Never Forget.

No one is immune to heartache, and we have surely all heard the old adage, “time heals all wounds.” It is one of those sayings people, often those we don’t know well, use as means of comfort in a time of loss or despair when they don’t necessarily know what else to say.

But in that time of mourning, such sentiments, though well-intended, can seem callous to the sufferer, at least as far as I have experienced. While I have always managed to utter a polite, quiet “thank you” to such empty words, inside, my heart has screamed, How can you know? How will I go on? How will life ever be the same?

Somehow, though, they do know because we do go on. And, while life may never be the same (how could it be?), it continues, and we manage to continue with it, rejoicing in the good days, surviving the bad days, and living all days in between.

Today marks the twelfth anniversary of a day when my heart broke into a thousand pieces. I’d experienced heartache before through the deaths of loved ones, but even those experiences paled in comparison to the way September 11, 2001, affected me (and, I’m sure, many others like me as well).

That day, where I was, and how I felt will forever be seared into my memories, etched upon my heart.

It was my second year of college, and I was taking a walking class at eight o’clock in the morning. The local radio station was in the habit of sending its interns on wild adventures and crazy pranks, so when I got back in my car to head over to my second class of the day, I disregarded the intern who was reporting on something about a plane and a building. She sounded, for lack of a better word, distracted—and I figured the DJs were having fun at her expense. I even remember thinking initially that a plane flying into a building was a really distasteful topic.

But in the time it took me to get from the rec center to campus, I realized what I was hearing was no prank. I looked to the beautiful blue sky above me as I walked from my car to the building, watched the wispy clouds floating on the breeze, having really no idea the magnitude of what had happened. While many professors were dismissing class, my prof thought it important that we watch, as a class, as the news unfolded on the small television mounted at the front of the room. There was no collective sigh or grunt of protest in response. From the moment we took our seats, we were glued to the images and scrolling words flashing across the screen. And all I can remember is clutching my books to my chest and staring ahead in a sort of stupor as the towers burned and crumbled on live TV.

On my way home from school, a good friend from high school—one I no longer regularly saw—passed me on the road and followed me home. I remember being distracted, trying to talk to her and wanting to relinquish all responsibility and be sucked in by whichever channel the television landed on as they were all broadcasting some form of coverage of the attacks.

The atmosphere at work was so different from school or home. Anxiousness and urgency dominated the newsroom at the paper where I worked as the reporters and copy desk scrambled with the EXTRA they were running. My coworker and I were pulled between the televisions, the scanner, and the chatter around us. Excitement is the wrong word to describe the buzz that the liveliness of the newsroom created. It left no time to be sad, no time for the onset of the depression that would follow.

I shed many tears in the weeks and months that followed that day. No, I didn’t know any of the innocent who died in the attacks; I didn’t know any of the first responders who gave their lives trying to save others. But I don’t think I had to know them personally to know the very real pain of their tragic deaths. I was young and naïve, trying to decide what I wanted to do with my life, and this incredible loss made me feel so exposed and vulnerable. 

Twelve years have passed and the details of that day are still so vivid in my mind. I am fairly certain they are vivid in the minds of anyone who experienced, either first hand or at a distance, that terror and its aftermath.

But, as a result of that day, something beautiful, too, emerged. America experienced a renewed sense of identity. People stood together—despite their race or religion or political views. They offered what they could: supplies, time, money, blood, prayer. This beautifully diverse nation stood as one. And it took a great long while for that to fade.

Unfortunately, though, it seems it has faded. Fewer proudly display the red, white, and blue, even on days like today—when it seems most appropriate. We bicker and argue over petty details instead of working together toward a common goal. We complain about the need for change but do little to change anything at all. And, above all, we focus too much on ourselves and too little on one another.

I am grateful that my children did not have to experience September 11, 2001. It is often hard for me to realize that many of the students I teach today didn’t experience it either. So they stare at me with glossed over looks when I talk about it, when I remind them to honor those who have fallen and those who serve to protect them, on days like today and everyday—and I wonder if they will ever understand how important this day and the people who sacrifice all to protect this country truly are. I wonder if they will ever know an America like the one I experienced in the weeks and months that followed that September morning when the people of this great nation came together in the face of tragedy with something powerful to prove. 

I’ll never forget being parked on the side of the road, waiting for the 4^th of July fireworks display just a few months shy of the one year anniversary. Cars and trucks lined the roads and families popped little firecrackers in the open street. Everyone’s radios were tuned to the same station as the music was planned to accompany the show. And then Toby Keith’s southern drawl belted from the speakers, and men and women everywhere leaned into their cars to crank the volume. Someone hollered “hell yeah” and another echoed with applause until it seemed everyone along that road was singing what had become America’s anthem of resilience. And my heart, which had been shattered a year earlier, seemed almost whole again as it swelled with pride.

It was a powerful moment, representative of America, and an indication that time does, in many ways, heal or at least lessen the pain.

Thank a Veteran and Exercise Your Right Tomorrow

My brother-in-law and I had an interesting conversation via Facebook today. He made a post about a professor of his who rather flippantly disregarded this coming Monday’s holiday. First, she couldn’t remember why they weren’t having class… some holiday or whatnot. Then, when her memory returned, she said (and I’m paraphrasing his paraphrase), oh, yes, Veteran’s Day. I can’t keep all these “silly” holidays straight.

Now, I am a pretty laid back person. I’m a Libra and Libras prefer balance; they are mediators and dislike conflict to the point that they will endure unhappiness to keep those around them happy. As such, I am relatively even keel most of the time. But there are a few topics I cannot remain silent about: the first is my children. That one is rather obvious. The second is my family, certainly. And the third is my country and those who fight to protect it.

I have the honored privilege of having a great many veterans in my family. My husband served our country as did my uncle, my grandfathers, and any number of extended family members. We have many friends who are still active duty, scattered throughout the world, and many who are either separated or retired right here at home. And my position as a college instructor in a training base city means I meet veterans and active duty military members, all with their own unique stories and experiences, each semester. I am grateful to them all on a daily basis.

To forget the day we honor those who have served in the various branches of the United States Armed Forces or, worse, to refer to that day as “silly” is not only disrespectful; in my mind, such disregard is directly linked to the main problem facing my generation and the generation that will be voting in it’s first election tomorrow: selfishness. I would say ignorance or even indifference, but both of those initial reactions can be traced to the larger issue that truly appears to drive every decision today’s youth makes.

As a further example, the day after the last presidential debate, I asked my classes to respond via a casual journal topic. I don’t preach my beliefs before my students: politics and religion rarely make their way into my classroom except through rhetorical questions and occasional independent writing exercises, honestly, because I view my authority as a means for encouraging and promoting thought in an environment that fosters growth, creativity, and freedom of expression. But with the election looming on the horizon, I thought it was a topic that should be addressed rather than ignored. I knew it was hopeful, to say the least, that my younger students would even have realized the debates were on TV. For my non-traditionals, I really expected passionate, issue-driven responses.

What did I get? Apathy. Indifference. And even a bold, “Who really cares?”

Well, for one, I do. And honestly I find it rather frightening that this is the general attitude of those who will one day be charged with making decisions for this great nation. The selfishness that leads to such bold statements is the same selfishness that leads to Veteran’s Day being referred to as “silly” and students commenting, “I’ll vote one day when I care enough to follow it all.”

The general attitude in this country stinks. Everyone sits around complaining about the economy, about the war, about unemployment, but very few of those who are the most vocal are willing to put forth the effort to change it. Ralph Waldo Emerson argues that mankind is “afraid of truth, afraid of fortune, afraid of death, and afraid of each other.” And that is, quite possibly, truer today that when it was written. He encourages man to avoid the conformity that society encourages: “To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true for all men, — that is genius.” Sadly, today’s conformists are all too content to jump on the “I don’t care” or “it doesn’t affect me” bandwagon. Perhaps a lack of conviction in addition to a “foolish consistency” is, indeed, the “hobgoblin of little minds.”

Much like the ignorant professor whose thoughtless comments inspired this post, those who choose not to vote have every right to conform. That is, after all, what society wants. However, I think it important that we remember who guarantees our right to vote (or not vote), to speak our minds (however boorish our thoughts may be), to walk outside and feel the sun on our faces, the wind in our hair, and not fear gun fire or roadside bombs. Because, despite their sacrifices—and they are many—and despite the fact that they live with the reality that they may or may not return to this country alive, they defend it without question. They defend the freedoms of those who don’t care enough to visit a polling place on Tuesday and give five minutes of their lives to cast a vote; they defend the rights of those who choose to loudly protest against them and what they represent; and they protect this nation because, despite her problems and despite her fair-weather citizenry, America is still a great nation.   

This post isn’t about being a democrat, a republican, or an independent. It is about being a proud American and honoring those who risk their lives to afford us the right to declare our allegiance to a particular political party and exercising that right tomorrow at the poll.

And don’t be afraid to thank those who have served. There’s no need to wait until Monday. Tell them today and tomorrow. Tell them Monday and tell them again the next day. Considering the sacrifices they make, they cannot be told enough.