For UN 101, Midnight Writers, and posterity...
... 2 cents on September 11, seeing as there's still an hour and a half left of it from the time zone in which I stand.
I remember wondering if the world was ending. It was only for a moment, before the surreality set in and I realized that all these things that were going wrong were going wrong on the other side of the country; that I didn’t know anyone in New York and didn’t know anyone in D.C. and had only flown once in my life. The events of September 11, 2001 were, for all intents and purposes, a world away from me. I still remember, though, that split-second when I saw the first plane hit the first tower for the first time and wondered why it didn’t pass by on the other side -- realized that it hadn’t flown past the tower, but rather straight into it -- asked myself if something was going to hit my home next -- and answered, if only for a moment, a gut-wrenching yes.
That day turned my perception of the world upside-down, and I’ve been hating its effect ever since. The act itself was awful enough, but the spirit of paranoia and mistrust it has since propagated seems to me to be infinitely worse. I consider myself a fairly well-adjusted, reasonably trusting person -- deeply grateful for the life I’ve been given, spiritual in an eclectic and deeply personal way, open about my feelings and their causes. I’ve always been that way, I enjoy being that way, and I struggle every day to maintain that balance between stability and flexibility. But a heinous terrorist event that should have drawn people together, if for no other reason than to nurse each others’ wounds, has driven a wedge between every division of society all the way down to the level of the individual. So much so that even I, maybe-too-open-hearted-for-my-own-good me, have become automatically mistrusting.
I hate it.
The world has never been and never will be perfect. But the ability to trust someone -- to start out on the level until they do something to lose that trust, that is, rather than starting with nothing and forcing them to built trust from the ground up -- should be a basic human right. I feel slighted by the world I live in, beyond the torches-and-pitchforks mentality of its current political chaos, beyond the kindergarten-standard educational system, beyond all the trappings of corruption that make daily life hell -- no, I feel slighted and disillusioned because if there is one thing this world has sought tirelessly (and, more often than I’d like to admit, successfully) to teach me, it is that I cannot trust my fellow man. And I despise that lesson. I despise that I cannot close my ears to it. I despise that it would be dangerous for me to close my ears to it, because it is, if not always, at least quite often true.
In much the way I force myself to walk calmly when senseless paranoia strikes in the dead of night and I feel sure there’s someone behind me -- in much the same way I continue being politically active despite the looming dread that my lone vote will never be enough -- in much the way I do daring things by acting first and thinking later -- in this way do I continue to trust people. I do. And in most cases I am not disappointed -- people are generally good, if one gives them the chance to be. Every once in a while I’ll get a little hurt, but I think it’s worth it for the friends I’ve made and the mask of social ease I’ve created for myself, both of which make life a lot easier. But underneath that is the ever-present knowledge that my ease is a facade and that I’ve tested all of my friends without their knowledge, endlessly, to maintain the comfortable level of trust that exists between us.
I shouldn’t have to do that. It shouldn’t be an issue. People should not be afraid of other people. I mean, come on -- they’re unavoidable. People are an epidemic on this planet, and rampant mistrust is destroying our natural immunities.
So what September 11 means to me is this: not the unification of the nation or the remembrance of the dead, although those things are important beyond conscious understanding and should -- must -- be addressed in their due course; but rather, in Golding’s terms, the end of innocence. September 11 means, to me, that moment when you realize that the world might end tomorrow and you’d never see it coming. September 11 means, to me, that we have no (and make no attempt to gain any) perspective on our own history, the history we make every day, and that without that perspective we can’t apply the lessons that the rest of history teaches us. September 11 is a sad, lonely day of watching the news with a bottle of water in shaking hands, sitting on a couch in California and wondering if the death and destruction can somehow reach out and touch the people you love three thousand miles away.
I don’t have reverence for the day. For the people whose lives were lost, yes; for the few good things that came of it, yes. But for the day? For what it represents to me?
I have only regret.
I remember wondering if the world was ending. It was only for a moment, before the surreality set in and I realized that all these things that were going wrong were going wrong on the other side of the country; that I didn’t know anyone in New York and didn’t know anyone in D.C. and had only flown once in my life. The events of September 11, 2001 were, for all intents and purposes, a world away from me. I still remember, though, that split-second when I saw the first plane hit the first tower for the first time and wondered why it didn’t pass by on the other side -- realized that it hadn’t flown past the tower, but rather straight into it -- asked myself if something was going to hit my home next -- and answered, if only for a moment, a gut-wrenching yes.
That day turned my perception of the world upside-down, and I’ve been hating its effect ever since. The act itself was awful enough, but the spirit of paranoia and mistrust it has since propagated seems to me to be infinitely worse. I consider myself a fairly well-adjusted, reasonably trusting person -- deeply grateful for the life I’ve been given, spiritual in an eclectic and deeply personal way, open about my feelings and their causes. I’ve always been that way, I enjoy being that way, and I struggle every day to maintain that balance between stability and flexibility. But a heinous terrorist event that should have drawn people together, if for no other reason than to nurse each others’ wounds, has driven a wedge between every division of society all the way down to the level of the individual. So much so that even I, maybe-too-open-hearted-for-my-own-good me, have become automatically mistrusting.
I hate it.
The world has never been and never will be perfect. But the ability to trust someone -- to start out on the level until they do something to lose that trust, that is, rather than starting with nothing and forcing them to built trust from the ground up -- should be a basic human right. I feel slighted by the world I live in, beyond the torches-and-pitchforks mentality of its current political chaos, beyond the kindergarten-standard educational system, beyond all the trappings of corruption that make daily life hell -- no, I feel slighted and disillusioned because if there is one thing this world has sought tirelessly (and, more often than I’d like to admit, successfully) to teach me, it is that I cannot trust my fellow man. And I despise that lesson. I despise that I cannot close my ears to it. I despise that it would be dangerous for me to close my ears to it, because it is, if not always, at least quite often true.
In much the way I force myself to walk calmly when senseless paranoia strikes in the dead of night and I feel sure there’s someone behind me -- in much the same way I continue being politically active despite the looming dread that my lone vote will never be enough -- in much the way I do daring things by acting first and thinking later -- in this way do I continue to trust people. I do. And in most cases I am not disappointed -- people are generally good, if one gives them the chance to be. Every once in a while I’ll get a little hurt, but I think it’s worth it for the friends I’ve made and the mask of social ease I’ve created for myself, both of which make life a lot easier. But underneath that is the ever-present knowledge that my ease is a facade and that I’ve tested all of my friends without their knowledge, endlessly, to maintain the comfortable level of trust that exists between us.
I shouldn’t have to do that. It shouldn’t be an issue. People should not be afraid of other people. I mean, come on -- they’re unavoidable. People are an epidemic on this planet, and rampant mistrust is destroying our natural immunities.
So what September 11 means to me is this: not the unification of the nation or the remembrance of the dead, although those things are important beyond conscious understanding and should -- must -- be addressed in their due course; but rather, in Golding’s terms, the end of innocence. September 11 means, to me, that moment when you realize that the world might end tomorrow and you’d never see it coming. September 11 means, to me, that we have no (and make no attempt to gain any) perspective on our own history, the history we make every day, and that without that perspective we can’t apply the lessons that the rest of history teaches us. September 11 is a sad, lonely day of watching the news with a bottle of water in shaking hands, sitting on a couch in California and wondering if the death and destruction can somehow reach out and touch the people you love three thousand miles away.
I don’t have reverence for the day. For the people whose lives were lost, yes; for the few good things that came of it, yes. But for the day? For what it represents to me?
I have only regret.