标题是我都翻的
wait for a call when their shift ended saying everything was okay. They knew
their parents felt a pang of fear every time a breaking news alert came on, or
the radio cut in.
But they left for the mines anyway -– some, having waited all their
lives to be miners; having longed to follow in the footsteps of their fathers
and their grandfathers. And yet, none of them did it for themselves alone.
All that hard work, all that hardship, all the time spent underground,
it was all for the families. It was all for you. For a car in the driveway, a
roof overhead. For a chance to give their kids opportunities that they would
never know, and enjoy retirement with their spouses. It was all in the hopes of
something better. And so these miners lived -– as they died -– in pursuit of
the American Dream.
There, in the mines, for their families, they became a family themselves
-– sharing birthdays, relaxing together, watching Mountaineers football or
basketball together, spending days off together, hunting or fishing. They may
not have always loved what they did, said a sister, but they loved doing it
together. They loved doing it as a family. They loved doing it as a community.
That’s a spirit that’s reflected in a song that almost every American
knows. But it’s a song most people, I think, would be surprised was actually
written by a coal miner’s son about this town, Beckley,
about the people of West Virginia.
It’s the song, Lean on Me -– an anthem of friendship, but also an anthem of
community, of coming together.
That community was revealed for
all to see in the minutes, and hours, and days after the tragedy. Rescuers,
risking their own safety, scouring narrow tunnels saturated with methane and
carbon monoxide, hoping against hope they might find a survivor. Friends
keeping porch lights on in a nightly vigil; hanging up homemade signs that
read, “Pray for our miners, and their families.” Neighbors consoling each
other, and supporting each other and leaning on one another.
I’ve seen it, the strength of that community. In the days that followed
the disaster, emails and letters poured into the White House. Postmarked from
different places across the country, they often began the same way: “I am proud
to be from a family of miners.” “I am the son of a coal miner.” “I am proud to
be a coal miner’s daughter.” (Applause.) They were always proud, and they asked
their parents felt a pang of fear every time a breaking news alert came on, or
the radio cut in.
But they left for the mines anyway -– some, having waited all their
lives to be miners; having longed to follow in the footsteps of their fathers
and their grandfathers. And yet, none of them did it for themselves alone.
All that hard work, all that hardship, all the time spent underground,
it was all for the families. It was all for you. For a car in the driveway, a
roof overhead. For a chance to give their kids opportunities that they would
never know, and enjoy retirement with their spouses. It was all in the hopes of
something better. And so these miners lived -– as they died -– in pursuit of
the American Dream.
There, in the mines, for their families, they became a family themselves
-– sharing birthdays, relaxing together, watching Mountaineers football or
basketball together, spending days off together, hunting or fishing. They may
not have always loved what they did, said a sister, but they loved doing it
together. They loved doing it as a family. They loved doing it as a community.
That’s a spirit that’s reflected in a song that almost every American
knows. But it’s a song most people, I think, would be surprised was actually
written by a coal miner’s son about this town, Beckley,
about the people of West Virginia.
It’s the song, Lean on Me -– an anthem of friendship, but also an anthem of
community, of coming together.
That community was revealed for
all to see in the minutes, and hours, and days after the tragedy. Rescuers,
risking their own safety, scouring narrow tunnels saturated with methane and
carbon monoxide, hoping against hope they might find a survivor. Friends
keeping porch lights on in a nightly vigil; hanging up homemade signs that
read, “Pray for our miners, and their families.” Neighbors consoling each
other, and supporting each other and leaning on one another.
I’ve seen it, the strength of that community. In the days that followed
the disaster, emails and letters poured into the White House. Postmarked from
different places across the country, they often began the same way: “I am proud
to be from a family of miners.” “I am the son of a coal miner.” “I am proud to
be a coal miner’s daughter.” (Applause.) They were always proud, and they asked
