An Emotional Journey Back To "that day"

I spent the better part of last evening fine tuning an essay for a contest about that ordinary day on September 11, 2001 that not only left the United States physically and emotionally devastated, but attacked the psyche of the entire world and vaulted us into the dangerous realities of the 21st century. As I tried to get across my emotions about that day, I found myself thinking that mere words are really a futile attempt to paint the emotions I experienced. It didn't elevate it quite enough for me. It didn't do the events of that day justice. It is never enough.

9/11, as it is so commonly referred to, is one of those events that I will never get over. It broke my heart. The wound opens and closes, and I know it will never go away. It is there in all that we do everyday. Riding the subway, getting on a plane, renewing a driver's licence, turning on the television. The next attack is always in the fore front of my mind, though I do not let it consume me. I haven't resorted to the portable duck tape kit as yet. I wrote the essay in one sitting three weeks ago and tucked it away because it was such an emotional thing to do. The task of putting my emotions about 9/11 into words opened up the emotional flood gates. All the sadness came rushing back. It was an emotional journey back to retrieve something precious--raw, untouched emotions.

I remember that day in still frames like those flickering old black and white films. Some frames of that long day play in my mind over and over again. Some small reminder will trigger it and the tape rolls in my mind. I remember faces of broken people, gaping holes, screeching sounds and eerie silence. There really is no order to my memory. The events of that day is all in a jumble once I witnessed the second tower crumbling that is where the order of things stop for me. Sometimes, I think that it is a sign of a fading memory because all I want to do is distance myself from the horror witnessed on that long day. Maybe, it is because I want to tuck the horror away into that dark place that we rarely visit.

But it is precisely that dark place that makes me write this. I had to delve into that dark place and relive the moments of that day. But the memories of that day do not belong in that dark place--they belong front and center and not in the dark recess of our minds; lest we forget lessons learned; lest we forget the innocence stolen from under our noses by those who zeroed in on our vulnerability. To write about Sept. 11 was to dig deep and unearth the emotional earth quake that was that day. I call it "that day" because that day is forever isolated as the longest day I have ever witnessed. I don't think of it as something that happened over there. Geography does not stop me from feeling as any American would, as any New Yorker would. My breath tightens and my pulse quickens whenever I see the footage of the second plane deliberately sailing through the walls of that tower as it it were searing paper walls. I fall apart all over again. The essay allowed me to fall apart all over again as I struggled to detail my emotions on "that day."

I remember white dust, fallen angels and a universal broken heart at man's inhumanity to man. I couldn't write about my emotions about that day without thinking about our lost innocence. The events of 9/11 changed the world. I think we are more suspicious, at times to the point of going overboard. You notice the little things, like an unattended package of somebody's forgotten lunch on a subway. You notice the empty seats around the package, and you wonder what the other people are wondering. Should they raise alarm? You don't want to sound like an alarmist, and so you go on with your day with an uneasy feeling about that package left behind. You scan the faces of complete strangers looking for evil--and the thing is you don't know the look of evil--though you know it walks amongst us.

9/11 made us realize that the world is a dangerous place, and we aren't so safe in our little corner of the world--what with all of our democracy--we aren't any safer. That day tore off the window dressing of complacency and offered up our innocence. With the blackout of the summer of 2003 that left most of Ontario and parts of the United States in darkness, the first thing we all wondered was if it was another attack. I felt scared when I realized the geography the blackout covered. That is what I mean about our lost innocence. We are more on guard and suspicious. I renew drivers' licence at work, and I get comments from people worrying about their air travel...worrying about being turned away at airports, and I realize no one is untouched by the events and consequences of that day. It is the reality of our world--a sad reality, but a very necessary one.

I finished my essay for the contest, and it isn't about winning the prize, but it is about adding my voice to the collective echo of an indelible memory that made us realize that we are not so different as we are part of a universal psyche that lost our innocence on September 11, 2001. I realized the futility of words, but then was comforted in the fact that is all that we have to communicate our souls. And so, the essay for me, is about communicating my soul. It is all that I have. It is my small echo of the collective voice.

Copyright © 2004. DGALEP. All rights reserved.