Eight Years Ago. . . And Now

So I guess I’m supposed to write some sort of 9/11 tribute today, at least that’s how it seems based on other blogs I regularly read. Hmm. . . what to say, what to say. . .

At the time I lived in Northern CA, all the way on the other side of the country from where the action was. It was a normal work day. I got up. While I dressed I watched an ER rerun on TV as was my habit at the time. By 7:15 (remember this was Pacific time so it was three hours later in NYC, DC, and PA) I was driving to work and listening to the radio. I was confused by the talk on the radio about a plane hitting the WTC or something or other. It didn’t register with me what they were saying until I was on the ramp from one highway to another. I remember rounding the curve as the news sunk in, and I began to understand that this was something really big and really bad.

I remember the heaviness of feeling that covered the office that day. I remember that little to no work was completed that day. I remember that I was glad N was too young (not quite three yet) to understand its significance or even know that it happened. I remember that I thought it was ridiculous that the local mall closed for the day for fear of an attack as though it would be a target high on the list: World Trade Center, Pentagon, White House, Small Town Shopping Mall. I remember how eerily quiet it was for days after when air traffic was suspended (we lived in the flight path of a small regional airport and would often hear private planes overhead) and how comforting it was to start hearing planes overhead again, returning just a bit of normalcy to our lives. I remember my mom and dad canceling plans to come out for N’s birthday that October and understanding their fear of flying in that very uncertain time. I remember wondering if I would ever fly again (and the answer is yes, many times since then, but not for almost a year after the incident). I remember fearing that Bush would start WW III, being relieved that he didn’t immediately make a kneejerk reaction, and later being disgusted that he used it as an excuse to avenge his daddy’s honor with Saddam Hussein.

Now, eight years later, do I feel safer or less safe than I did before it happened? I feel less safe. Why? It’s because I no longer trust that people are, above all, self-preservationists. When there are people who strongly believe that their lives on earth are not worth preserving, who are willing to sacrifice themselves in suicide bombings and willing to murder without regard for who it is they are murdering, I cannot feel safe. I keep an eye on everyone in public places. I suspect those who look the least suspicious because I believe they could be trying to blend into the crowd. I suspect those who look the most suspicious because I believe they aren’t bright enough to blend into the crowd. I suspect everyone except those I know well, and sometimes I even suspect them. On the other hand, I hold a bit of a fatalistic view. If it is time for me to go, then it will happen whether or not I am careful, whether or not I change course, whether or not I recognize a bomb just prior to detonation. Most of the time, when the depression doesn’t have its icy grip on my heart and mind, I am comfortable with my lot in life and with the possibility that I could move on to the next realm in whatever form it holds. That doesn’t mean I feel safe, though. I don’t, not one bit. I never cross a major bridge without hoping it doesn’t collapse. I never fly without expecting one of the passengers to be a terrorist. I never attend events in large venues without wondering if this is the place where the next bomb will detonate.

And life continues on unabated.