The Other Side of September 11th

As true now as it was a year ago when I wrote this for the "For Authors Newsletter" "For Authors - September 11, 2002" 

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Today marks the anniversary of the day the world changed. When terrorists hijacked two passenger planes and brought down both of the World Trade Center towers in New York City one year ago, we were shocked into a new awareness of what our world is really like.

September has always been my favorite month of the year. I feel a wonderous sense of renewal, with an awareness that it is also time to prepare for rest. I love the crispness in the air, and the way the leaves change color so that the landscape reminds me of a jar of sweet pickles stored in Gramma's larder (yes, she has one of those). I love the astounding array of colors in the sunset--delicate pinks that burst into vibrant reds, oranges, and purples. Skies become vibrant blue, oceans turn varied shades of grey, and even the snow on mountain tops gives over from white to violet. No other season parallels the vivacious beauty of early fall.

I even love the melancholy feel that sweeps over me, changing me as surely as time changes the world around me. I feel a connection to life, yet a sad longing for not having appreciated spring or summer as deeply. What makes this time even more special is that September is also my birth month. I feel honored to know my day is right in the midst of all that is good and pure to me, and proud that I had the good sense to not be born too late or too soon, but right in the middle of it.

At least, that's how I felt until the events of September 11th, 2001.

Throughout the day, you'll read, or have read headlines discussing the events as they happened. The media will be filled with reminiscences, tributes, and in some cases, a sensationalistic reliving of the day. I'll be watching and reading too, so I choose not to do that here. I have a different view on what this day means to me which, I believe, is due in no small part to the additional meaning I have for it. This is my birthday. September 11th is the day for which I felt honor to be born amidst the majesty of nature's shifting garments.

I love birthdays in general. To me they are an opportunity for the people who love you to applaud, despite the vastness of the universe, that you are here on this tiny blue orb. With the little songs, the balloons, phone calls, and emails, friends and family make you feel as though you truly matter. I love celebrating my friends' and relations' birthdays for that reason, and feel joyous when they want to celebrate mine. I believe all of us have a need to know we matter.

At first it made me uncomfortable to tell people today is my birthday. If I had to show ID for any reason, I'd cringe inside when the official made a comment. Usually it has been something like "Ouch," or "That must be rough, huh?" At first, I did feel ashamed, as though celebrating on this day had been a formerly unknown sin which I had no choice but to commit, and for which I would receive no salvation for my sorry self. As all writers do though, I dug deeper. Writers take nothing at face value. We look into the heart of anything and everything, whether our subject be beautiful or ugly, and we give it meaning. Whether we write fiction or nonfiction, poetry or novels, we seek what can't be seen, find what couldn't be found, and reveal the truth of humanity with our written word. During my quest for meaning, (and reprieve from the shame and guilt I felt for having been born on such a day) I came to realize I'm not marked by tragedy because of the attack. I now see this as an honor that rivals the one I felt before the attack on the WTC. How blessed am I that I can look around me and see hundreds of people being revered by millions more and today we show them "You Matter!"

I recently read a book entitled, "Living a Life That Matters" written by Rabbi Harold S. Kushner, and found the following to echo the sentiment I'm expressing here.

It is not the prospect of death that frightens most people. People can accept the inescapable fact of mortality. What frightens them more is the dread of insignificance, the notion that we will be born and live and one day die and none of it will matter . . . what they desperately want is to live long enough to get it right, to feel that they have done something worthwhile with their lives . . .

Although we may not have had the above quote in mind a year ago today, on some level, we were painfully aware of the sentiment of it. We mourned, not only for those left to go on without loved ones, but for those who died in the attack who would never be able to give meaning to their own lives. We, ensured they would never be forgotten. New wings on libraries are named for ones who died, schools and churches hold memorials, donations to worthy causes are made in tribute to a brother, sister or father. On Stories.com, the white briefcase was created to honor those who have passed on, and it began with the friend we lost one year ago today, Bandit's Mama . We all, in small ways or large, have made it very clear that those who died, did not die in vain. They mattered.

Writers have played a big part in the unfolding of events after the attack. Everything you read in the paper; everything you see on the news or listen to on the radio; all of it was written by someone. There is a writer behind every emotion, fact, or speculation the media will bring to you today. You are a writer. You are one, who with or without intention, gives voice and meaning to all of those who died, and lived. Be honored you are a writer. By the very act of sitting before your computer and setting down words, you are speaking for us all. Write your own tributes, tell your life stories, make up tales to make us laugh, smile, cry and mourn; leave your mark on the world for those who died on this day, and for yourself, knowing we are all significant.

Today is a memorial; not to a bad day for business, not to the loss of buildings, but to the people who forever changed our lives. So what is the world really like? In my opinion, it's a place where good and bad things happen. It is a place where people come together to share in their tragedies and triumphs, and try to make sense out of all that seems senseless. Those people died to remind us that we are not selfish individual units running around calling out "Me, me, me, what's in it for me?" The right car, the right house, the right fashions . . . it's all just peripheral to what's really important: people, friends, family, community. Hundreds died and brought millions together in our shared belief that we do not live in vain.

Forgive me if I don't mourn as some of you might, with tears, anger or frustrated hopelessness. How can I feel anything but gratitude that these people, in their innocence in living and dying, touched our lives and made us better and stronger by that very innocence? I watch a vibrant autumnal sunrise crest the mountains, and turn what was dark into a world filled with light and beauty. This is my birthright. Those who died one year ago this day, left this world a better place, and today we have the opportunity to remember them with the reverance reserved for all that is pure and good to us. This too, has become my birthright. I am proud to share this day with them; proud to celebrate that they were here on this tiny blue orb, unknowingly touching so many lives.

To leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; to know that even one life has breathed easier because you lived--that is to have succeeded. -- Ralph Waldo Emerson.

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Ms Kimmie

In Memoriam
Bandit's Mama