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How well I remember the dawn breaking on that Sunday morning as our family headed to our Swedish church located on the tip of Manhattan. The silence was interrupted by the rhythm of Army marching boots hitting the pavement. It was early in the 1940s. America was sending its young men off to war, and New York was a major port of disembarkation.
But what was unforgettable was the look on the faces of the young men. There was no cadence count, no barking of orders, no singing, no Hollywood embellishments. Just marching.
These were Black troops about to cross oceans they had never seen to fight in countries they could barely remember from their geography class. And permanently imprinted in my mind is the look on their faces. No, it was not fear. It was anxiety — deep anxiety. Undoubtedly, they wondered if they would ever come back and, if so, would it be to a better America. A more welcoming home.
Now, some 82 years later, I know that those faces defined what we term “The Greatest Generation.” They understood more clearly than any current generation the true meaning of service to others over self and the importance of community.
No, we were not a perfect nation in 1942, but we had the wisdom to understand that opportunity for betterment was an expectation in a democratic society. We aspired to live according to our values. We celebrated honesty, loyalty and truthfulness. The work ethic was the cornerstone of the American dream and no one understood that better than immigrant parents who sacrificed in order that their children could enjoy success. That sacrifice was a norm, and my brothers and I were benefactors of those values.
And this philosophy of extending a helping hand became a part of our nation’s culture. Think of the times someone reached out to you. It may have been a parent, a relative, a friend, a teacher, a business colleague, etc., or it may have been a stranger or a government program. But helping others was a large part of the American way. It was simply who we are.