During World War II, one of the innumerable government agencies, the Writer’s War Board, couldn’t come up with a working definition of the word democracy. Here’s what E.B. White wrote in the the New Yorker:
Surely the Board knows what democracy is. It is the line that forms on the right. It is the don’t in don’t shove. It is the hole in the stuffed shirt through which the sawdust slowly trickles; it is the dent in the high hat. Democracy is the recurrent suspicion that more than half the people are right more than half of the time. It is the feeling of privacy in the voting booths, the feeling of communion in the libraries, the feeling of vitality everywhere. Democracy is a letter to the editor. Democracy is the score at the beginning of the ninth. It is an idea which hasn’t been disproved yet, a song the words of which have not gone bad. It’s the mustard on the hot dog and cream in the rationed coffee.
Don’t forget today, those that died for our freedom and our right to democracy. Don’t forget, especially, those brave souls that braved the beaches of Normandy and turned the tide of the war, facing off with evil and defending what is good and right and true and honorable.