I traveled to 41 states last year with the intention of bringing people together. 2004’s journey was called “The Shaking Hands Tour.”

Folks were nice everywhere. Individuals spoke frankly to me, but what do we see around us?

There’s a difference between individuals and the group.

I’m convinced our country, as a group, could care less about shaking hands. We’re living in fear.

Loud voices constantly prod our culture’s wounds with hot-iron pokers, setting neighbors at odds with one another. Why? If the neighbors got along, the rabble-rousers would be unemployed.

What we affectionately call Political Correctness is killing our willingness to speak our mind. Our ancestors suffered so we could disagree in an agreeable fashion. Political Correctness is a dangerous wedge in our society, and no one seems willing to say so. But almost every individual I met last year talked about it.

Our right to speak without fear was probably originally intended as protection against governmental retribution. Now the voices are silenced by fear of lawsuits.

Individuals quickly say many lawsuits are ridiculous. But the group awards the ridiculous, secretly hoping they’ll one day win this twisted lottery.

One gets the feeling we are a mighty thin-skinned nation. Who will stand with their neighbors for what is right? Who will stand when it’s a matter of life and death?

There’s no sense of agreement on right and wrong. The popular version of right is to do what one wants without regard for others. Many insist on tolerance but aren’t willing to be tolerant themselves.

Respect for others is viewed as weakness. Respect for elders is an endangered species. I was taught that respect for others mirrors one’s own self-respect. If that’s true, our culture has virtually no self-respect. What example are we setting for the young?

We claim to be the world’s greatest country, but we act like a bunch of spoiled brats. We insist that God blesses America, but we ignore or throw away the blessings we’ve been given.

One’s eyes adjust to approaching darkness. One can still see during twilight, but light is disappearing nonetheless. Our eyes have adjusted to our dimming cultural light.

Twelve months ago I believed we were in danger of this country slipping through our fingers. I no longer believe that.

It is slipping through our fingers right now. This slipping-through was a constant theme I heard everywhere I went. The individuals know it’s happening, and they don’t know what to do.

Our culture is like a junkie doing anything for a fix. A junkie only changes after hitting a wall.

I was naive last year. I hoped my little work would help us avoid the wall. Now I know better. There’s no avoiding the brick wall’s darkness. We won’t change until we hit it.

I’m looking for those with fire in their belly who will shine light in the darkness. This is a hokey-sounding call to action.

I pose this question to anyone who still cares about America: Where are you?

(Editor’s Note: David Clark is a writer, musician, songwriter and storyteller I met about 14 years ago in Macon, Georgia (population 150,000) where he grew up. He left there about twelve years ago and put down roots in the rural cotton country near Cochran, Georgia (population 3,000). He began writing letters about life in his adopted town to city friends who encouraged him to record the stories, especially since he has a natural ear for the country vernacular, its cadences, and a gift for revving up a guitar. His many experiences as a musician, mechanic, recording studio engineer, newspaper publisher and graphic designer began mixing together, and David rediscovered his love of storytelling. The author of three books, David has toured much of America and recently released his ninth album. His essays have been featured on National Public Radio’s “All Things Considered” and his weekly column is published in numerous Southeastern newspapers. He’s now preparing for his 2005 tour. For more information on David, visit www.outofthesky.com. You can write him at dclark@outofthesky.com, or P.O. Box 148, Cochran, Ga. 31014).