Today, some humble thoughts on 9/11- because I always get too overwhelmed on this day to try to be cute. This was going to be a FB post, but it got a bit too lengthy, so, as usual, here I am. Also, excuse the lack of images- there were too few thatI found which were genuine and not self-indulgent.
Most of you know that during the day, I “Clark Kent”-it as a non-profit theatre pro; managing shows, writing grants and the like. It’s a cool gig and sometimes- on days like today- it’s an even cooler gig.
There are a handful of things in life that leave me without any chill whatsoever. Those things include cats, children, cats that are children and two more things… almost all manor of performance art and patriotism.
Combine the two.
On 9/11.
I dare you.
No, wait, don’t.
Because that exact scenario happened today and, of course, I was reduced to tears. At work. In front of 500 patrons. While managing a show.
Pause.
I remember a few years back when I was teaching AP World Literature and I taught my kids the word “jingoism.” We were using it in reference to literary tone, and for your learning pleasure, it means “fanatical patriotism.” If you know me, you’ll know I’m one of the most black-and-white people ever. I’m either completely obsessed with something, or it doesn’t even make my radar. As a young person, that was a tough personality type to have, but as an adult, I like to think it makes me cool. So yeah, when it comes to patriotism, I border on being jingoistic and today, The Texas Tenors (of America’s Got Talent fame) put me over the hairy edge.
Their voices were pristine gorgeousness first of all, and every music-loving gene in my bod was in awe of their talent, but it was more than that. Today is September 11. Their set was red, white and blue. Actually, it came off as not cheesy at all. They did a multitude of patriotic songs, and my little patriotic-self started tearing up… and thinking. Thinking about a bunch of things that I’d never thought about before.
Do you remember those really cool kids in high school? The ones who were straight- A’s and beautiful and popular and president of everything and voted most likely-to-succeed? Those kids with the nice cars and the newest clothes who always had some sports record, a witty quip in class, the right answer during discussion and a crown on their head at the end of all the school dances? Yeah. Those kids. It struck me today, as the doggone Texas Tenors were singing, that America is THAT kid.
And remember being… well… NOT that kid? Remember being unsure of yourself and gawky with hand-me-down clothes and braces and no car, no athletic ability, a couple friends and no date for the prom? I do. Well, maybe not all those things at once, but definitely all those things at one time or another. So those kids are, metaphorically and possibly psychologically, all the countries that are “not America.”
Do we ever stop to think about that?
Does jingoism exist in other countries (outside the realm of sports, of course, because all countries are fanatical about their teams)? And, if so, what does that look like? How do we see it?
I remember teaching my kiddos about Adolf Hitler’s jingoistic propaganda and how it sucked in the German nationalists who were smarting after being ordered by the Treaty of Versailles to take the blame for WWI. But I started to wonder, is North Korea jingoistic? Is Russia? I’m sure the answer is yes, and if they are, uh, how do we feel about that?
Is fanatical patriotism only good when it’s American-fueled? Does a jingoistic Russia or North Korea… or heck, even Vietnam or China or Mexico or France or Spain or Australia or Namibia or Equatorial Guinea or Laos or Panama freak you out? Before you go down that rabbit hole, let’s ponder something…
We’re Americans. Honestly- who has it better? Literally. WHO has a better life than us? We were born into a place where there will never be a day in our lives when we’ll have to worry about whether or not we’ll have clean, running water accessible to us within walking distance. If you can beg a dollar off the street here, you can buy yourself 1000 calories and last the day. You very likely have most of your teeth in your mouth. You can read. You’ve got SOME kind of a skill that someone will pay you to use for them. In essence, you’re going to be okay.
This isn’t a guilt trip. This is why I cry during the National Anthem. Every time I think about this, I think: We are so so so damn lucky and blessed! If you woke up in America today, I hope you said a big thank you to the sky.
If you know me, you know I have a bit of an obsession with not only Anne Frank, but with the entire WWII situation at large. It boggles my mind that one of the greatest (not the, if you know your world history, but one of the greatest) incidences of genocide and mass tragedy to ever strike the earth happened in the 20th century. I am obsessed with the nuance of how that happened- how modern, literate, intelligent “Christians” were at the helm of horrific violence and murder. And how the world watched, circumstantially either unknowing, or unwilling to acknowledge what was actually going on.
Which leads me to this: Where were you 16 years ago today?
I was fast asleep in my college dorm. Esch Hall, actually, at IUP. I awoke on the morning of September 11, 2001, to screaming- blue, bloody-murder screaming. We thought it was a hoax. We turned on the TV. The news. A plane had flown into one of the Twin Towers. What a terrible accident. Maybe the pilot had a stroke, a heart attack, a seizure, a diabetic incident.
And then we watched, live, as the second plane flew into the towers. More screams. No. This is pre-recorded. This is computer CGI. It looks so real. I see things falling from the windows, limb-like things waving in the air. They almost look like people. But that’s not possible. This is America, the world’s “cool kid”- and nobody takes down the cool kid and makes him look vulnerable or scared or ruined.
I remember a friend of mine walking up and down the sidewalks of campus trying to get calls out on our ancient Nokia cell phones, but we couldn’t connect, because everyone on planet earth was trying to call home, desperate for a crumb of reassurance in this crazy world. And there I was. Eighteen years old, with less than six weeks of being on my own under my belt, and completely sure that whatever had happened was certainly not terrorism. Not violence. Not murder. It was surely just a misunderstanding. An accident. A happenstance.
Anne Frank once wrote, “In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.” Ha. Anne was younger than one of my grandmothers. She should still be here with us. And you know, it’s still a fatal flaw of mine that I assume people are inherently good at heart. From the off, I operate under the assumption that people- the drivers who let me pass in traffic, the people I work with, the children I taught, the readers of my blog, the dearest loved ones inside my heart- are good, kind people with honest intentions of doing right in the world. And the hardest lesson of my life is simply that that’s not true.
Jingoism.
Sure, few countries in the world can question our “greatness.” But at this point, please, someone, define ‘greatness’ for me. There are powerful men in the world who can inspire laymen to do the unthinkable. And there are 13 year-old girls who can embody the voice of hope for a century of humanitarians. You know, I’m so sick of people thinking that in the grand scheme of life the bedfellows of power must be money and intimidation. To me, power is the influence of positivity. I’m sure that sounds naïve. But let me be the first to say, I could not hold less interest in power, titles, money or influence. I do not – in any way- want to be “important.” What are we doing, everyone? What are we doing?
I’m not a super smart person. To say anything otherwise would be foolish in and of itself. But what power my mind lacks, my heart makes up for. And my heart is one that’s proud of its country. My dad, who left this cruel world when I was 14 and he was just 48, was a veteran, a Captain in the US Army and a medic during Vietnam. There are sparkling bits and pieces of him that pepper my memory and many of them involve his experience fighting for our country. He lied on his draft papers, claiming to be old enough, 18, to fight in the war. Lied to get in when so many others were lying to get out. That man, he never did one thing the easy way, start to finish and half of what he did was for all the right reasons and all the wrong logic. I inherited that trait and I’m damn proud of it because it makes me true, if nothing else. But to sign myself up for THAT at 18? Hell, I could barely acknowledge that a plane had crashed in Shanksville, half an hour from me on my safe little college campus that September 11th of my own 18th year. War. Can you imagine?
My daddy had the most beautiful singing voice you ever heard, but I never saw him get all the way through the Star Spangled Banner without being reduced to tears. All 6’2” and 220 lbs of him didn’t stand a chance against those pure words of patriotism that had been so carefully crafted by old Francis Scott Key (relative of my favorite author of all time, Francis Scott Fitzgerald) so long ago.
I look exactly like my mom. I am nearly a carbon copy of her. But when it comes to being jingoistic, you’ll see me wearing red, white and blue every 9/11. You’ll see the tears run down my chin during the National Anthem before every sporting event… and if you were with me, you’d see me pick up rocks or dirt or sand when I’m standing around outside, wondering who or what else graced that handful of American soil before I came across it. You’ll see me searching the faces of the people I know for the traits of their ancestors from here or there the world over. You’ll hopefully read the book I’m getting published in the coming months about the incredible and uncanny journeys that brought each one of us to this corner of America during this exact time.
And I hope, as it all unfolds, that you find yourself proud to be an American. Patriotic. Jingoistic. I hope you free yourself from modern politics and are able to FEEL patriotism instead of just thinking you’re voting for it.
While the lovely melodies of the Texas Tenors mixed in my ears today, I recalled that sixteen years ago, the world’s bravest average Joes aboard Flight 93 gave their lives to purposely crash a plane bent on evil destruction a mere 30 minutes from where I stood as a clueless 18 year-old college student. If that’s not proof that you can wake up tomorrow and change the course of history, I don’t know what is. So remember to be patriotic, jingoistic, optimistic and hopeful and also remember- above all else- that you are blessed to be one of the world’s “lucky ones” and, like the heroes of Flight 93, what you choose to do with that blessing can make all the difference in the world in all of our futures. Peace and love to you on this day of remembrance. -Kelly