APPROACHING 9/11

20011006ny006

(Originally posted on the website Continuum…)

MANY and various are the emotions in my heart on this day just two days away from the anniversary of September 11. The first hints of autumn are in the wind, carrying memories of events that I never thought I would see. Faces flash through my mind: concerned television news anchors, a murdered fire department chaplain, the dusty bleeding wounded, reluctant widows, rejoicing Palestinian children, a warm-hearted girl in the city, my confused and frightened seven-year-old. I cannot help but stare at the diminished New York City skyline every time I drive to the city, hoping that maybe it’s all been a dream and the Towers are still standing, their occupants still with us.

Often I vacillate between desiring peace and wanting justice. In actuality, there can be no complete peace without justice. How can one be at peace and satisfied when he has been severely wronged and no reparations have been made? How can one rest when some of his most valuable possessions have been stolen, destroyed, desecrated, murdered? Should not someone be held accountable and made to pay?

Yet, what price paid could ever sufficiently replace that which was lost on September 11, 2001? The whole earth itself with all its treasures would be a filthy, disgusting, pitiful and trite offering compared to the value of just one of those souls that unjustly perished on that day. They can never be replaced. Humanly speaking, we could never obtain satisfactory justice for the murders inflicted on that day. Even if we imposed a million condemnations upon the perpetrators of these crimes and their accomplices, making them to die a thousand deaths for their deeds, would any of us be satisfied?

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life. Sure, that is justice. But would that ever satisfy the longings of love violated? Would that return a firefighter to his weeping widow? Would that return a bride to her lonely groom? If we take a life to pay for another life, does that satisfy the confused orphan? Or does that only make more orphans? Do not get me wrong. I believe that justice demands that the life of the murderer be ended by the hands of the law. If orphans are made it is not the fault of justice but the fault of the killer. You should have thought about your weeping orphaned son before you plunged the knife in, before you pulled the trigger, before you crashed the plane. Justice demands a life for a life. But love is not satisfied by it. If I could resurrect one of those who hijacked the planes last year, and kill him with my own hands over and over for each of those that died that day, no one would be satisfied. The fiery jealousy of love requires more, requires that which cannot be exacted nor paid. Indeed, it would set the world on fire and consume all in its path. No wonder it is written, “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, I will repay.”

20011006ny012

MANY TIMES over the past year, I have stood at Ground Zero, blinked unbelievingly up through the hole in the sky and asked, “Why?” I have tried to comprehend the unthinkable. I have heard the fanatics refer to the “Great Satan,” my country. I have seen the smugness on their faces as they hide within their caves and their violence, self-proclaimed ambassadors of Allah, praising their deluded minions falsely called martyrs. I have studied their psychological profiles. I have listened to their twisted reasoning. It can only be understood by madmen and zealots. I do not believe that they represent true Islam. Certainly, there are multitudes of peace-loving Muslims. Certainly, I am friends with some of them. I will not allow the zealots of their religion to cloud my opinion of them and trust that they will accord me the same understanding. Certainly, there have been murderous zealots in my religion also. Let us not judge each other based upon the deeds or misdeeds of those in our religions who wear the robes, the collars, the suits, the turbans, the rings, and claim to be our spiritual guides. Know my heart and its sincerity. Judge me on that basis.

FOR A TIME, the skies were silent over the United States after we were attacked. The sights and sounds of airliners flying overhead toward New York were unnoticed, part of the background noise of every day life here. Now, since the startling sound of the first plane that flew over once flights resumed, and with each plane that I see, I am made to think of that awful day. Wonder assails me and carries my mind to places I do not wish to go. I picture myself seated in a meeting at work at 8:46 AM. I see my colleagues, smell the office coffee, try to shake off the aggravation of the morning drive and focus on the work at hand. I see the plane crashing in upon us. I imagine what would become of the walls around me, the ceiling above me, the pen in my hand, the watch on my arm, the woman seated across from me. I try to imagine the terror of those who saw the plane approaching at 400 miles per hour. Did they have time to see it? Perhaps they had their backs turned. One can only hope.

I IMAGINE that each time I visit New York, there will be the thoughts of sadness, injustice and confusion. These things will never be forgotten. They may become less intense with time, just as a wound hurts less the more it heals. The scar will always remain. Scar tissue is the strongest tissue. Come, my friends. Let us continue on, united, scarred and limping if need be. The skies rain blessings more often than fire. Let us look up with expectancy and determination. Let us rebuild with courage and confidence. Let us pray with sincerity and hope.

CORRESPONDING PICTURE GALLERY:

ON THE EVE OF THE SPEECH

20020317sam

(Originally posted on the website Continuum…)

IF YOU could enter my mind this evening before my first scheduled speech, what would you encounter? Perhaps a great deal that would surprise you. I am sure you would find much that would amuse you. Perhaps a thing or two that might shock you! Would you be scared? “Should I be?” you ask. No. I was just playing with you! You know me! Come on! Enter my mind! Just watch your step and don’t trip over anything! It’s a little cluttered in spots!

Well, tonight it seems that the old mind is experiencing a little anxiety. That’s why there’s so much static in the air. Anxiety about the bills, the kids, the ex-wife, the web projects. Anxiety about being anxious. It all makes one a little jumpy, a little tense.

Writing helps though. You watch as the creativity starts to make its way out into the hallways here. It tends to brush away the cobwebs and the dust. It tidies up some of the clutter. It makes room for larger and prettier things. Ah! The creativity! Refreshing as a spring rain! Enlivening as the encouragement of an old friend! Sometimes, simply sitting down and writing alleviates a good deal of the stress of the day.

YOU ASK if I’m anxious about tomorrow’s speech. Now that you are inside my mind, I suppose I cannot hide too much from you! Of course I am nervous about the speech! I feel so unprepared! The old fears jump out from some of these closets. “What if you get one minute into the speech and lose your train of thought?” “What if you say something funny but no one laughs?” “What if you get your timing all messed up and don’t finish within six minutes?” “What if you trip and smash your nose on the steps when they introduce you?” “Remember SECOND GRADE??”

Oh! I knew that old fear would sticks its ugly face out! I’ve been waiting for that one! You know what? Maybe one of the biggest reasons for wanting to speak in public is to pound on that ugly old fear and send him crying to his momma! The best way to overcome a fear is to confront it and take action in spite of it!

I see the puzzled look on your face. Let me tell you a story.

WAY BACK in second grade at Alpha Elementary School, we were assigned one of our very first book reports. No problem! Even at that age, I loved to read and write. In fact, as soon as I could spell my name I was writing it everywhere! My mom used to say, “You would write on your ‘rear end’ if you could reach it!” (Not her exact words! That sentence was edited out of respect for the general readership. Although, I did use a rather crude word in my last entry. Didn’t I? Anyway…) I wrote with anything- pen, pencil, crayon, fabric marking wheel! That’s right! Before I entered kindergarten, my name was everywhere! Walls! Paper! Books! Even etched into my wooden dresser by the nifty marking wheel! “SAMMY SNYDER” left his signature, like a tomcat marking his territory! Boy was my mom pissed!

But where was I? Oh, yes, second grade. Though the research and writing of the report was not an issue, there was a catch. We had to read our reports in front of the entire class! No icebreaker speeches to get you started! It was sink or swim! On report day, you were put on the spot in front of the whole stinking, rotten, jeering second grade class in all of their immaturity! You were fed to the sharks!

I do not remember if we went alphabetically on the day the reports were read. I just remember sitting in my seat and being overwhelmed by the anxiety of it all. My goodness! It felt like an eternity of waiting and fearing, sweating and wishing that the school would blow up! But my turn came.

“Sammy Snyder, won’t you come up now and read your report for us?” asked the ever lovely Mrs. Yates.

As in a dream, I made my way to the front of the class, disconnected from my body and deaf to all but the whispers of my anxieties. I stood and looked at the class. I don’t remember most of their names now. But I still see their faces. All was in slow motion like a scene from a movie. Somehow I managed to begin speaking. “My report is on bats. Bats are the only flying mammals. Bats…. Bats….. Bats……”

Tragedy.

Due to my fear of public speaking at the age of seven, I lacked even the courage to ask dear Mrs. Yates for permission to use the toilet before my turn to speak arrived. Just a few sentences into the report, the stress found my weakness- my bladder! Quickly the dark wetness spread from my crotch, rushed down my pant legs, and formed a circular spot on the carpet. No man is an island? Let me tell you, I stood there an island surrounded by urine and seven-year-old laughter! I felt helpless like a man washed up on the shores of an isle of insane laughing monkeys! Surely, in their hysteria they would have led me to the heights and shoved me off the cliffs and watched my brains spill out on the rocks below.

But Mrs. Yates saved me. “Oh, Sammy! Why didn’t you ask me? Go to the nurse’s office.”

I sloshed my way down the hall. The nurse asked, “What happened to YOU?”

“I got sick?” Maybe I couldn’t hold my bladder. But I sure wasn’t going to let go of what tiny bit of dignity I had, even if it meant denying the whole incident.

IS THAT a fear as far as tomorrow’s speech goes? No, not really. I have learned to control the bladder situation. I just won’t drink anything after midnight tonight!

See that? I only told you one story and already things look a little better in my mind! I took you back to second grade and both of us forgot our worries for a bit!

WE MOVED from Alpha a few years later. I never forgot that incident in second grade though. I bet most of the class still remember too. I can imagine a few of them at a class reunion.

“Say, who was that kid that did the report on bats and wet himself in front of the whole class?”

“Oh dude! That was Sammy Snyder!”

At least I left a lasting impression! Now I figure that it can’t get much worse! Even if I wet myself tomorrow it won’t matter too much. Been there! Done that! So onward to success! If you never fail, if you never make a fool out of yourself at least once, it means that you are still hiding in your fears and you just haven’t stepped out yet. Step out, man! Even if it scares the piss out of you! Step out!

(I realize that I wrote of this incident previously in the “I Blame Carole King” entry. Please don’t be pissed at my redundancy!)