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Four years ago, the world changed
Sep. 11th, 2005 08:09 amAt least, my view of the world changed.
As a sheltered pampered privileged American, raised in middle class comfort, I never expected to see terrorism on such a grand scale come to my country. In fact, I never thought about terrorism. Suicide bombers and car bombs didn't exist here. I never worried about going to the corner market for milk or a newspaper, I had no concern about eating at a restaurant or stepping into a nightclub or browsing in a street bazaar. Those things happened elsewhere. Not here.
This is the United States! We're protected on east and west by vast oceans, and north and south by friendly peaceful countries. In my complacency, I never considered the vulnerability of an airplane, or the porousness of our borders, or the laxness of our immigration policy. I never thought about how easy it is to buy a ticket, or drive a car, or get a visitor's visa. Why would I? Freedom and ease of movement is one of the hallmarks of our heritage.
Four years ago, that bright beautiful Tuesday morning, shortly before 8:00 AM Central Time, I turned south on Arkansas Highway 7 just as the NPR announcer (was it Daniel Shore? I can't remember) said, "We have a report that a plane has flown into the World Trade Center." By the time I got to the office, both towers and the Pentagon were on fire, and what was that about the passenger plane in Pennsylvania?
A couple of hours after that, we were all told to go home. No federal offices remained open that day. Home was a two hour drive away, made even longer by the frequency with which I had to pull over and simply sob. I turned the radio off eventually. I couldn't listen anymore. Over the next few days, I listened and watched as much as I could bear. I couldn't bear much. On the Sunday following, the newspaper listed the names of the dead and missing. I crawled back in bed next to my soon-to-be-spouse and sobbed anew.
And if I, a simple woman in a tiny town in rural Arkansas, thousands of miles away from any direct impact, was so affected, how much more so those who actually lived through it? Those who were in the buildings? Those who knew someone in the buildings or on the planes? Those who lived in the cities? I can't begin to imagine their pain, their heartbreak.
And yet they go on. And so do I. More aware. Less complacent. And a little less starry-eyed.
As a sheltered pampered privileged American, raised in middle class comfort, I never expected to see terrorism on such a grand scale come to my country. In fact, I never thought about terrorism. Suicide bombers and car bombs didn't exist here. I never worried about going to the corner market for milk or a newspaper, I had no concern about eating at a restaurant or stepping into a nightclub or browsing in a street bazaar. Those things happened elsewhere. Not here.
This is the United States! We're protected on east and west by vast oceans, and north and south by friendly peaceful countries. In my complacency, I never considered the vulnerability of an airplane, or the porousness of our borders, or the laxness of our immigration policy. I never thought about how easy it is to buy a ticket, or drive a car, or get a visitor's visa. Why would I? Freedom and ease of movement is one of the hallmarks of our heritage.
Four years ago, that bright beautiful Tuesday morning, shortly before 8:00 AM Central Time, I turned south on Arkansas Highway 7 just as the NPR announcer (was it Daniel Shore? I can't remember) said, "We have a report that a plane has flown into the World Trade Center." By the time I got to the office, both towers and the Pentagon were on fire, and what was that about the passenger plane in Pennsylvania?
A couple of hours after that, we were all told to go home. No federal offices remained open that day. Home was a two hour drive away, made even longer by the frequency with which I had to pull over and simply sob. I turned the radio off eventually. I couldn't listen anymore. Over the next few days, I listened and watched as much as I could bear. I couldn't bear much. On the Sunday following, the newspaper listed the names of the dead and missing. I crawled back in bed next to my soon-to-be-spouse and sobbed anew.
And if I, a simple woman in a tiny town in rural Arkansas, thousands of miles away from any direct impact, was so affected, how much more so those who actually lived through it? Those who were in the buildings? Those who knew someone in the buildings or on the planes? Those who lived in the cities? I can't begin to imagine their pain, their heartbreak.
And yet they go on. And so do I. More aware. Less complacent. And a little less starry-eyed.
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