Much to my chagrin I watched the memorial service tonight for the shooting victims in Tucson. I don't want to sound heartless, or uncaring. There is only so much I can mentally and emotionally take when watching events such as this unravel in front of me on the television. While I want to know about the events, I want to be informed, I want to understand what has happened, it comes to a point where I become so engrossed in this information I am overwhelmed. It is not for lack of caring that I did not want to watch, but rather the deepness in which these events touch me that for my own sanity I choose to not watch.
There are few things in life that create this feeling. But those moments in the past where news such as this has emotionally altered me remain with me today. Those moments where I remember where I was, what I was doing, what I was thinking when every second of that moment occurred. These moments are to my generation what the assassinations of John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr. were. They are forever the moments that changed us in some way, big or small, and altered our world as we knew it. Where once it felt safe to perform certain acts, it is now no longer part of our normal thinking patterns, habits, or culture. These moments are those that evoke images immediately upon hearing a keyword or phrase. These are the moments we share with generations to come to remember, to honor, to make memorial of. This is what courage is made of - to remember the past, not dwell in the present, and honor in the future. And while some of these moments do not necessarily follow suite with typical courage, they fell into the same category of moments I will remember forever. These are days that rank with other important moments like the days my children were born, the day I got married, the day I got divorced.
January 28, 1986:
I was in 4th grade, listening to my teacher talk about English rules...when to use certain nouns, verbs, etc...Some of my classmates were part of the gifted program, and were out of the classroom watching the lift off for the Challenger. It was a special launch due to having a teacher aboard...For weeks before hand, teacher
Christa McAuliffe had been on the news, preparing for the launch. She was interviewed, shown with her students, fellow teachers, her husband, her children as they wished her a safe trip. My teacher had talked about how important it was that a teacher would be able to see space, would be able to learn new things...and I remember thinking it was really not fair to have only certain kids watch just because they were in a "gifted" program. That feeling quickly passed when Ryan, this blonde-haired Alex Keaton wanna-be comes running into our room, telling us "The shuttle blew up." How could that be? How could something as big, as important as a space shuttle simply blow up? In the moments that followed, an announcement come over the speakers regarding the shuttle, since the kids in my class were part of the "gifted" program that was using a television, they pushed the TV cart into our classroom to watch the news. The image of the shuttle transforming from lift-off to a puff of smoke in the air, breaking apart into this shape that formed a backward "Y" was devastating. When I got home my mom was watching the news with the same images being shown over and over. For days, those images and the faces of not only Mrs. McAuliffe, but also the other astronauts, became ingrained into my memory. To this day, each time I witness a shuttle take-off on television I think to that day, and the gifted kid Ryan running into our classroom.
January 16, 1991:
The day started off as any other day. I was a freshman in high school, and my best friend Michelle turned 15. We went to school, and knew that there was some stressful issues going on somewhere else in the world, but that was it...we were young, didn't really want to watch the news, and lived in a small town that shielded us from the outside world for the most part like a bubble. That all changed later on that day when it was announced we would be invading a country called Iraq. Suddenly, I knew more about this country and their government than I cared to know. The days that followed were filled with nothing but CNN on the television, and my parents severe looks from stress. Not long after this news broke, the local National Guard in Payson was called to active duty. Among those in this troop was the principal at my brothers' elementary school, my high school German teacher, guys who graduated less than one year before. Suddenly this war seemed more real, tangible, and very close to home. The entire high school walked to the Wal-Mart where the troop was decked out in military fatigue and trucks ready to leave. After saying goodbye the town kept up with how the guys were doing through interviews with our local newspaper, and occasional calls from overseas. News told of stories from the battle lines, and of the dictator we were trying to rid the country of. Images of bombs going off in the background, or of the huge oil fires were a regular sight. When our local troop came back, they were different. My German teacher still maintained his jovial presence, but was obviously not the same. The guys who were just a few years older than me seemed to carry sadness with them when you saw them. And I remembered thinking if something like that could come so close to home, what would happen the next time something like this occurred?
Summer, 1997:
The summer of 1997 was difficult. I was 21, newly married, at home, on bed rest while pregnant with Emberleigh, and feeling like what I was living was not the life I had signed up for. There were issues between Jared and I. He was not coming home on the weekends, and was not being as supportive as I needed him to be. Carrying Emberleigh was a tough pregnancy from day one it seemed, with physical and medical issues. I had morning sickness ALL day long, and had to leave my job due to this. It was discovered I had placenta previa in late April which meant I was pretty much not supposed to do anything for fear of losing the baby...the days were filled with me sitting on the sofa, attempting to stay sane since that is all I was allowed to do. I spent most of my day getting to know my favorite soap operas, watching old sitcom reruns, and talk shows. Lots and lots of daytime television...too much daytime television. So, when the events that occurred, I was home, with nothing to do but watch it all unfold.
July 15, 1997 was my brother Ray, and best friend Stephanie's birthday. I woke up on this particular day to see news from Miami that Gianni Versace had been killed in front of his home. The person who killed him later committed suicide the same day. Versace, a clothing designer, was known for his beautiful clothing that made women look and feel amazing. Video of the funeral showed his family completely devastated, and notable figures in our pop-culture world such as Elton John and Princess Diana sat side by side as their friend was laid to rest.
July 16, 1997 was the actual date for the plane crash that killed John F. Kennedy Jr., his wife, and sister-in-law, but it wasn't until late that evening that the world (meaning, me) was aware of the event. Growing up, my father was a huge JFK collector. We knew who he was, even though he had been killed many years before we were born. Due to who JFK was, the media always kept tabs on his wife and children. JFK Jr. was a big deal - so handsome, so smart, so intriguing to me. He was every where. We all knew where he worked out in NYC, saw pictures of who he was dating and later married, knew about their fights in Central Park. He was mentioned on television shows, radio, owned a magazine. He was a speaker at Democratic conventions. It was probably hoped that he would continue his father and uncles legacies by running for some sort of political office. But all that changed when the plane he was flying went down. Media showed images of his childhood, his father, his mother, sister, and other family members over and over during this time. As if we couldn't get enough, the media spun this story in every which direction with tidbits of gossip mixed with fact, as our media often does.
August 31, 1997 was filled with the mixed emotions of a girl who still wanted to believe in the fairy tale of happily ever after, and the adult who knew that was not always how the story book ending happened in real life. I loved Princess Diana. In saying that term "love", maybe I should qualify this as I admired her greatly. I loved her desire to be a good mother, her innate sense of fashion, her grace under pressure, and will to make the world a better and safer place for others. Seeing security camera footage taken shortly before of her wearing a pair of white slacks with a black jacket, perfect blonde hair shown over and over on the television. Images of the car she was traveling in, mangled in a tunnel, and the curiosity of the cameras following her with little respect for the end result - only the need to capture an image of this woman, was horrifying. For years I had watched this woman on television, her "perfect" image and ultimate demise were more than I was willing to understand. I stayed up all night, watching the footage on television, waiting to hear that it was a mistake.
September 11, 2001: The day started with my getting Emberleigh ready for her preschool bus ride. We got up, got dressed, and while in the process of making breakfast I had the television on. Normally our TV would have Sesame Street or Blue's Clues on for the kids to be entertained until I was able to get their food. But this morning was different for whatever reason. The channel was set to NBC, and The Today Show. Matt Lauer and Katy Couric were sitting there, stunned faces, telling of a plane crash that had occurred in New York City at one of the World Trade Center buildings. But, there was confusion. There was another crash that occurred at the other WTC buildings shortly after the first. And then, a third crash in DC, and a fourth in Pennsylvania. For one of the first times in my life, I witnessed news like this, unfolding before my eyes, and the news not able to comment on what was happening, because they had no idea. It went from bad, to worse, to unbelievable. I remember putting Emi on the school bus, and going into the bedroom to wake my ex-husband to tell him something was terribly wrong. At first, you thought it was just plane crashes. You didn't realize how horrible everything was until everything was said and done. And the rebroadcasts of the WTC plane footage, coupled with the images of those trapped, and some plunging from the windows to escape whatever fate they had inside the buildings was horrifying. For days, skies were silenced of planes flying overhead. Where once we used to see several planes an hour due to where we lived, the skies were only decorated with birds flying above. News showed the images over and over, repeating as if to determine why or how it could happen. Fear became an action, and not just an emotion. Heroism became the norm and cowards were not seen in the City. Suddenly, we returned to a time when fire fighters and police were resting very highly on the pedestal instead of actors, entertainers, and sports players. In our world now we will never know what it is like to see someone off at the airport, at their gate. Security lines are the norm, and the skyline of New York City will forever be missing beacons among the other structures. Our nation's central nervous system for defense will also be remembered for the attack, and a small field in Pennsylvania will be remembered as a memorial site rather than just open land.
