Sadness/Worries/Hopes/Fears/Changes

{ On September 11 }

a r t h u r g i l l e t t

My mom called early that Tuesday to tell me that something had happened to the World Trade Center. I stared at the television in disbelief but was distanced from the pain of the moment. It was TV, and it was easy to stay away from the seriousness. Not realizing that I was supposed to be devastated, I went to class vaguely thinking about the incident. Class consisted of a brief “have you heard” and then the normal routine. Nobody had been told how seriously to react, and nobody had had time to do so anyway. By my next class, the damage had been done, and the hatred involved became apparent.

I had been shocked and worried by the attacks, but I also had remained somewhat aloof. I feared, more than what had been done, that the attacks would fuel malicious reactions and xenophobia, that suddenly it would be difficult to be publicly Muslim and that in one act, Al Qaeda would have destroyed the open-mindedness that the movements of the past forty years had cultivated in America. The worry expanded into a vision of an isolationist world closing down. Admittedly these fears may have been a bit much.

Then, at three, my Mom called again. She made September 11th mine. She told me my family’s closest friend, Alan, had been on flight 93. I absorbed the news coldly, shocked. I wanted to cry, but ended up just shuddering and kicking my feet down into the mattress I lay on. As for all of us, the next few days were surreal. We were wonderful to each other, and for the first time in my life, the flag at half mast meant goodbye and honor and other forms of rarely felt adulthood. I experienced melancholy of an almost sweet nature each time I passed it on the way to class. I prayed during the next weeks that our reactions would improve the world as a whole. I prayed for peace and I didn’t feel anger. Often I felt sad, and I worried when I saw senators allowing their fear to guide their speeches; but also I was genuinely proud of my country.

A year later, I don’t often think of Alan. I dream of him sometimes and give thanks to him every time I manage to find a properly made cup of Decaf Earl Grey, as it was his favorite. This summer, I accepted that he was actually not coming back. It was the first time that I had allowed this realization to happen, and I think I then finally said goodbye. I wondered if my processing of his death had been stagnant for so long, if I had refused to take that important step in mourning my friend. I began to think about having done the same thing for September 11th—whether I had stopped actively trying to deal with the aspects of it that were difficult for me. I think, through support realized here and at home, I did confront the day itself.

But I never dealt with what bothered me about our campaign in Afghanistan. I think that many of our processes were intelligent and that our support for the new government, since the attacks stopped, has been adequate, but I ditched that part of me that wanted our reaction to be reform-oriented as well as justice-oriented. I haven’t confronted my disappointment that some of the very regimes we deal with are still undemocratic or repressive. I normalized our new “with us or against us” relationship with the world rather than hoping and expecting we wouldn’t use September 11th as an excuse for unfairly simplifying our foreign aid decisions.

Arriving at the anniversary of my lifetime’s most poignant event, I don’t know what to think. I don’t know whether to watch television and participate in what will, at least to some extent, overdo our plight or shut it out. I want to remember our pain and togetherness as the Davidson community, but I don’t think that I can take much of the somewhat forced content of the day’s television. I know that I will take it as day of quiet and reflection in order to make sure I get into the many emotions that I still feel about our reaction, Alan, and the violence itself. But I don’t know that I will be comfortable with the decisions that the networks and politicians make on how they will shape our day of mourning. I hope that I will and think that I won’t, but I have made the decision that I will not allow myself to bury what discomfort I have. I will confront my reasons for it and my need to think or feel a given way. My hope is that Wednesday becomes a time for us all to reopen the pain, change, and emotion that we have cut off in fear of their consequences.