SUDDENLY SOUTHERN
Always American.
12 Sept 2001
The pictures are burned into my heart, permanently
embedded in that place that will never forget. The images flash in front of my
mind's eye like a slideshow... click... click... click... click...
A
blaze of orange fire against a spectacularly blue autumn sky. Dense dark clouds
billowing endlessly from magnificent buildings, reaching higher and higher. A
shower of smoke and debris, crashing to earth in the illusion of slow motion,
flying glass and debris glittering in the sun, showering down. People plummeting
from incredible heights, to a sure death, driven by a fear I can't even begin to
comprehend. Panicked people, racing through the streets, chased by a cloud of
destruction rolling behind them, like a scene from a horror film. A lone man,
standing in the midst of a war zone that is dark and dusty and grey his eyes
on an American flag, still flying, its brilliant colors still strong and proud.
And so many faces. Terrified... disbelieving... horrified... numb. So much pain.
And weary faces, exhaustion and sorrow mixed with the dust and the tears. Agony,
and heartbreak, and worry. And anger. Click... click... click.
The shock
and horror are, of course, overwhelming. This feels like... war. Fear creeps
into my world, snatching away the comfort that all of us who have lived our
lives in this country have always taken for granted. I watch and listen to
impossible news that relentlessly bombards me until I must accept it as reality.
I find our flag and hang it outside, and watch it flutter in the breeze. I push
away my deep urge to rush to my children's schools and bring them home with me.
Home, where it's safe! Home where I can protect them from the insanity unfolding
before my disbelieving eyes. A deep breath and a huge effort to think calmly -
and I'm able to reassure myself that they are safe where they are.
And
then - that moment exactly - is when the tragedy stabs me hardest in my heart.
As horrific as the tragedy is, as terrible and senseless and devastating as this
cowardly attack is, no matter how I ache and weep and mourn for the innocent
lives lost... What hits me hardest is the realization that I must tell my kids
what has happened.
Somehow, I have to make them understand without
making them afraid. I have to, on this beautiful sunny and perfect day, help
them understand that thousands of innocent people are dead because of an insane
madman halfway across the world. I have to assure them that while it's a tragedy
that is still beyond comprehension, they need not worry about it tonight when
they are laying in their beds waiting for sleep.
But I have to make them
see how real it all is - how it is right here in our lives, right now, big and
ugly and scary and can't be ignored. I cannot shelter them from the reality of
this because it is so important that they remember what happened. They have to
remember. They cannot be lulled into complacency. This day is their Cuban
Missile Crisis, their Kennedy assassination. When they're grown they will
remember this day, and they will remember what they were doing. I want them to
remember the horror and fear, the sorrow and the pain. I want them, as adults,
to never be fooled into thinking that just because we are strong, we are safe.
And yet - oh my God - they're just children. Don't they deserve to go
through their days, blissfully ignorant of how hard the world can be? Shouldn't
a child's world be a place that's safe and happy, where they are loved and fed
and clothed and sheltered and protected from all evil things?
Then I
wonder - Have they heard about this in school? I want to be the one who says the
words, who shows them the pictures, who helps them understand. And yet, I dread
being the one who must watch their sweet faces as the realization of what has
happened dawns on them, as it registers on their innocent minds. As a piece of
their childhood is forever ripped away.
And so, I wait for them to come
home. I watch my son amble across the park with his backpack bouncing against
his rear, and I know he's thinking ahead to important things like a snack and
how many minutes will Mom let him have on Gameboy today. His dog meets him on
the corner with a tail that wags so fast she can hardly stand still long enough
to lick his face. My daughter is home a few minutes later, barging through the
back door with her usual yell - I'm hooooooooooooome!! - followed by the heavy
thunk of her backpack hitting the middle of the kitchen floor, where it will
stay until I insist it be put away before someone trips and breaks an ankle for
crying out loud.
With a sigh and a mental deep breath to meet this task
head-on, I have them come and sit with me in the living room. And we talk. We
talk about how far away New York is. And how Afghanistan is even further. We
talk about how hard it is to understand that someone who doesn't even know us
can hate us enough to do such a horrible thing. And we watch the news reports
for a bit, to give us a better idea of the magnitude of the destruction.
I know that as we watch, my son is thinking to himself how cool these
pictures are. He sees with a second grader's eyes the planes, the explosions,
the buildings collapsing, the awesome spectacle of it all. Somewhere in his
mind, he knows that many people have died, but he doesn't acknowledge that
information. Yet.
My daughter has so many questions - she has watched
this on TV at school, and feels wise beyond her 10 years, but needs more
details, more clarification. Help in comprehending the incomprehensible.
They both are somber and reflective at first. I can see them struggling
to digest this information and come to grips with their own individual versions
of this harsh reality. Then, in typical kid fashion, they hop off the couch and
rush off to do their own thing - back to their own world for now. I know more
questions will come later, though. While I wait for those questions I try to
anticipate what they will be, and what my answers will be.
At dinner,
with the whole family together, we all talk about it some more and watch a
little more of the news to see if there is anything new. Thankfully, we do not
see any pictures of celebrating Palestinians. I would have to struggle to
explain the children dancing in the streets, shouting and cheering about such
suffering, because their parents have taught them hate. They have some questions
for their father, and he answers them all, giving them just enough information
to satisfy them, but not so much that they will have nightmares. Such a thin
line that is.
Later that evening, I call them all to the living room, to
watch President Bush address the nation. Even with their limited understanding
of politics and government, I can tell they are relieved to see him - calm and
reassuring and resolved. He tells us to pray and later that night they remember
this, even when I have forgotten. So we whisper a little, and pray. We pray for
the people who died, and for their families. We pray for the heroes who are
working tirelessly to save anyone they can find. We pray for our country, to
keep us safe. We pray for President Bush, that he has the strength and wisdom to
do the right thing, and that he stays safe. And we pray for us, that we stay
safe, too. And that we remember that we are in His hands, and there is no better
place to be. And then they go to sleep. Easily, after all.
My sleep
doesn't come as easily. My mind is reeling, the slideshow is clicking past my
eyes. I keep thinking of the evil out there, across the world, lurking. Even
though I know I should, I cannot pray for that man's black heart. The monster
that forced me to show my children such ugliness on such a beautiful day. I
think of what the days and weeks ahead might bring, and I resolve to spend less
time talking about this madman, and more time talking about the heroism and
selfless sacrifice that we will see again and again as we all recover from this.
I will not let this monster steal that from us.
We will see new faces.
Determined. Resolved. Courageous. Strong. And proud to be American.
