nehru and Patel,’ it read.”

*   *   *

The savagery spread, and turned the Subcontinent into a charnel house. In the end hundreds of thousands were dead.

And yet Lord Louis Mountbatten, the last viceroy of India; Jawaharlal Nehru, one of India’s founding fathers, and its first prime minister; and Muhammad Ali Jinnah, head of the Muslim League and first governor-general of Pakistan, and many other leaders in the movement for independence—most of them—were shocked and horrified by the scale and bloodiness of the fighting.

How could this be?

One can infer a great deal from the book. Everyone in a position of authority seems to have been blinded, in part, by the Mission.

The tough, preternaturally self-confident Mountbatten had been sent by London to oversee independence, and he was bloody well going to do it. He was Mountbatten of Burma after all, and he’d first toured India with his cousin David, the future Edward VIII. Imperialism was over, Mountbatten was given his charge: get Britain out with grace and dignity, part as friends, preserve the special ties between London and Delhi. For Mountbatten, speed was everything. He thought the sectarian violence that had begun to crop up as independence neared would be quelled by the transfer of power and partition.

For Nehru, the mission was to secure a free and democratic India. Only then would he realize his personal destiny, to become its first prime minister and impose upon its masses the Fabian socialism that had so impressed him when, as a young Indian outsider at Cambridge, he was dazzled by London’s salons. (Those salons damaged him more than any British prison ever did.)

Jinnah sought to create the world’s biggest Muslim nation, with him as head. On the day of independence, Pakistan was littered not by little flags but by pictures of one man: him. He ate bacon with his eggs, liked whiskey at night, and seems never to have had a personal religious impulse he could not squelch. But he too had a destiny, and if the Subcontinent had to be rent for him to achieve it, then so be it.

So they were all driven by their mission. And by personal ambition, which tends to narrow one’s focus, or rather train one’s focus on oneself, and away from more important things.

And there was something else.

The leaders of the day did not know that terrible violence was coming because of what I think is a classic and structural problem of leadership: It distances. Each of these men was to varying degrees detached from facts on the ground. They were by virtue of their position and accomplishments an elite. They no longer knew what was beating within the hearts of those who lived quite literally on the ground. Nehru, Mountbatten, Jinnah—they well knew that Muslims feared living under the rule of the Hindus, that Hindus feared living under Muslims, that Sikhs feared both. But the leaders did not know the fear that was felt was so deep, so constitutional, so passionate. They did not know it would find its expression in a savagery so wild and widespread.

Each of these leaders had been removed by his own history from facts on the ground. “Elitism” doesn’t always speak of where you went to school or what caste, as it were, you came from. You can wind up one of the elites simply by rising. Simply by being separated for a certain amount of time from those you seek to lead.

People who know most intimately, and through most recent experience, what is happening on the ground, and in the hearts of men, are usually not in the inner councils. They have not fought their way or earned their way in yet. Sometimes they’re called in and listened to, at least for a moment, but in the end they tend to be ignored. They’re nobodies, after all.

This is a problem with government and governing bodies—with the White House, Downing Street, with State Department specialists, and the Council on Foreign Relations, and West Point, too. It is not so much a matter of fault as it is structural. The minute you rise to govern you become another step removed from the lives of those you govern. Which means you become removed from reality.

*   *   *

This is what I’ve been thinking about as I’ve considered the obvious fact that those in positions of authority in Washington were taken aback by and not prepared for the strength and durability of the insurgency in Iraq. Obviously India in 1947 is not Iraq in 2006. But there is a lesson both have in common. The resistance in Iraq did not in fact collapse like Saddam’s army, and some people could have told Washington that. (Some apparently did.) But those who knew best were on the ground, and not elites. They were young army colonels, or old village elders. They had not earned their way in. No one listened. Or they listened for a moment and didn’t hear.

Elites become detached, and governments are composed of elites. In a way we all know this, but we know it so well we forget it. The tribute politicians pay to pollsters shows they are aware they operate at a remove. At least pollsters can claim to have spoken to people on the ground, at least by phone, last Wednesday. They have numbers, on a page.

In international actions great nations should, in general, go slow, think dark, assume the worst. If it can go wrong it likely will. Prepare, take steps; forewarned is forearmed. Listen to the “unimportant”; heed the outside voice. Know you don’t know.

If you are a leader, recognize what drives you. Know your motives. Mountbatten could have resisted partition, or slowed it, or lessened its impact. He was a decisive and dynamic man, a great one I think, but if he’d been capable of introspection, of self-analysis, of self-skepticism, he might have recognized and resisted his too-driven sense of Mission, and the personal vanity that was always, with him, a spur.

If Mountbatten had slowed down, the tuberculosis that was killing the sole but unstoppable mover for partition, Jinnah (it was a secret; only Jinnah knew Jinnah was dying) would have taken him out of the picture, and altered the landscape. Within a year of independence, he was dead. But Mountbatten didn’t know, and barreled on.

The only one who knew what was coming was Gandhi, mystic, genius and eccentric, who drove the other great men crazy by insisting on living among and ministering to the poor, the nonelite. He knew their hearts. He had given his life for a free and independent India but opposed partition and feared the immediate chaos it would bring. He spent the eve of Independence mourning. Six months later he was dead.

This week’s column is a question, a brief one addressed with honest curiosity to Republicans. It is: When George W. Bush first came on the scene in 2000, did you understand him to be a liberal in terms of spending?

The question has been on my mind since the summer of 2005 when, at a gathering of conservatives, the question of Mr. Bush and big spending was raised. I’d recently written on the subject and thought it significant that no one disagreed with my criticism. Everyone murmured about new programs, new costs, how the president “spends like a drunken sailor except the sailor spends his own money.” And then someone, a smart young journalist, said, (I paraphrase), But we always knew what Bush was. He told us when he ran as a compassionate conservative. This left me rubbing my brow in confusion. Is that what Mr. Bush meant by compassionate conservatism?

That’s not what I understood him to mean. If I’d thought he was a big-spending Rockefeller Republican—that is, if I’d thought he was a man who could not imagine and had never absorbed the damage big spending does—I wouldn’t have voted for him.

I understood Mr. Bush to be saying, when he first came on the national scene, that he was the kind of conservative who cared very personally about the poor and struggling, who would take actions aimed at helping them, and that those actions would include promoting policies aimed at keeping the economy healthy and capable of pumping out jobs. I also understood Mr. Bush to be saying—and he often said it—that he meant to allow and encourage faith-based programs that helped young men who were getting in trouble with, or at risk of getting in trouble with, the law. It was clear by at least the 1990s that local programs run and staffed by the religious and their organizations had a higher rate of success than did programs that excluded religion. Under Mr. Bush, the feds would no longer funnel money exclusively into nonsectarian programs. The inner-city pastor would now be able to get a portion.

I didn’t understand Mr. Bush’s grand passion to be cutting spending. He didn’t present himself that way. But he did present himself as a conservative, with all that entails and suggests. And as all but children know, conservatism is hostile, for reasons ranging from the abstract and philosophical to the concrete and practical, to high spending and high taxing. Money is power, more money for the government is more power for the government. More power for the government will allow it to, among many other things, amuse itself by putting its fingers in a million pies, and stop performing its essential functions well, and get dizzily distracted by nonessentials, and muck up everything. Which is more or less where we are.

*   *   *

Yesterday USA Today ran a front-page story that seemed almost designed to give every conservative in America a Grand Klong, a fanciful medical condition that has been described as a great onrush of fecal matter to the heart. Not because it was surprising but because it wasn’t. The headline: “Federal Aid Programs Expand at Record Rate.” The text:

A USA Today analysis of 25 major government programs found that enrollment increased an average of 17% in the programs from 2000 to 2005. The nation’s population grew 5% during that time. It was the largest five year expansion of the federal safety net since the Great Society created programs such as Medicare and Medicaid in the 1960’s. Spending on these social programs was $1.3 trillion in 2005, up an inflation-adjusted 22% since 2000 and accounting for more than half of federal spending.

Enrollment growth was responsible for most of the spending increase, with higher benefits accounting for the rest. The paper quoted a liberal think tanker saying the increase in the number of people on programs is due to a rise in the poverty rate. It quoted a conservative congressman countering that entitlement programs should not be growing when unemployment is near record lows. Arguments about the report and its numbers will ensue.

*   *   *

Back to Mr. Bush in 2000. I believe it is fair to say most Republicans did not think George W. Bush was motivated to run for the presidency for the primary reason of cutting or controlling spending. But it is also fair to say that they did not think he was Lyndon B. Johnson. And that’s what he’s turned into.

How did this happen? In the years after 9/11 I looked at Mr. Bush’s big budgets, and his expansion of entitlements, and assumed he was sacrificing fiscal prudence—interesting that that’s the word people used to spoof his father—in order to build and maintain, however tenuously, a feeling of national unity. I assumed he wanted to lessen bipartisan tensions when America was wading into the new world of modern terrorism. I thought: This may be right and it may be wrong, but I understand it. And certainly I thought Bush was better on spending than a Democrat, with all the pressures on him to spend, would be.

A John Kerry would spend as much and raise taxes too. But could a President Kerry spend more than President Bush? How?

In any case, what bipartisan spirit there was post-9/11 has broken down, Mr. Bush will never have to run again, and he is in a position to come forward and make the case, even if only rhetorically, to slow and cut spending. He has not. And there’s no sign he will.

Which leaves me where I was nine months ago, in the meeting with conservatives, rubbing my brow in confusion.

*   *   *

The president likes to speak of his philosophy when it comes to foreign affairs. But what about domestic affairs? I think he has a real responsibility to speak here about his thinking, about what he’s doing and why.

Mr. President:

Did you ever hold conservative notions and assumptions on the issue of spending? If so, did you abandon them after the trauma of 9/11? For what reasons, exactly? Did you intend to revert to conservative thinking on spending at some point? Do you still?

Were you always a liberal on spending? Were you, or are you, frankly baffled that conservatives assumed you were a conservative on spending? Did you feel they misunderstood you? Did you allow or encourage them to misunderstand you?

What are the implications for our country if spending levels continue to grow at their current pace?

What are the implications for the Republican party if it continues to cede one of the pillars on which it stood?

Did compassionate conservatism always mean big spending?

Memo to: The Academy
From: Just another viewer
Re: Advice, as if you wanted more

I cannot remember a time when, in the days after the Academy Awards show, it was not criticized, and even blasted. It’s an American tradition. Everyone enjoys saying it was too long and the acceptance speeches were interminable, or it was too tight and they kept rudely cutting off the acceptance speeches. Everyone has complaints about the political tendentiousness of the speeches, clips and jokes. Everyone makes fun of the vulgarity and air of self congratulation.

And everyone is right.

Which, of course, you know. In the days after Oscar, the one old saying everyone in Hollywood keeps remembering over and over is, “Everyone has two businesses, his own and show business.”

*   *   *

Viewership this year was down an estimated 9%. Only 39 million people watched. But that’s a lot of people in the great niche nation of 300 million. And the decision to watch it was an actual decision, not a rote “This is what I watch on Sunday night.”

Why do those of us who watch, watch?

I don’t think it’s that we expect it to be a good show. It’s that America loves movies. We’ve been watching them for almost a century. We invented them. They’re our art form. To this day a good movie comes as a gift, an increasingly unexpected gift for which the audience is actually grateful. One of the happiest sentences in America is, “I saw a great movie, you’ve got to see it.”

We like to see a good movie celebrated.

We also like to look at movie stars. So many of them are physically perfect, which is kind of fascinating, or at least startling. Most of us don’t spend our lives surrounded by physical perfection. Once in Los Angeles I met a young actor who was so beautiful I thought, So that’s what God meant. Even if you see such perfection as only freakish, it’s still interesting.

On Oscar night movie stars are trussed and made up and bejeweled to look even more perfect than usual. They wear wonderful gowns and tuxedoes. As individuals, on the red carpet, they are often charming, sometimes modest, sometimes funny. They are also mere humans negotiating in public high-stakes parts of American life—success, fame, wealth—with varying degrees of grace, gratitude and personal destabilization. So even when they’re not interesting they’re . . . interesting.

We all like Jack Nicholson not because he’s classically beautiful—he’s not—but because somehow he signals, in the way he lives his life, in the way he walks into the world, at least as seen through newspapers and magazines, that on some level or to some unusual degree he . . . gets the joke. It is odd to think, as a moviegoer, that you know Jack Nicholson, and yet in a way you do. We watch the young ones coming up. Will Charlize turn into someone who gets the joke, or someone who is the joke?

*   *   *

But viewership of the Oscars continues to decline, even in the great movie-loving nation. Why? Here’s one practical reason.

What happened to the Oscars is what happened to the Olympics. They became common. They made themselves common. When the Olympics were held every four years, they were a real event. It was something to look forward to and be surprised by: The Olympics are on this year. Four years was enough time for a whole new cast of athletes, what felt like a whole new generation, to come up. Enough time for history to have passed, to have yielded up new geopolitical realities, new reasons to applaud and hope for this nation or that one.

Everyone watched. It was a success. So they decided to get even more success by making the Olympics every two years. It’s not an event now, it’s an expected thing, part of the usual tapestry. It’s more common, less special. Viewership is down.

In the same way, the Oscars used to be the big awards show. Then another came by, and another: Golden Globes, People’s Choice, Independent Spirit, Foreign Press.

Movie stars put on their gowns and tuxes all the time now. It must be embarrassing—I mean this seriously—to spend half your year accepting awards on TV, and for what is already highly compensated work.

It’s like what happened a few years ago, when network programmers found that “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire” was an overnight sensation. So they put it on four nights a week. And it stopped being a sensation.

Hollywood should stop diminishing its own mystique. It should discourage the proliferation of awards shows. They’re getting embarrassing for everybody.

*   *   *

But there’s another challenge, an obvious one, and in the long term a bigger one. You don’t have to be a genius to figure out that viewership of the Oscars is down because movie attendance itself is down, and that movie attendance is down because Hollywood isn’t making the kind of movies that compel people to leave their homes and go to the multiplex.

There are those who think Hollywood hates America, and they have reason to think it. Hollywood does, as host Jon Stewart suggested, seem detached from the country it seeks to entertain. It is politically and culturally to the left of America, and it often seems disdainful of or oblivious to its assumptions and traditions.

I don’t think it is true that studio executives and producers hate America. They are too confused, ambivalent and personally anxious to sit around hating their audience. I think they wish they understood America. I think they feel nostalgic for what they remember of it. I think they find it hard to find America, in a way.

I also think that it’s not true that they’re motivated only by money. Would that they were! They’d be more market-oriented if they cared only about money. What they care about a great deal is status, and in their community status is bestowed by the cultural left. This is an old story. But it seems only to get worse, not better.

If a lot of the American audience, certainly the red-state audience, assumes Hollywood hates them, they won’t go as often to the movies as they used to. If you thought Wal-Mart hated you, would you shop there?

*   *   *

Which gets us to George Clooney, and his work. George Clooney is Hollywood now. He is charming and beautiful and cool, but he is not Orson Welles. I know that’s like saying of an artist that he’s no Rembrandt, but bear with me because I have a point that I think is worth making.

Orson Welles was an artist. George Clooney is a fellow who read an article and now wants to tell us the truth, if we can handle it.

More important, Orson Welles had a canny respect for the audience while maintaining a difficult relationship with studio executives, whom he approached as if they were his intellectual and artistic inferiors. George Clooney has a canny respect for the Hollywood establishment, for its executives and agents, and treats his audience as if it were composed of his intellectual and artistic inferiors. (He is not alone in this. He is only this year’s example.)

And because they are his inferiors, he must teach them. He must teach them about racial tolerance and speaking truth to power, etc. He must teach them to be brave. And so in his acceptance speech for best supporting actor the other night he instructed the audience about Hollywood’s courage in making movies about AIDS, and recognizing the work of Hattie McDaniel with an Oscar.

Was his speech wholly without merit? No. It was a response and not an attack, and it appears to have been impromptu. Mr. Clooney presumably didn’t know Jon Stewart would tease the audience for being out of touch, and he wanted to argue that out of touch isn’t all bad. Fair enough. It is hard to think on your feet in front of 38 million people, and most of his critics will never try it or have to. (This is a problem with modern media: Only the doer understands the degree of difficulty.)

But Mr. Clooney’s remarks were also part of the tinniness of the age, and of modern Hollywood. I don’t think he was being disingenuous in suggesting he was himself somewhat heroic. He doesn’t even know he’s not heroic. He thinks making a movie in 2005 that said McCarthyism was bad is heroic.

How could he think this? Maybe part of the answer is in this: The Clooney generation in Hollywood is not writing and directing movies about life as if they’ve experienced it, with all its mysteries and complexity and variety. In an odd way they haven’t experienced life; they’ve experienced media. Their films seem more an elaboration and meditation on media than an elaboration and meditation on life. This is how he could take such an unnuanced, unsophisticated, unknowing gloss on the 1950s and the McCarthy era. He just absorbed media about it. And that media itself came from certain assumptions and understandings, and myths.

*   *   *

Most Americans aren’t leading media, they’re leading lives. It would be nice to see a new respect in Hollywood for the lives they live. It would be nice to see them start to understand that rediscovering the work of, say, C.S. Lewis, and making a Narnia film, is not “giving in” to the audience but serving it. It isn’t bad to look for and present good material that is known to have a following. It’s a smart thing to do. It’s why David O. Selznick bought “Gone With the Wind”: People were reading it. It was his decision to make it into a movie from which he would profit that gave Hattie McDaniel her great role. Taboos are broken by markets, not poses.

I want to revise and extend my remarks, as they say, from last week’s column on airport security. The reaction was great, but I have two reasons to amend. The first is that I didn’t really get to the heart of what is for me most offensive about airport security, and the second is that that thing, the most offensive part, connects to a larger, and I think more painful, fact of our culture.

Here is that larger fact: America has become creepy for women who think of themselves as ladies. It has in fact become assaultive.

I start with a dictionary definition, from American Heritage, not that anyone needs it because everyone knows what a lady is. It’s a kind of natural knowledge. According to American Heritage, a lady is a well-mannered and considerate woman with high standards of proper behavior. You know one, the dictionary suggests, by how she’s treated: “a woman, especially when spoken of or to in a polite way.” Under usage, American Heritage says, “lady is normally used as a parallel to gentleman to emphasize norms expected in polite society or situations.”

I would add that a lady need not be stuffy, scolding, stiff. A lady brings regard for others into the room with her; that regard is part of the dignity she carries and seeks to spread. A lady is a woman who projects the stature of life.

These definitions are incomplete but serviceable—I invite better ones—but keep them in mind as I try to draw a fuller picture of what it was like to be taken aside at an airport last week for what is currently known as further screening and was generally understood 50 years ago to be second-degree sexual assault.

I was directed, shoeless, into the little pen with the black plastic swinging door. A stranger approached, a tall woman with burnt-orange hair. She looked in her 40s. She was muscular, her biceps straining against a tight Transportation Security Administration T-shirt. She carried her wand like a billy club. She began her instructions: Face your baggage. Feet in the footmarks. Arms out. Fully out. Legs apart. Apart. I’m patting you down.

It was like a 1950s women’s prison movie. I got to be the girl from the streets who made a big mistake; she was the guard doing intake. “Name’s Veronica, but they call me Ron. Want a smoke?” Beeps and bops, her pointer and middle fingers patting for explosives under the back of my brassiere; the wand on and over my body, more beeps, more pats. The she walked wordlessly away. I looked around, slowly put down my arms, rearranged my body. For a moment I thought I might plaintively call out, “No kiss goodbye? No, ‘I’ll call’?” But they might not have been amused. And actually I wasn’t either.

I experienced the search not only as an invasion of privacy, which it was, but as a denial or lowering of that delicate thing, dignity. The dignity of a woman, of a lady, of a person with a right not to be manhandled or to be, or to feel, molested.

Is this quaint, this claiming of such a right? Is it impossibly old-fashioned? I think it’s just basic. There aren’t many middle-aged women who fly who haven’t experienced something very much like what I’ve described. I’ve noticed recently that people who fly have taken to looking away when they pass someone being patted down. They do this now at LaGuardia, in line for the shuttle to Washington, where they used to stare. Now they turn away in embarrassment.

They’re right to be embarrassed. It is to their credit that they are.

*   *   *

An aside with a point: I almost always talk to the screeners and usually wind up joking with them. They often tell me wonderful things. The most moving was the security woman at LaGuardia who answered my question, “What have you learned about people since taking this job that you didn’t know before?” She did an impromptu soliloquy on how Everyone Travels With the Same Things. She meant socks, toothbrush, deodorant, but as she spoke, as she elaborated, we both came to understood that she was saying something larger about. . .what’s inside us, and what it is to be human, and on a journey. One screener, this past Monday, again at LaGuardia, told me that no, she had never ever found a terrorist or a terror related item in her searches. Two have told me women take the searches worse than men, and become angrier.

But then they would, for they are not only discomforted and delayed, as the men. There is also the edge of violation.

Are the women who do the searches wicked, cruel? No, they’re trying to make a living and go with the flow of modernity. They’re doing what they’ve been taught. They’ve been led to approach things in a certain way, first by our society and then by their bosses. They’re doing what they’ve been trained to do by modern government security experts who don’t have to bother themselves with thoughts like, Is this sort of a bad thing to do to a person who is a lady? By, that is, slobs with clipboards who have also been raised in the current culture.

*   *   *

I spoke this week at a Catholic college. I have been speaking a lot, for me anyway, which means I have been without that primary protector of American optimism and good cheer, which is staying home. Americans take refuge in their homes. It’s how they protect themselves from their culture. It helps us maintain our optimism.

At the Catholic college, a great one, we were to speak of faith and politics. This, to me, is a very big and complicated subject, and a worthy one. But quickly—I mean within 15 seconds—the talk was only of matters related to sexuality. Soon a person on the panel was yelling, “Raise your hands if you think masturbation is a sin!,” and the moderator was asking if African men should use condoms, yes or no. At one point I put my head in my hands. I thought, Have we gone crazy? There are thousands of people in the audience, from children to aged nuns, and this is how we talk, this is the imagery we use, this is our only subject matter?

But of course it is. It is our society’s subject matter.

I was the only woman on the panel, which is no doubt part of why I experienced it as so odd, but in truth the symposium wasn’t odd, not in terms of being out of line with the culture. It was odd only because it was utterly in line with it.

Was the symposium the worst thing that happened to me this year? Oh no. It wasn’t even the worst thing that has happened to me this week. But I did experience it as to some degree violative of my dignity as a person. An adult. A woman. A lady.

And I have been experiencing a lot of things in this way for a while now.

Have you?

I experience it when I see blaring television ads for birth-control devices, feminine-hygiene products, erectile-dysfunction medicines. I experience it when I’m almost strip-searched at airports. I experience it when I listen to popular music, if that’s what we call it. I experience it when political figures are asked the most intimate questions about their families and pressed for personal views on sexual questions that someone somewhere decided have to be Topic A on the national agenda in America right now.

Let me tell you what I say, in my mind, after things like this—the symposium, the commercials, and so forth. I think, We are embarrassing the angels.

Imagine for a moment that angels exist, that they are pure spirits of virtue and light, that they care about us and for us and are among us, unseen, in the airport security line, in the room where we watch TV, at the symposium of great minds. “Raise your hands if you think masturbation should be illegal!” “I’m Bob Dole for Viagra.” “Put your feet in the foot marks, lady.” We are embarrassing the angels.

*   *   *

Do I think this way, in these terms, because I am exceptionally virtuous? Oh no. I’m below average in virtue, and even I know it’s all gotten low and rough and disturbed.

Lent began yesterday, and I mean to give up a great deal, as you would too if you were me. One of the things I mean to give up is the habit of thinking it and not saying it. A lady has some rights, and this happens to be one I can assert.

“You are embarrassing the angels.” This is what I intend to say for the next 40 days whenever I see someone who is hurting the culture, hurting human dignity, denying the stature of a human being. I mean to say it with belief, with an eye to instruction, but also pointedly, uncompromisingly. As a lady would. All invited to join in.

We are debating port security. While we’re at it, how about airport security? Does anyone really believe that has gotten much better since 19 terrorists hijacked four planes five years ago?

This week I flew to Florida and back to give a speech and got another up-close look at how well the Transportation Security Administration is running the show. And it’s clear that no one jokes about TSA screeners frisking grandma anymore, not because it isn’t still happening, but rather because it’s not even darkly funny anymore.

6:10 a.m., Tuesday two days ago, LaGuardia Airport. A long line of what appeared to be roughly a thousand people was snaking down a hall past newsstands and shops. Chaos and an hour wait to get through security. A woman in an airport security uniform patrolled on the left, curtly instructing us to move to the right. A cleaning crew on the right barked, “Coming through, move please!” We stood nervously wherever we wouldn’t be yelled at. No one tried to help us, to calm the fears of those about to miss their flights. There was a lot of yelling—”I need your ID open and faced forward! No, you must put that in the bin!” After 45 minutes I got to the first security checkpoint, where I was directed to stand aside for extra clearance. I walked to the rubber mat, stood spread eagled in the Leonardo position, arms out, legs out, as a sleepy stranger ran a wand around my body and patted me for bombs. “Now I know how a cow feels in a cattle pen,” I said. I told her how carelessly we’d been treated. She was surprised. No one told her there were a lot of people waiting in line.

*   *   *

I gave the speech that night, and returned the next morning to the West Palm Beach airport for the flight home. Here, at 9:30 a.m., it was worse. Again roughly a thousand people, again all of them being yelled at by airport and TSA personnel. Get your computers out. Shoes off. Jackets off. Miss, Miss, I told you, line four. No, line four. So much yelling and tension, and all the travelers in slump-shouldered resignation and fear. The fingers of the man in front of me were fluttered with anxiety as he grabbed at his back pocket for his wallet so the woman who checks ID would not snap at him or make him miss his flight.

This was East Germany in 1960. It was the dictatorship of the clerks, and the clerks were not in a good mood.

After a half hour in line I get to the first security point.

“Linfah,” says the young woman who checked my ID.

“I’m sorry?”

“Linfah.” She points quickly and takes the next person’s ID.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t understand.”

Now she points impatiently. How stupid could I be?

Line Five. Oh. OK.

Ahead of me, throwing bags in bins, is a young mother with a two or three year old girl. The mother is tense, flustered. Bags, bottles, a stroller to break down and get on the conveyer belt. A security agent yelling: “Keep your boarding pass in your hand at all times.” The little girl is looking up, anxious. All these yelling adults, and things being thrown. “My doll!” she says as her mother puts it quickly in a gray bin. “We’ll get it on the other side!” says the mother. She grabs her daughter’s hand roughly.

“Take off your sneakers!” a clerk yells.

The mother stops, hops, quickly removes her sneakers. Her daughter has already walked through the magnetometer and is wandering on the other side. She looks around: Where’s mommy?

Mommy gets her sneakers in a bin, on the belt, gets through the magnetometer.

I’m relieved. Her daughter holds her mother’s leg. They begin to walk on.

A TSA clerk shouts to another, “You didn’t check the sneakers. You have to put the sneakers through.”

The second clerk yells—“Your daughter has to go through again!”

The little girl is scared—What did I do wrong? I’m sorry, mommy.

The mother is tense, gets a look.

I lift my chin at the TSA agent, smile, and say softly, “Miss, that poor girl with the child, she is having a tough time. The little girl is scared and—”

“We are following procedures!” said the TSA agent. Her mouth was twisted in anger.

I nodded and said softly, “I know, I’m just saying—a little gentle in your tone.”

She looked at my ticket and smiled.

“You have been chosen by the computer for extra attention.”

“What?”

“You have been chosen by the computer for extra attention.”

*   *   *

I am almost always picked for extra screening. I must be on a list of middle aged Irish-American women terrorists. I know a message is being sent: We don’t do ethnic profiling in America. But that is not, I suspect, the message anyone receives. The message people receive is: This is all nonsense. What they think is: This is all kabuki. We’re being harassed and delayed so politicians can feel good. The security personnel themselves seem to know it’s nonsense: they’re always bored and distracted as they go through my clothing, my stockings, my computer, my earrings. They don’t treat me like a terror possibility, they treat me like a sad hunk of meat.

I don’t think most of us get extra screening because they think we are terrorists. I think we get it because they know we’re not. They screen people who are not terrorists because it helps them pretend they are protecting us, in the same way doctors in the middle ages used to wear tall hats: because they couldn’t cure you. It’s all show.

*   *   *

I boarded my plane. Settled in, took out my notebook, wrote my notes. I turned to the man next to me. “Did you have a bad time with security?”

His eyebrows went up and he shook his head. “It’s terrible,” he said, in an English accent. He and his fiancée had come for a few days to southern Florida, they’d had hassles coming and going. He said, with wonder, that he was a smoker, that he always carried a keepsake, a gold cigarette lighter. Before he’d left for Florida he’d emptied it so it wouldn’t light, and he showed it to the security people at the airport. They told him he couldn’t take it on the flight. He asked them to send it to him, they said they couldn’t, he’d have to go back to the ticket area and give it to them. But then he’d miss his flight. “It’s your problem,” they said. He wound up giving the lighter to an airline clerk. “An $800 lighter! Empty!” He didn’t know if he’d ever see it again. He said, “It’s hard when”—and he put out his hands and shook them—“you’re already a bit of nervous about flying!”

*   *   *

It is almost five years since 9/11, and since the new security regime began. Why hasn’t it gotten better? Why has it gotten worse? It’s a disgrace, this airport security system, and it’s an embarrassment. I’m sure my Englishman didn’t come away with a greater respect or regard for America.

So we’re all talking about port security this week, and the debate over the Bush administration decision to allow an United Arab Emirates company to manage six ports in the United States. That debate is turning bitter, and I wonder if the backlash against President Bush isn’t partly due to the fact that everyone in America has witnessed or has been a victim of the incompetence of the airport security system. Why would people assume the government knows what it’s doing when it makes decisions about the ports? It doesn’t know what it’s doing at the airports.

This is a flying nation. We fly. And everyone knows airport security is an increasingly sad joke, that TSA itself often appears to have forgotten its mission, if it ever knew it, and taken on a new one—the ritual abuse of passengers.

Now there’s a security problem. Solve that one.

The Dick Cheney shooting incident will, in a way, go away. And, in a way, not—ever. Some things stick. Gerry Ford had physically stumbled only once or twice in public when he became, officially, The Stumbler. Mr. Ford’s stumbles seemed to underscore a certain lack of sure-footedness in his early policies and other decisions. The same with Jimmy Carter and the Killer Rabbit. At the time Mr. Carter told the story of a wild rabbit attacking his boat he had already come to be seen by half the country as weak and unlucky. Even bunnies took him on.

Same with Dick Cheney. He’s been painted as the dark force of the administration, and now there’s a mental picture to go with the reputation. Pull! Sorry, Harry! Pull!

Can media bias be detected in the endless coverage? Sure, always. But it’s also a great story. A vice president of the United States shot a guy in a hunting accident, and no one on his staff told the press. That’s a story.

But as a scandal I’m not sure it has a big future. The vice president yesterday offered the facts as he observed and experienced them. “I’m the guy who pulled the trigger that fired the round that hit Harry” is a pretty direct statement. His recounting of the decision on how to handle it in the press seemed to reflect only incompetence, not malevolence.

Right now in the White House they’re discussing how to help the vice president get through his problem. They’ve already tried the wearing of orange ties, an attempt to take the sting out of the incident by showing they don’t feel the sting. Duck! Ha ha!

*   *   *

But what are they thinking that they’re not saying? Here’s a hunch, based not on any inside knowledge but only on what I know of people who practice politics, and those who practice it within the Bush White House.

I suspect what they’re thinking and not saying is, If Dick Cheney weren’t vice president, who’d be a good vice president? They’re thinking, At some time down the road we may wind up thinking about a new plan. And one night over drinks at a barbecue in McLean one top guy will turn to another top guy and say, “Under the never permeable and never porous Dome of Silence, tell me . . . wouldn’t you like to replace Cheney?”

Why would they be thinking about this? It’s not the shooting incident itself, it’s that Dick Cheney has been the administration’s hate magnet for five years now. Halliburton, energy meetings, Libby, Plamegate. This was not all bad for the White House: Mr. Cheney took the heat that would otherwise have been turned solely on George Bush. So he had utility, and he’s experienced and talented and organized, and Mr. Bush admires and respects him. But, at a certain point a hate magnet can draw so much hate you don’t want to hold it in your hand anymore, you want to drop it, and pick up something else. Is this fair? Nah. But fair has nothing to do with it.

This is a White House that likes to hit refresh when the screen freezes. Right now the screen is stuck, with poll numbers in the low 40s, or high 30s.

The key thing is Iraq. George Bush cares deeply about Iraq and knows his legacy will be decided there. It has surely dawned on the White House that “Iraq” will not be “over” in the next two years. Iraq is a long story. What Dick Armitage or Colin Powell said about the Pottery Barn rule was true: If you break, it you own it, at the very least for the next few years.

George Bush, and so the men and women around him, will want the next Republican presidential nominee to continue the U.S. effort in, and commitment to, Iraq. To be a candidate who will continue his policy, and not pull the plug, and burrow through.

This person will not be Dick Cheney, who has already said he doesn’t plan to run. So Mr. Bush may feel in time that he has reason to want to put in a new vice president in order to pick a successor who’ll presumably have an edge in the primaries—he’s the sitting vice president, and Republicans still respect primogeniture. They will tend to make the common-sense assumption that a guy who’s been vice president for, say, a year and a half, is a guy who already knows the top job. Anyway, the new guy will get a honeymoon, which means he won’t be fully hated by the time the 2008 primaries begin.

This new vice president would, however, have to be very popular in the party, or the party wouldn’t buy it. Replacing Mr. Cheney would be chancy. The new veep would have to get through the Senate, which has at this point at least three likely contenders for the nomination, at least two of whom who would not, presumably, be amused.

Plus there’s more quiet anti-administration feeling in the party than is generally acknowledged, and the president’s men know it. A lot of people would find such a move too cute by half. The contenders already in line—and their supporters, donors, fans, staff and friends in the press—would resent it. Big time.

People wouldn’t like it . . . unless they liked it. How could they be persuaded to like it?

It would have to be a man wildly popular in the party and the press. And it would have to be a decision made by Dick Cheney. If he didn’t want to do it he wouldn’t have to. If he were pressed—Dick, we gotta put the next guy in here or we’re going to lose in ‘08 and see all our efforts undone—he might make the decision himself. He’d have to step down on his own. He’s just been through a trauma, and he can’t be liking his job as much now as he did three years ago. No one on the downside of a second term does, hate magnet or not.

*   *   *

Of course, all this is exactly like the sort of thing people blue-skied about in 1992, when George H.W. Bush was in trouble and a lot of people urged him to hit refresh by dumping Dan Quayle. He didn’t. George W. Bush loves to do what his father didn’t.
Who would it be? Someone who’s a strong supporter of Iraq, and, presumably, the Bush doctrine.

Who would that be? That’s what I suspect the president’s men are asking themselves. But silently.

Listen, I watched the funeral of Coretta Scott King for six hours Tuesday, from the pre-service commentary to the very last speech, and it was wonderful—spirited and moving, rousing and respectful, pugnacious and loving. The old lions of the great American civil rights movement of the 20th century were there, and standing tall. The old lionesses, too. There was preaching and speechifying and at the end I thought: This is how democracy ought to be, ought to look every day—full of the joy of argument, and marked by the moral certainty that here you can say what you think.

There was nothing prissy, nothing sissy about it. A former president, a softly gray-haired and chronically dyspeptic gentleman who seems to have judged the world to be just barely deserving of his presence, pointedly insulted a sitting president who was, in fact, sitting right behind him. The Clintons unveiled their 2008 campaign. A rhyming preacher, one of the old lions, a man of warmth and stature, freely used the occasion to verbally bop the sitting president on the head.

So what? This was the authentic sound of a vibrant democracy doing its thing. It was the exact opposite of the frightened and prissy attitude that if you draw a picture I don’t like, I’ll have to kill you.

It was: We do free speech here.

That funeral honored us, and the world could learn a lot from watching it. The U.S. government should send all six hours of it throughout the World Wide Web and to every country on earth, because it said more about who we are than any number of decorous U.N. speeches and formal diplomatic declarations.

*   *   *

A moment for a distinction that must be made. Some have compared Mrs. King’s funeral to the Paul Wellstone memorial. It was not like the Wellstone memorial, and you’d have to be as dim and false as Al Franken to say it was. The Wellstone memorial was marked not by joy but anger. It was at moments sour, even dark. There was famous booing.

The King funeral was nothing like this. It was gracious, full of applause and cheers and amens. It was loving even when it was political. It had spirit, not rage. That’s part of why it was beautiful.

It was also beautiful because, as the first speaker, Bishop Eddie L. Long, senior pastor of the New Birth Missionary Baptist Church in Lithonia, Ga., said in almost his first words, “This is a worship. This is a celebration. This is a moment that we give to honor God.”

It was a religious service in which no one was afraid to talk about God. “Praise the Lord,” and “Lord, we lift your name on high” and “How we love to sing your praises” rang through the room. Scripture was quoted, stories told. Blacks in America are not afraid to love Jesus the way they want to love him, to use the language and symbols they want to use. I want to kiss their hands for this. I also happen to honor the fact that, by and large, older blacks at least have not given way to 20th-century stoicism in their style of mourning. The Kennedys, who had too much experience with funerals, set the stoic style 40 years ago, and while it was elegant and moving in its own way, it left an entire nation thinking it was in rather poor taste to cry aloud and sob.

As for the speakers, no one has ever been or could be better than the Rev. Bernice King, who spoke of her mother’s love, her mother’s end, and the possible metaphorical meaning of the cancer that killed her.

The Rev. Joseph Lowery gave a beautiful poem about Martin being with Rosa in heaven and then finding out that Coretta was coming, and rushing to greet her at the pearly gates. Strike you as corny? Not me. It was beautiful because it was not only full of unselfconscious faith, it assumed unselfconscious faith on the part of the audience, and so was both an implicit compliment and a declaration of shared assumptions. The audience responded with amens and cheers. When he bopped the president over weapons of mass destruction, what seemed, on CNN, to be half the room stood and applauded.

When George Bush 41 followed him to the podium, he teased Mr. Lowery in a way that complimented his eloquence. People sometimes marvel at the grace of George H.W. Bush. He is a warm and gracious man, and he’s old enough to appreciate the humor in everything. He’s old enough to appreciate life. But it is also true that when you attack him or his son from the left he doesn’t get mad because in his heart he kinda thinks you’re right. Attack him from the right; you won’t be overwhelmed by his bonhomie then.

President Bush was fine, his eloquence of the formal kind. He needs to find the place between High Rhetoric and off-the-cuff plainspeak. He always does one or the other. But there’s a place in between, a place that’s not fancy and not common, that would serve him well if he could find it.

Bill Clinton was, as always, the master. Say what you will, he is the only politician in America with the confidence to call Episcopalians “the frozen chosen” and know everyone will laugh and take no offense. Amid all the happy bombast he was the one who pointed at the casket and said, “There’s a woman in there.” He talked about Mrs. King in good strong plain terms. Yes, he caused a quarter-second of awkwardness when he said of the beautiful Coretta that even at age 75 she still had the goods, but in moments of exuberance we all forget our own history.

The real news was how the Clintons used the funeral to unveil how they will run in 2008: Together, side by side, with beautiful hairdos. I haven’t seen them like this—both standing at the podium—since 1992, when they were new. In the years since, after the health-care failure and the Whitewater scandals, the West Wing attitude toward the president’s wife was a quiet and respectful “Get that woman off the podium!” Not anymore. All is new again. Mrs. Clinton has clearly been working on her public speaking, and attempted to use her hands as her husband uses his, now in an emphasizing arc, now resting on her chest. But his are large, long and elegant, and hers are puffed and grasping.

*   *   *

Both Clintons spoke in the cadence and with the imagery of the Bible. Mrs. Clinton’s first words, in which she referred to Mrs. King’s brave decision to continue her husband’s work after his murder, were steeped in religiosity. “As we are called, each of us must decide whether to answer that call by saying, ‘Send me.’” She ended with, “The work of peace never ends. So we bid her earthly presence farewell. We wish her Godspeed on her homecoming. And we ask ourselves, ‘Will we say, when the call comes, “Send me”?’”

Oh I think we will, Ms. Meanieface!

If you don’t understand that Mrs. Clinton was rehearsing her 2008 announcement speech, then you are a child and must go home and have a nice cup of cocoa.

This is what is coming: I have had a blessed life. And like so many people I could choose, after all these years, a life of comfort. Watch it from the sidelines, tend to my own concerns, watch the garden grow. But our nation calls out. And if we are to be Americans we must meet the call. “Send me.”

With Bill nodding beside her, his hands clasped prayerfully in front of him, nodding and working that jaw muscle he works when he wants you to notice, for just a second, how hard it is sometimes for him to contain his admiration.

God I love them.

*   *   *

Apart from its beauty, dignity and fight, Mrs. King’s funeral got me thinking about this: Did she know how much she was loved? It’s hard for a person to know that. If only she could have gone to her own funeral, she would have known. I wonder if it wouldn’t be good if somewhere along the way, just once in your life, you got to call your own funeral. Pick the church, the speakers, the music, sit in the pew, clap when they talk about how wonderful you were. Then afterwards have a long lunch and toast your memory. Then the next day you go to work as usual, but maybe in a different mood. I don’t see why we don’t do this. Is this a stupid thing to say? It’s allowed. I’ve got free speech.