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Edited on Sun Feb-12-06 04:12 AM by varkam
It happened several months following it. I can't pinpoint the day, maybe not even the week or the month. I don't think it was a sudden sort of thing, but much more gradual progression. It didn't announce itself with a roar, like the carnage wrought on us that day - it came without a sound. There were no explosions, and there was no screaming. People did not have confused expressions on their faces, caked with soot and dirt. Rather, it was a day like any other. We were driving to the little league game, sipping our Frappuccinos, and banging out another manuscript on our laptop.
It struck me, that in the hours following the attacks, that something very deep and powerful had occurred. What struck me was the notion that, from all the death and destruction, from the final minutes of those 3,000 people and the last phone calls home, something good could come from the madness. All of a sudden, the lines of distinction to which I and so many others had become accustomed to had vanished. Republican. Democrat. Libertarian. Black. White. Hispanic. Christian. Muslim. Atheist. Poor. Rich. Young. Old. Fat. Skinny. Beautiful. None of it mattered. They had all been taken from us by the acts of a few extremists who were warped by hatred and ideology. All that was left was a single world - American. We had all suffered. We bore witness to the unfathomable depths of the dark side of humanity. We all saw the towers come down, and we all mourned. I remember reading about an article entitled "New York Drops It's Game Face": complete strangers were hugging one another on the street, asking if they needed anything. Solidarity. Yeah, that's the word. And it moved me to tears, more so than the attacks themselves. For my money, the solidarity that arose from the remains of the WTC was one of the most beautiful things I had seen or been a part of.
The road signs went up. Everyone and their mother bought an American flag. Donations of material, blood and money poured in. Everyone wanted to help. These were not strangers that were suffering. These were our brothers, our sisters, our mother and our fathers - and we loved them just as dearly. Then, as time dragged on in the way that it does, things returned to normalcy. The McDonalds down the street took the "We will not forget" sign off the reader-board and replaced it with "McRib is Back!". Donations fell. Blood was in short supply. And everyone put an American flag sticker on the back of their car - as if that would suffice for compassion, thought, and action.
We had deja-vu during the past hurricane season. We all saw the images of the poor, the destitute, stranded. Starving and dehydrated. We all saw the rage and the destruction. The suffering and the death. Again, all of us felt compelled to help our brothers, our sisters, mothers and fathers. Our fellow Americans. Donations again poured in. People went in droves to lend their time and their bodies to the efforts and solidarity came again. This time not from the hatred that dwells in men's hearts, but the wrath of mother nature. I thought, perhaps this time it will stick. Perhaps this time, we will remember that that stranger on the other side of the street is not a stranger at all, but one who is intricately connected to our very lives.
And of course, that time has passed once more. I find myself wondering why. I wonder why it has to be this way. Why we have to go back to driving to little league games or sipping Frappuccinos or banging out another manuscript on our laptop. Perhaps some of you are thinking that I'm being too unreasonable - that I expect people to mourn or to think about such things all the time. I do not. But it seems that we are constantly educated through pain and we forget the lessons it teaches us with similar frequency. That is why I say the real tragedy did not occur on September 11th, 2001 - as I, for one, mourn the passing of solidarity.
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