10 Years Later, 10 Minutes

Just before 5 o'clock this morning, Alex and I made the short walk from our home to Seattle Center, under an almost-full yellow moon setting in the west, under the Space Needle shining a beam of light into the heavens and flying an American flag at half-mast. We were heading to the International Fountain to be part of a day of reflection. The event was organized by a group called 10+ Seattle, and the intention was to have people gather at the fountain, at any point during the day, and then sit in silent reflection for at least 10 minutes. This was not a protest of any kind (though of the maybe 20 people already gathered at the fountain at 5am, half were holding signs which stated "OUR GRIEF WAS NOT AN EXCUSE FOR ENDLESS WAR"--we chose to find a spot a good distance from them). This was more about community, compassion, and yes, reflection. The Fountain during summer days is filled with swim-suited children who run through streams of choreographed water; it's a place filled with joy and laughter. This morning, it was mostly silent, and while water flowed from the fountain, it was the sound of a babbling brook rather than orchestrated explosions of water. There were candles lit along the perimeters, many placed there by the organizers, many more being brought by the people who were gathering. We sat, in silence, and I cried. I leaned my head on Alex's shoulder, and I remembered that day, 10 years ago...

We were in Seattle then. I woke up early, before 6am, with no good reason, I simply couldn't sleep. I remember lying on my floor, doing some stretches, and wondering why I was awake. The phone rang at around 7:30, which was unusual, and it was Zoe, asking me if I was watching TV. By the time I turned it on, the towers were already down. I remember the shock. I remember having to pull myself away from the TV some hours later to go to a doctor's appointment. I remember walking to the clinic as if I was walking under water. Everything was surreal. I felt like the world should have stopped spinning or something, and yet here I was on a table in a doctor's office getting my yearly exam, listening to small talk between the nurses. Seattle seemed to be unaware that the world we knew had been drastically altered. I felt impossibly far away from my family, from the place I knew as home for so many years. I remember going back to our apartment, and I think I spent the next 2 days watching TV, until I could no longer bear it. I remember going downtown to Westlake Center a few days later, where there was a gathering for a national moment of silence. Alex and I held hands as we walked there, and we were both surprised and grateful to see that there were bodies pressed against each other for blocks; it was the first time I felt that Seattle understood. Thousands of people, and for an entire minute, there was no sound, nothing except the shrieks of seagulls. I remember that night going to the Fountain at Seattle Center, where people had been gathering all week. Again, so many people, and candles and flowers and pictures. And silence. Language felt unnecessary, because we were all feeling the same things. I remember a sense of community that I'd never experienced before. I remember feeling hope. I remember.

Alex and I sat this morning for about 30 minutes, and the original 20 who were there when we arrived had expanded to about 100. Bells rang at 5:46 in observance of the North Tower impact, which is about when we made our way home, then rang again at 6:03, 6:37, and 7:03 to signify the 3 impacts which followed. The sky turned a brilliant pink, then yellow, and now white as the sun makes it's way over the Cascades and brings full daylight to this day of remembrance. 10 years later.

What is it about a decade that is so significant? Why do the events of 10 years ago feel fresher to me today than they have for the past 5 anniversaries? Because they do. I feel a sadness today that is mixed with some anger which I didn't feel a decade ago. I know that anger was an emotion experienced by most Americans. It's an emotion which allowed so many of us to sound the battle cry for war. I didn't feel anger then; I felt grief, and I felt hope, which eventually faded as the country's anger swelled and that sense of community I experienced drifted away to "you're either with us or against us" ideas of what REAL Americans are and what REAL Americans do. My country today feels as divided as it's ever been in my lifetime, which makes me sad, and it makes me angry. I felt angry this morning as we were walking away from what was a powerful experience of reflection and I saw that in addition to the signs stating OUR GRIEF WAS NOT AN EXCUSE FOR ENDLESS WAR, they were also holding pictures of Abu Ghraib and bloodied bodies on dusty roads in foreign lands. I agree with their anti-war sentiments; I strongly disagree with their choice to turn a chance for community into a "with us or against us" situation. Because at some point today, someone who is coming to this place in order to reflect and feel a connection with others, someone like me, is going to feel attacked by those images, as I did, and is going to say something, which will most likely turn into an argument, which will absolutely not be silent, nor will it embrace community. Because I did want to tell them to put those signs away, and I did have to pull Alex's arm to redirect him back towards our path home. We both wanted to say something, but neither of us wanted to take anything away from those other people gathered in silence with no agenda other than reflection. There is a time and place for such images; this isn't it. As the handout provided by the 10+ organizers states:

TEN YEARS LATER, ON SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 2011, ONCE AGAIN THE INTERNATIONAL FOUNTAIN WELCOMES ALL WHO WISH TO BE TOGETHER AND TURN OUR THOUGHTS AND HEARTS TOWARD HUMANITY'S GREATEST STRENGTH--COMPASSION.

Even as I type that, I feel my anger dissolving. I cannot blame people who are angry about war; I'm angry, too. For many people, who've never been to NYC or DC, who do not have friends or family there, who do not have childhood memories of looking down from the top of the Twin Towers and feeling as if her feet were going to slip up off of the floor and tip her over, for many people the greatest impact of 9/11 is the decade of war that has followed. For those people, it was the launching point into unnecessary bloodshed and violence. Violence doesn't have to beget violence, but in this case, it did. In this case, it escalated the violence in such a way that there is no foreseeable end to it. Yes, I understand the anger. I remember marching through the streets of Seattle just months after 9/11 with a group organized by a Catholic Church to speak out against the war in Afghanistan, a war which was overwhelmingly supported by the citizens of this country. I don't claim to be a pacifist, but I did see an opportunity for a worldwide community that was lost as soon as we shouted out for revenge. Yes, I understand the anger. And the disappointment. And the grief. But this morning, this day, this is not about the mistakes made after 9/11; rather, it is about remembering the community we became, for a brief time, in the days that followed.

I have done my best not to watch television this week, as I knew there would be much build-up surrounding this anniversary, and I wanted to experience it in my own way. I did watch a video about the 9/11 Memorial which will be opened today, and I cried. I don't mind crying; I don't mind feeling the grief that I felt this morning as I sat on the edge of the fountain and let my silence fill me. I just don't want to be told what to feel, or shown images to remind me of what I'm expected to feel. I remember that day, I remember it well. I don't need any help remembering. What I need is for my country to feel like a community again, and in order for that to be even a possibility, I need to be with others who embrace that beautiful concept of compassion.

I hope you'll join me today in letting go of some of this anger which lives in all of us. I hope you'll join me in letting go of WITH US OR AGAINST US and embracing the idea that we all have the same basic wants and needs. I hope you'll take 10 minutes to sit in silence and just reflect, for yourself, on what all of this means to you. It was a powerful experience for me. And I hope you'll join with the nation at 1pm EST, 10am PST, for a minute of silence. I hope we feel like a community again, for even one minute.