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Converging Worlds
I’m the early bird of my family—after my mom, of course. As a four-year-old I still remember waddling out of my bedroom door on a direct route to my mother’s lap. Our mornings spent together were a time of quiet before another busy day began. This Tuesday morning in September was no different. I groggily plodded downstairs to find my mom doing laundry. Once she saw me, she quickly forced a small tight smile upon her somber face. Something was missing. The familiar crinkles around her eyes didn’t match—something was wrong. “Go look on the TV, Aanna,” she wearily said, “Some men flew planes into big buildings in New York.”
I confess. My first reaction was that of a twisted form of excitement. Something had happened. I scrambled over to the other room and fixed my eyes on the television. My eyes widened as I slowly took in the live footage. As the urgency of the situation dawned on me, I tore my eyes away from the screen and sprinted upstairs to wake my sister from her sleep. I secretly enjoyed the fact that I finally had a liable excuse to jolt her from her deep slumber. “Britta!” I shouted as she slowly opened her bleary eyes, “some stupid-heads flew planes into towers!” That was all I said to her before bolting downstairs again and plopping myself in front of the TV for the show. I was still entertained.
I continued to watch the destruction. It was as if I was watching one of those forbidden R-rated movies, except shockingly real before my eyes. As the massive skyscrapers surrendered to the devouring flames, my excitement vanished. It was as if my former thrill twisted into a knot that settled in my stomach. I was ten years old. The legendary “Twin Towers” were nonexistent in my mind and New York City was a place populated only by rich people and celebrities. Suddenly, my small world in Sioux Falls, SD, consisting of frustrating math tests and sewing my own Barbie clothes, collided with an unknown world—a world that consisted of hatred, grief, and bitterness. And blood. So much blood. I all too clearly remember hearing an interviewee on the radio say that they saw rivers of blood. “Rivers!?” my mind screamed. In my innocence, I couldn’t comprehend such horror. I was the child who had nightmares for weeks after seeing a person die from a knife wound in a movie. Suddenly, that evil wasn’t limited to the screen. This was the world I entered on September 11th, 2001.
In a span of ten minutes—from waking up to gluing my eyes on the TV—my world no longer consisted of whether my favorite Barbie would wear pink or purple. My mind was a whirlwind, as if I had just jumped off a spinning merry-go-round. I couldn’t fathom the fact that humans had the capacity to be so evil—so full of hatred for people. My people. For the first time, I became aware of the world surrounding America, and the people existing in those countries. Who were these men? They were the “bad guys” right? Unaware of my hungry stomach, I continued to watch this world play out in front of me. I saw small white flecks amongst the ashes and soon realized those flecks were people, people who would rather die on their own accord by plummeting to the ground rather than burn while trapped in a 110-story skyscraper. Such desperation was unreal.
Britta soon joined me in front of the TV; she had to see what these men that I had dared call “stupid heads” had done. Days passed. My perspective and vocabulary changed from “stupid heads,” “bad guys,” and “towers” to “hatred,” “al-Qaeda,” and “America.” These words became common. Church was not an exception; this new and scary world merged with the safe atmosphere in church. My Sunday school teacher’s words seemed to bounce around and echo in my head like a marble in a tin can: “they’re predicting a war.” War was a language I understood. The entertainment I had initially felt was gone, yet her words didn’t portray the depth of the seriousness of my new perspective.
My world had experienced some war from my grandpa’s stories to the lives I created for my Barbies. My sister and I would frequently create love stories resembling that of the classic Civil War movie, Gone with the Wind. I recall the pain my characters experienced as they physically let go of their loved ones, at a complete loss of whether or not they would reunite after the war’s end. A fear seeped into my soul on September 11th—one that resembled Scarlet O’Hara’s bitterness and anxiety. I once heard that “Fear makes us feel our humanity.” My experience with this fear was different; I felt the humanity of others. I couldn’t bear the stories of loss saturating the news; I continually closed my ears to the rising number of deaths. However, one fear gripped me above all the rest. It consumed my mind. Finally, I could bear it no more.
Attempting to ignore the fear that was gripping my heart, I apprehensively approached my mom. “Does daddy have to go to war and fight the bad guys?” The tick of the clock was like a gong in my ears as I waited for my mom to answer. The Barbie worlds I created were becoming frighteningly real within my own life. My mom’s eyes softened as she saw the desperate love I revealed and explained how daddy would never be asked to enlist, even if we went to war as my teacher had predicted. My chest slowly eased out of what felt like a boa constrictor preventing normal airflow. My dad was safe. My own life would not be shaken.
My dad’s safety, however, did not take the world and its worries away. Stories were still told. There was a numbness in people’s eyes as well as a pain that was still quite new to me. Once those doors to a new world filled with pain opened, they could never be closed; a small part of my innocence was ripped from my hands that day. The world opened to me that Tuesday morning has continued to be twisted, shaken, and turned in many directions. There are still times when my stomach lurches at the shock of pain this world is capable of causing. 9/11 was indeed a pivotal moment in history, yet the books are still being written.
I had the privilege of visiting Ground Zero this past year. A memorial is now built in the Twin Towers’ place. Stories are still being told. There is a continuous thread within those stories—a hope for the future. The determination that unifies us as hurting people in this world is symbolized within the foundation of the memorial and far outweighs the crushed spirits and lives buried along with the rubble of the Twin Towers. Life, with it’s joys and struggles, will continue, but let us move forward with the knowledge of our past and anticipation of our future. After all, we are the ones who fill this world. As Hans Christian Anderson said, “Just living is not enough. One must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower.” My original horror of 9/11 has disappeared, yet the knowledge gained remains. That perception of hope beneath those stories live in my life—hope of a world freed from the evil that strives to ensnare us.
