Returning Home
Shutting down the blog taught me a few things, and it would be a shame to the integrity of the project I started 6 years ago not to revive one of my outlets. That said, my sabbatical is over and I am returning. While in abstentia, I realized that there are some things that need to be said and some stories that need to be told. I cannot find a proper outlet to tell these tales other than here. I discovered that its a lot harder to walk away from something that you have been working on for so long and that trying to ignore it will never work. Last, I am verbose. Excessively so, and this is the place to justify my need to speak. So I am starting again.
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As is my yearly tradition, I set aside my political position and reflect on the events that occurred in 2001. This year, however, I am less focused on the global event (the sociology, if you will) and look at the individual stories. What happens is a peculiar event that becomes like The Mosaic Collective from FlashForward, a highly anticipated tv series and book, which people collect and aggregate memories from the future. However, I have been collecting people’s memories from the past and fitting them together within the confines of the what we believe about that day. The odd thing is what it is people remember. On that morning I rode to school with a good friend named Hollye. The Christian radio station played a particularly good playlist consisting of “King of the Hill” – Eli, “Jesus Freak” – dc talk, and “Breakfast” – Newsboys. At this time we had no clue as to what was going to happen in our world.
As usual, we arrived early and sat in the parking lot of the high school for a few minutes before heading to our first classes. I was in 10th grade and my first class was drivers ed. However, my group was not driving that day so we went to our respective study hall classes (which was merely sitting in another class and keeping quiet). I was drawing, in fact I still have that drawing, when there was a knock on the classroom door. The ancient teacher stepped out for a second, then stepped back into the classroom and informed us that a plane had hit the World Trade Center. His tone and minimal information indicated is was nothing bigger than a private plane. The door opened the very next second and another teacher stepped in and said that it was bigger than we thought. The old man history teacher told us that we were going to watch what was happening and that we needed to gather out things. The entire class went down the hall to an empty classroom with a TV on in the corner. The very second I walked into the room I saw the second plane hit the remaining tower.
We scrambled to get close to the TV. As if compelled by some common thought we began moving all of the desks into a stacked wall to the side of the room in order to all be as close to the screen as possible. Another class filed in and sat behind us. The noise of people crying, talking, and praying was loud but somehow faded into a perceived silence as the moments ticked on. Without warning the first tower collapse happened. I stopped thinking, breathing, and speaking at that moment and I uncontrollably cried. It was as if I could feel lives ending when that tower fell. I was too overcome with sadness to do anything but sit there in morose silence.
Then there is a blackout. I don’t recall anything but minor flashes after that moment. I know I told one of my good friends between classes. My biology class went on as planned because the school administration told the teachers not to discuss the events or turn on the TVs. I have no memory of my third class even happening. During my fourth class, creative writing 2 with Mr. Birmingham, I was with Hollye and two other good friends (one of which I still keep in touch with regularly). Walking into that class room I saw four TV carts at the front of the room defiantly tuned to 4 different news stations. Mr. B. (as we called him) told us that no school administration was going to stop us from seeing what was happening in the world and that he didn’t care about the repercussions of having the TVs on. We all sat in stunned silence as the news stations replayed the plane impacts and tower collapses (the second collapse, I had missed). I don't remember class ending, getting on the bus, or the ride home. I do remember turning on the little TV in my bed room and being glued to it.
From that point the moments I remember going forward are sparse. Holding the hand of my first girlfriend as we watched a service broadcast to our church, hearing Jump5’s “God Bless the USA” on the Christian radio station a few days later. Gradually my memories of the after-time blend into the dull gray world I lived in.
I have never recounted this story in quite this manner for fear of letting these moments bubble back to the surface. In discussing the events I found that Hollye doesn’t remember me riding with her to class that morning, or even our 4th period class. She remembers going home and watching the news. This alternate remembrance got me intrigued with the total sum of memories. This morning, Twitter fed my need to explore the collective memory. Friends posted where they were when the news finally hit them. Some were in class or at work, a few were traveling via car or subway, one was in the area when the first plane hit. Our collective memories are the only true memories of that morning. No one single tale will ever be accurate. I often wonder about the people in that class room who were around me and what they saw. I can’t honestly say I remember a single face from that classroom, and I assume no one else could either.
Our collective memories need to be what our history is based on, not on formal documents produced by the government, historians, or even news broadcasts. Our memories, while significantly fallible, are the true account of how we experienced it.
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What is your story for the collective memory?
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