Mea culpa, September 11

September 11, 2001 was the first time I left school during the day and just drove off. I went home, followed the news, called people, and looked at old pictures of myself on top of one of the WTC towers. If I remember correctly, I bought a special edition of the Florida Times Union or the New York Times, which featured a photo of a man in an apparently graceful headfirst dive toward the ground. It's a famous picture, now. That night, I showed that picture to my dad and told him "No one should ever have to do this." He said he was proud of me for thinking that way.

Earlier that day, I had told my friend Joanna, echoing the sentiments of one of my teachers, that "someone [was] going to get their ass kicked over this". By this I suppose I meant that some number of anonymous people - let's call them all "x" - were going to die violent and early deaths in payment for this...this... Perhaps they would do this with their families, perhaps alone, maybe stoically, maybe terrified as darkness crept from the edges of their vision inward, and they had their last thought, said their last prayer, whatever. I guess that's what I meant when I said people were going to get their asses kicked, and that's what I wanted more than anything. Blood for blood in uneven ratios. I wanted "them" to pay, etc. I wanted blood. That's what I meant when I said that thing about ass-kicking, and when I said that thing about "no one should ever have to do this," I guess what I meant is that "no American should ever have to do this."

I quickly came to the conclusion that Osama bin Laden was responsible for the attack. My evidence was this: I had seen his name at the top of an FBI "Most Wanted" list. His blood, then! Just the blood that the situation demanded! So, I didn't protest at the beginning of the Afghan war; and when my leaders produced a litany of reasons to suggest that Saddam Hussein's blood might be good to have as well, I went along with it. It doesn't matter that I never voted for George W. Bush (couldn't, at the time - before 18 you can't vote, you can only be exploited); I joined the chorus with a full-voice, and as small as my voice was, every breath and overtone of it demanded violence as a repayment in kind for Sept 11.


Since 9/11, we have entered into two wars, ended countless lives, and made the world a more dangerous and suspicious place. We were sucker-punched, and while we were dazed and our vision was blurry, we threw a blind, giant backhand punch, and we felt better! We congratulated ourselves that we had prevented any further terrorist attacks. Never mind that Spain, whose government had supported us,  made herself a target, on 11 March, 2004 and 191 people died and 1800 were wounded. Never mind the London bombings of 7/7/2005. "No American should ever have to do this." And no American has, since. Never mind the troops (but we are only to support them, not ask ourselves whether they are dying for a good reason).

Eight years ago to the day, I told Joanna that someone was going to pay for this, that someone was going to get his or her ass kicked. She said she hoped not. I was taken aback, and a little frustrated, because all I really wanted was to indulge my need for action, revenge, something... I thought she was being naive. She was, in fact, the only person that I encountered on that day that was big enough, level-headed enough to realize that violence only ever begets violence, and that an early and violent end is always tragic, in some way or another, whether it happens to "us" or "them".

I don't intend this to be a space for me to air my political views, but this is something that is important to me. To the degree that I worked toward, or failed to work against, the propagation of violence in this world, I feel I must now work against it. To the degree that I was indignant and outraged that someone could do such a thing as destroy thousands and thousands of lives on 9/11, I must be willing to honestly examine the actions of my country - as thoroughly as I must examine my own actions and impulses.

I am ashamed at my own blood lust and blind need for vengeance on 9/11. I am sorrowful that other people seek to further stoke the fire that feeds the fight that we all felt we needed on 9/12. I am enraged at the politicians who try to control me with my fear, who play upon my fear in campaign adverts (roll twin-towers footage! Cue the crying widows! Flash the photo-negatives of terror suspects! Havoc! Let slip the dogs of war, and all that). On September 11, 2009, I rededicate myself to the search for a peaceful solution to all problems, and to making justice universal, regardless of religion, color, creed, etc. I hate the way I felt, but I intend to make it right.

This is a long post, and I haven't bothered to edit it, but...well, there you go. I feel the early inklings of a freedom that is absolute; a freedom from the darkness inside myself that demands your blood in repayment for mine. The kind of freedom you win WITH - not from, or in spite of - the other people we run into in our lives. This is a hard-won freedom (and I'm still not there yet), but on this September 11, my heart is light. I will not be manipulated, and I will not be ruled by fear. I will make myself whole and good, and if I'm fortunate I will continue to live that way no matter what happens to me, no matter my fears.

So, that's that.

The Last Week, Abridged

The language on some of the websites I frequent has switched, automatically, to French. It has been about a week since I last wrote anything, and it has been a... an unusual week. There have been parties, last-minute preparations, and things that stressed me out beyond measure.

There were long goodbyes to people I love, and in particular, a long goodbye that I had no idea how to impart to someone who may or may not know what it means that I will be gone for as much as one year. And there was the sharp pinch behind my nose and eyes when I dropped him off at his house.

There were the last minute efforts to finish the music I'd been working on all summer, both my EP and my stepmother's Christmas CD.

There were departures; arrivals; connections; planes, trains, and automobiles; and clouds that looked like glaciers butting up against mountains that were young by both atmospheric and geological standards. There were clouds thousands of feet below, set ablaze by the light of the morning sun and looking like cotton balls that someone had partially pulled apart.

There was a panic, lasting all day on Wednesday, as I arrived in Paris and found that I couldn't access my money. A train journey with a surfboard in tow and in the company of a French surfer who was similarly encumbered, and hours spent fighting fatigue in the compartment between train cars, shuffling the boards from one side of the train to the other at every stop (somehow, we always managed to place the boards on the side with the platform of the upcoming station). There was the arrival in Royan, the trip to a local restaurant to use the internet and Skype-call Wachovia, and the relief when I realized I'd have access to my funds. Then there was the surrender - after 36 hours of consciousness - to a sleep that could no longer be refused.

Yesterday, I went to my place of employment and was oriented. Then I walked around for a couple of hours and found a tree branch that was lodged in some rocks, rocked continuously by the incoming swell. Grateful, I took at least 50 pictures of it as the waves crashed and swirled around it. Then I went and moved into my apartment - a nice and reasonably spacious place downtown. Finally, there were drinks at a coworker's house, and then back home for a few episodes of The Office before bed.