Wednesday, September 26, 2001
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Wednesday, September 26, 2001 |
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A time forever etched in memory By AMY RILEY Throughout our history there have been times and experiences that became etched in our psyche. Whether we lived them ourselves, or lived them through the lives and stories of others, they became a part of our collective experience. These times became like photographs, a concordance of perception, emotion, pain, pride, and a fierce reckoning with ourselves. And suddenly, we were defined. We were captured forever in a photographic memory. We were stolen by awareness from the serene ignorance of unawareness. The 11th of September, 2001, has become such a time in our time. And the images that are flashing before us are some of the most profound that human beings inhabiting the planet in this time will ever know, pray God. Where were you, what did you hear, what did you think, what did you see? To whom did you long to cleave? For whom did you ache? For whom did you weep? For some, the weeping came immediately. For others, the weeping came days after; some have not wept yet, but they will, and for some the weeping will never cease. But in all that weeping came a cleansing flood that swept the very foundations of America. What has shone through since is an America that many thought dead, or numb, or sleeping. A giant awoke, oh yes, and so did an infant. A minutes-old America, still slick with her birth matter, let loose the lusty cries of one who has just breathed breath, first ragged and torn, then steady and sure. And this is what we perceived. We saw a building, a steel gray pillar of prosperity, as smoke billowed from its gaping wounds. We saw then a jetliner, sleek and fast, penetrate the twin structure like a hot knife through butter. Its violence was fluid, and from its incinerating depravity, an inferno of rage ripped us wide open. As we held ourselves to each other, the horrors coalesced. Our Pentagon, our paragon of military might, was laid bare. All planes lit down, all but two. The one plane, she rolled head long into the dusty earth, scratching herself a permanent scar, a hero's medal held fiercely in her dead, never-knowing hands. The other held our leader, who holds fiercely now another hero's medal in his ever-sowing hands. For in his hands are the seeds of justice which have been planted, for the crop they will yield, in the furrowed brow of our lady Liberty. And then yet, the unthinkable, the steel gray fortress of finance, she lurched, then she moaned, then she sank to one knee. Her momentum was mighty, and no American will could stave off what followed. In horror, our souls sucked inward, even as that monument blew outward. In a sea torrent of ash and destruction, she melted before us. We could scarce catch our breath, till her twin did the same. The violence, the raw, pure hatred that lit the fuse, exploded in a pyroclastic flow of choking, bitter, acrid death. Our hearts thudded as we pushed ourselves homeward, most of us, mercifully, numb. Until, click, no, this is an outrage, click, click, this is Pearl Harbor, click, this is an abomination, click, this is war, click, this is not happening, click, this...click... click, changes everything. Three days later, death was not resurrected, but our nation was. Three days later, brass filled a cathedral, but the most powerful punch came not from any man or woman, but from a corps of drums. Brr um, pa pum pa pa pum. Brr um pa pum pa pa pum. "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord, / He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored." And in that haunting timbre, did we not hear the echo of 225 years of foot soldiers? Brr um pa pum pa pa pum. Brr um pa pum pa pa pum. "He has loosed the fateful lightening of His terrible swift sword, / His truth is marching on." Brr um pa pum pa pa pum. Brr um pa pum pa pa pum. "Glory! glory! hallelujah! Glory! glory! hallelujah! Glory! glory! hallelujah! His truth is marching on."* And our nation, she marched out on to the steps of freedom's porch, and she roared in thunderous resolve. In the borough were the hundreds upon hundreds of foot soldiers, brr um pa pum pa pa pum, brr um pa pum pa pa pum, digging by hand through the rubble of our sorrow, civil saints made mighty by character, compassion, and honor. "Glory! glory! hallelujah!" And throughout it all, we see her, America her servant citizens and their inexplicable urge to hoist their flag, their spirit unflinching in her glory. Instantly, as though our perceptions have become the camera lens itself, click, the images return and flash, Iwo Jima, click, the moon, click, the flag waving from the antenna at the top of the World Trade Center, click, as it waves now on the ground floor. We are driven to rise. It is who we are; it is all we know. To stand, to live, to breathe the air of freedom. It is in our blood. It IS our blood, this nation, America. Let freedom ring. *Julia Ward Howe, "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" [Your comments, your shared perceptions, would be most welcomed: AmyRileyOpEd@aol.com.]
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