My grandfather was a man that went no further then eighth grade, yet taught himself to be an architect and engineer. My grandfather was a man that saw a car for the first time when he was seven years old and learned how to email when he was ninety-five. My grandfather jumped trains during the depression and worked in the CCC to see the country and have food on his plate. My grandfather was a man that judged other men by their actions and their character. My grandfather, like many of our Amercian elders, whispered lessens to his children that planted seeds that now sprout in history.
During the last several weeks, I've been touched by the stories shared by fellow Amercians here on Kos. Stories that are as unique as each pebble on the beach, yet similar nonetheless. Stories of our elders' whispered lessons; lessons whispered behind closed doors in times of danger and change. Whispered lessons that taught generations that even when wronged in the worst way, to always hold heads high - but hold no hate in hearts. Whispers that taught that no matter what other children chanted, words of hate were never to be uttered by members of this family. Whispers that said what's wrong is wrong. Whispers that said hope is always present.
Whispers said behind closed doors over generations that perhaps did not seem to lend particular strength in making a difference, have become seeds that are now sprouting growth of change in OUR Amercia.
My family's whispers are shared as a tribute to man that was not perfect but that instilled in four generations the unqualified understanding that we are all Amercians. I'm sure his example is simliar to millions of other Amercians, now gone, that brings out the best of us as a people - even in the face of our worst.
My father was born in 1940 and grew up 100 miles outside of Chicago. During the War, a German POW camp was located a few miles from my grandparents home. The day the War ended, Grandma and Grandpa went to the camp and brought the Germans to their home and fed them, talked to them, and welcomed them. In telling the story, they always stated that those Germans were young, scared men far from home only doing what they were asked to do by their country. The day the War ended, they were no longer enemies but scared boys needing a smile, homecooked meal, and a handshake.
A year or two later, and I only heard this story recently, my dad was riding out at night with my grandfather. Whether they stumbled upon it, or Grandpa purposely took dad there is unknown, but that night Grandpa took dad as a boy of 7 or 8 out of the car to stand and observe a group of people burn a cross in an field. The memory that sticks with my dad, is not the crowd, or the cross, but my grandpa whispering to him "that's not right, that's not right."
Win or Lose tomorrow, the whispers planted have sprouted into change. Change in the way we look at each other and ourselves as Americans in a way that will be measured by History. I think Grandpa would be proud of his America.