There is a respect among my folk for the inherent dignity of every person to rise or fall according to his merits and good luck. And while we tend to root for the underdog and look after our own when they have troubles, we also harbor some secret suspicions about the character of those who continually fail to rise on their own merits. We secretly assume that there is something not right in their constitutions, and while we pity them and afford them every opportunity to make of themselves more substantial human concerns, we eventually cease to feel responsible for their upkeep and will allow them to find their own place at the bottom of the pile. Our troubles are essentially our own creations, in some sense, and there is dignity in owning yer own shit, good or bad. That is why we can look at a horse thief who spurs the animal at his own hangin and pay him the respect of sayin, "He died good." There is redemption in that and a pleasing symmetry that makes even the worst of us open to a certain form of Grace.
Which then reminded me of this from my sig file;
For a soldier it is black and white: deeds not words. If you need words to better illustrate, the Latin mottos of two Infantry Regiments I have served in will suffice: "Sua Sponte" and "NeDesit Virtus": Of their own accord and Let Valor not fail.
Or in true cowboy fashion: Saddle your own horse, cull your own herd, and bury your own dead.
Col. Knute Lombatton
