Thoughts on Today

~Written 09/11/02~

Today.

What is the proper way to greet someone on a day like today? It is the first “anniversary” of our greatest tragedy, our most rude awakening. Good morning seems a lie. Hello sounds false, and a smile… well, it is hard to call one up for some of us.

One year ago today, the comfortable, if often imperfect world we knew ground to a screeching halt. How does one handle being thrust into a new and much more frightening life so abruptly? For those of us that escaped the horror without personal loss, is our grief and anger any less than the surviving families and friends and co-workers who lost someone? Does our outrage and sorrow belittle theirs? Why, exactly do we grieve? Besides empathizing with our fellow man’s pain, we weep for ourselves, our nation, our way of life. Our once safe, once secure lives; now shattered.

We, as a nation, as humans, are learning to grieve. Everyone will feel this day differently. Look, for example at the children, laughing and joking as they await the school bus. Then look over into the car next to you and see the woman furtively wiping her eyes, an American flag taped to her back window. See the actual woman, not just part of the scenery offered by your daily commute.

I remember one year ago. At this time of the morning, I was trying to come to grips with what the news brought me. Speeding in my car down the freeway, so uncertain exactly what had happened; the range and depth of emotions were overwhelming. The brutal reality, the very honest truth of this day last year has yet to be realized fully. No one can really wrap his or her mind around something this enormous. It’s like saying you know the sun is hot.

Arriving to work, numb and exhausted from the torrent of emotion, I realized I was scared. Scared in a way I have never been before. Not so much for me, or my personal safety, but for the country. What would happen now? It was the first time in my self-centered, over-indulgent life I ever truly felt American, what it means to be an American. Patriotism stirred in me, and I was ashamed I had ever taken my nation for granted.

We sat in the various conference rooms, glued to the news and each other, trying to reconcile what we heard with what we saw. Several of us volunteered to go to the airport and help ground those planes still up, get the passengers out of the terminals. Would there be more attacks? No one knew, and most of us didn’t care much. We were needed and we needed to be doing something. That is how we dealt with the unbearable.

We stepped into a dream. You might have expected chaos and fear; people hysterical. You found a grim, quiet determination. A small army of us, armed with fluorescent orange crash vests and American flag stickers descended upon the terminals, trying so hard to look in control of a situation we still had not begun to comprehend. We were to provide comfort and guidance, reassurance to the people there. Often, we were the ones comforted, but that in itself can offer comfort to both parties.

Many passengers and workers alike wandered around in a type of daze. Every once in a while, someone would shake their head sharply and look around. Looking into their now narrowed eyes, and you could literally see when numb shock gave way to pure American fury. With a quickened and purposeful step, they would move away, searching for only-they-knew.

As the day wore on, international flights were brought in. New faces and voices filled the airport. The mood changed. In more languages than I will ever hear again in a single day, we were told over and over how sorry the world was. Words were not needed, to be understood. Countless hugs from complete strangers, our tears mingling on each other’s already damp shoulders spoke more eloquently than the words ever could. We united because we were all human.

For several weeks after, American flags sprung up like mushrooms after the rain. Large and small, cheap and costly; freeways, buildings and cars displayed them proudly. I even saw one in my apartment complex with twenty-six white and purple stripes and seventeen stars, hung backwards and upside down. I doubt it was done in mockery, but it silently vanished from the apartment balcony overnight.

That now familiar feeling of patriotism reared up strongly when my eye, inevitably, fell on a flag, or eagle. But then again, so did the shame. How could I be so blind to what I had? Besides freedom of person, speech and thought, what is it to be American? I find out more about it every day.

As terrible as this will sound, and as much as I am loath to admit it, I owe those men a thank you. Without their action, I doubt I would ever have opened my eyes to what I have, here in this beautiful, imperfect, no-place-like-it land. I can honestly say, though, I would rather have lived blind and unpatriotic.

Out of all the myriad things that have been generated, electronically, digitally or otherwise, I have two favorites. One is that now famous (even if you haven’t read it) column by Dave Barry. The other is a hand drawn picture of a cartoon bald eagle, sharpening his claws with a file. Those two things describe how we as a nation reacted to this intrusion in our homeland.

Did you know we still have troops out there, fighting in a place that could make Hell seem a good vacation spot? Do you hear about them on the news anymore, or read how they struggle for us, in our name? It rips my heart out how quickly we forget. How damn eager we are to forget. What is it going to take to shock us out of this complacency for good?

I hope we never find out.