tempest-toss'd / standing on the shore

[lagilman]

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

- Emma Lazarus

We either lift our lamp, or we shutter it and admit that we live in darkness.

I choose light.

Someone on Friday tried to tell me "this is about terrorism."  That person had never been directly impacted by terrorism (I asked).  Me?  I was in lower Manhattan on 9/11.  I saw the second plane hit the side of the Tower, staring out my office window. I smelled the air and heard the sirens, and the terrible silence after.  I read the newspaper lists, and found names I knew among the dead. 

You react to terrorism one of two ways.  You embrace anger because it makes you feel less afraid, or you accept your fear and work through it.  The former feeds the engine of terrorism.  The latter starves it.

I will not feed that engine.  Not with myself, and not with my neighbors.