“Where were you when the world stopped turning on that September day?” asked Alan Jackson in a popular country song. Today, on the tenth anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks on our nation, thousands of Americans echo this question. “I was on my way to meet so-and-so for breakfast.” “I was running errands for my wife.” “I slept through my alarm… thank the good Lord.” For my generation, the response is usually more along the lines of, “I was in Spanish class”, or “I was late for math.”
It’s a beautiful day, and I grumpily stomp my fourth-grade, loafer-clad feet to Ms. Clancey’s art class. Ms. Clancey hates me. She is the only teacher that I don’t get an A+ from. I am never excited for Tuesday mornings, because I know that I am about to get fussed at about the bit of glue oozing from a googly eye, or the tiny “click” not sounding just right when I put the caps back on the “shah-pee mah-kus”. I ascend the endless spiral steps in a line with the rest of Mrs. Weston’s fourth graders, and wait outside that stupid classroom, in the dingy hallway.
Class starts: some 8th grader reads prayers and announcements on the intercom, Ms. Clancey tells us how inadequate we are, we receive our assignment, and scrabble for supplies, so as not to be left with the crumpled up papers at the bottom of the pile. It is a rather painless day, as Ms. Clancey sits at her desk grading, and I have scored a seat in the middle of the classroom, with a whole table of buffer between her and me. We are all bent over our latest projects, working with that intense fervor that the first month of school always brings.
A while later, the intercom crackles on: heads whip around, praying that someone is about to get called to the office. Sister Mary Victor’s voice crackles on, but we lose interest quickly, since we can’t understand a word she says. Ms. Clancey’s ears prick up, though. She interrogates the kids sitting closest to the junky old system, but they missed the announcement too. Finally, she sends Shailey and one of her friends down to the office to find out what was so important that the principal had to tell us.
Shailey and her escort finally saunter back in: “There was some kind of attack, but don’t worry… the president’s ok.” We go back to work, but Ms. Clancey doesn’t look quite write. The class passes in silence. Back in Mrs. Weston’s messy, animal-filled room, the TV is on: buildings, planes, and fire fill the screen. We finally realize that something is wrong when Tommy Kayworth and his three or four siblings are called to the office.
Mrs. Weston doesn’t say much on the subject, and the rest of the day flies by: kids leave left and right, and everyone desperately waits for their name to be called. We want to get out of there and get some answers. I remember getting in the minivan with my sister and our spoiled neighbors, the Whitlocks. I remember driving home, and watching the news all afternoon and evening. I remember growing increasingly terrified. I remember hiding in my bed and waiting for a plane to strike our house. Finally, when I can’t take it anymore, I head downstairs, to where Mom is watching the news: the horrible, ugly, fiery news.
I don’t remember what Mom says, but I imagine it went something along the lines of this:
First off, no one wants to bomb a little, insignificant house in St. Augustine, Florida. Second, you can’t lay scared to death in your bed and cry all day. That’s what the terrorists want. They want you to be terrified in your own home: they want to uproot your life, and not allow you to do things the way you want to. But we are a strong country, and we’ll get through this. You can’t be scared though, and we have to show those bad men that we are proud to be Americans, no matter what.
The news is now discussing Pearl Harbor, and the aftermath of the last major attack on our country. Amidst all the fear and uncertainty that was abounding, a little glimmer of hope suddenly springs forth: fly a flag. Come together as a country right now, and put out your flags. Such a simple action, but for some reason, the little spark in my belly suddenly begins to burn. We dig through the chaotic laundry room until we emerge with a little flag, no more than two feet tall, which we promptly stick in the flag holder, which I didn’t know even existed, on the side of the house. It has been raining and drizzling all afternoon, and as we put out our flag, it is just beginning to stop.
Standing on the screened porch, breathing in the fresh scent of rainy air, and looking at that battered little flag fluttering in the wind, I am no longer afraid. It suddenly seems to have clicked that it’s “fightin’ time”. Time to toughen up, and listen to all the aid announcements that will soon swamp us. Time to go through those tons of stuffed animals up in my room, and donate them to the kids up in New York, the ones who really need something to hold on to. Time to buckle down, and reach out to the strangers around us, who all share our same thoughts and worries. Time to carry on life in America: time to fly our flags.
No comments:
Post a Comment