I was born in November of 1942. Shortly thereafter my father chose to join the United States Army Air Corps and just a bit more than a year later he flew - as its tailgunner - with the rest of his crew across the Atlantic to become a small part of the Allied effort in the European Theatre.
He was the last of the young men in our family to enter World War II. Leaving behind a little girl who was her mother's only child, the only grandchild on both sides of her family and the only neice of three young and vivacious aunts who - until their sweethearts came home and they were able to establish their own families - had a great deal of time to spoil her. So, because I was so often
read to, I read newspapers at the age of three and have written for as long as I have memory.
And, as a consequence, I have always cherished - and respected - the awe-inspiring gift and the sobering responsibility of literacy. Words are powerful things. But words are also fragile things. And it has never been lost on me that during the very hours in which I was learning to read and write, whole libraries of thought committed to page were being burned all over the globe. So, I have never for a moment entertained the impulse to erase words spoken or written by another. No matter
my opinion of them.
Nor, have I ever, until today, seen words I've written vanish as though they were never formed. And the pathology of their radical censorship has dumbfounded - rather than angered - me. They were, after all, such timid little things.
However, after this unpleasant day, I
can say with absolute certainty that I am no longer in the least ... confused.
If you disagree with something I write
Tell me so. Argue with me. Correct me.
But don't tell me to shut up.
That's not the American way ~ Roger Ebert