Remembering the Alamo for the first time

A visit -- should I say pilgrimage? -- to the Alamo is de riguer at least the first time in San Antonio. It would be like going to Rome and not visiting the Vatican. Almost exactly like.
I'd read enough about it to be prepared for it being so very small -- it's really just the chapel of what was at one time a larger mission complex -- but I was not expecting the quasi-religious atmosphere. It is called "The Shrine;" men are required to remove their hats; not photography, no videos, no cell phones, and keep your voice down so as not to disturb the other worshippers.
I don't know whether it is always the case, or these were left over from the Fiesta last week, but it was filled with floral tributes, from modest bouquets to large wreaths. Other than the building itself, there's not much to see. A few display cases with a handful of artifact, Davy Crockett's beaded buckskin vest, some original documents. And plaques. Lots and lots of plaques.
Mike asked what I thought of it, and I demured answering until we had left the grounds. The grounds are worth a look. They will be very familiar to anyone acquainted with the California missions.
So, what did I think? I thought it was appalling. A romanticization -- an idealization -- a sanctification, an attempt at rationalization and justification of what was nothing more than a rebellion against a lawful sovereign power. Ferber was right, of course; they stole Texas from Mexico. It was not an act of independence against an aggressor, or an invading foreign power, or an oppressor  -- the Texans WERE the aggressors and the invading foreigners, and the oppressors of the native peoples. Mexicans who were on the wrong side of the border found themselves suddenly foreigners in their own land, subject to discrimination and inequality and oppression -- and they still are.
It's a glorification of war over diplomacy and of