The 9-11 Blues

In a recent speech, Laura Bush said that turning off the television during these times would be a good idea. It appears as though we elected the wrong Bush to office. Three cheers to the SMU Theta house, the first lady’s.

It’s not that I’ve disassociated myself from Sept. 11. It’s not that I no longer fret over the damage it caused. It’s not that I have lost the feelings of grief and sorrow to all those involved, all our country. It’s that I don’t need to relive it.

And, sadly, that is just what the television networks intend for me to do. It’s shoved in our faces. These images don’t need to be again etched into my mind. They are already permanently burned into my psyche.

On that day, I rose early and happened to flip on the TV. It stayed on for months. Watching all of it over and over and over again, I saw every camera angle, every interview, every prospective. I heard the voices of America: the police officer, the fireman, the news anchor, the blue collar worker, the school teacher, the general, the historian, the widow, the brother, the sister, the child. And it was all a heart wrenching, horrid, nightmarish. The pure emotions that ran through all of us, all the pain and tremendous feelings of loss and hurt and anger, were staggering. And it is all back again, and I’m sick of it.

I watched 60 Minutes on Sunday night. What a mistake that was. It told the story of one suburb where many of the deceased had lived. It told how the community came together, supported the widows. It told how a middle school in Chicago raised money and actually came to the town to plant trees. It told how one fatherless girl painted a picture and dedicated it to her dad. The show went on to tell about an investment firm located in one of the towers, how they lost hundreds of employees, how they had to schedule the time of those left alive to ensure that at least one of them would make every funeral of all of their coworkers, how one man broke down into tears when he realized that two of his best friends would be having their services at the same time. I had to turn it off.

I felt miserable. I felt like staying in bed for a week. And I am completely certain that if I watch any of the specials that I will feel exactly the same. And I don’t want to feel that way anymore. I do not think that those taken from us that day would want us all curled up, feeling bad, hurting.

It is not like I could forget those people. I could never forget the heroes that crashed flight 93 into a field and not the White House. I could never forget that my aunt and uncle almost stayed an extra day to help my cousin move into his dorm at Princeton. They left from Newark on the same flight that would, the next day, crash into the World Trade Center. No stretch of time could erase these things.

I could never forget that day, the images, the life, the emotions. I do not need to have them repackaged and recapitulated for me in an effort to boost network ratings. It is hard enough for me to function as is. I know the networks in a way have to do what they are doing. But I also know I will not watch them.

And to my loyal readers whose only reason to read my column is to have the occasional laugh, a poem:

Let’s find Osama bin Laden

And his ugly bearded face.

We’ll give him a sex change,

To put him in his place.