I had two editorials in the Emory Wheel this month, but never had a chance to post the unedited version for those who don't care so much for the wheel.
Katrina Piece Five years ago, the unthinkable happened. Three blocks away from my high school in
Manhattan, I saw smoke rising to cloud the sunlight and bodies falling from a beloved landmark. Eyes were glued to CNN and FOX News for days on end until shock could give way to denial, and denial could give way to grief.
Four years later, it was not much different. Hurricane Katrina jolted the nation and the world, sending thousands of Americans fleeing the
Gulf Coast in a headlong panic. A historical city was demolished, a vibrant culture was wiped out, and a beautiful people were left homeless or dead.
But outside of corresponding months, how else can one compare a national tragedy devised by a group of extremists and an event of bad luck caused by Mother Nature? By the way we respond.
After every tear was shed and after every drop of blood was donated to the Red Cross, something still did not seem right. In the aftermath of both events, we had a clenched fist to throw at an enemy without a face. Even Osama bin Laden remains a ghost to us. Without a clear foe to fight, we punched our fists and pointed our fingers towards secondary culprits with a tangible face.
Renowned American writer, Russell Banks, once said, "Through an inescapable human need to blame, we begin to rationalize our disorderly world, setting chaotic events within our control once again."
Like most tragic events, the blame always starts at the top. From web blogs to high-grossing “documentaries”, President George W. Bush was portrayed as an inept cowboy mired in controversy with the Saudi family. But even more nonsensical than blaming an American president for terrorist attacks as if this were an episode of "24" is when an American president blames a country named Iraq for attacks that were performed by terrorists housed in Afghanistan. Did someone miss the geography lesson where we learned they were different nations?
The displaced blame continued even among our own American communities as several Arab-Americans experienced an unprecedented backlash in the form of hate crimes and various civil liberties violations. When we desperately search for answers to impossible questions, it seems like we're more likely to accept conspiracy theories. Or in this case, place the blame on people who had little or nothing to do with al-Qaeda.
Hurricane Katrina gave us an even harder enemy to pinpoint, but our need to blame had not subsided. Without surprise, the Bush administration came under fire once again. This time around, Bush was blamed for ignorant decisions pre-Katrina and incompetent leadership post-Katrina. Not only did Bush cut funding for projects specifically designed to strengthen levees, but he also displayed a lack of situational awareness days (not hours) after Gulf Coast states were ripped open.
Possibly even more blame, however, was directed at FEMA – the Federal Emergency Management Agency – and its director at the time, Michael Brown. In a week when numerous media outlets were giving 24/7 coverage and singer Harry Connick Jr. managed to reach the scene, the agency mysteriously still were unable to comfort the afflicted citizens.
For Bush and FEMA supporters, the accusatory fingers shifted towards New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin and Louisiana Governor Kathleen Blanco. At one point, Brown blamed Louisiana’s leaders for dragging their heels during the hurricane, saying FEMA is only supposed to “assist” the local authorities.
In this game of “he-said, she-said,” no one accepts the blame (at least not at first) because no one believes they deserve it. And to a point, they are right. Other than the sinister bin Laden, his henchmen, and religious extremists, no one wanted 2,800 innocent lives to end on that sunny Tuesday. Bush, FEMA, and company are only poor substitutes for a phantom enemy we cannot fight and worse of all, we cannot even forgive.
Instead, we’re trapped in the purgatory of our own emotions, refusing to accept the obvious. We live in a broken world where innocent people die, memory-filled homes are destroyed, justice does not always occur, and sometimes, there is no acceptable reason for why it all happens.
We try to make sense of this chaotic universe we live in when order is not always possible. And while we must fight when the enemy is clear to us, there are also times when we must pull back our wagging fingers, and let go of our insatiable human desire to blame and to judge.
Till then, we will never be free of the heartache that consumes us still.
And the 9/11 piece
While many Americans were watching the Twin Towers spew out flames on their television sets five years ago on September 11th, I was taking beginning physics three blocks away. In an 8th floor classroom with a 10’ by 5’ window facing south, I had the best seat in the house.
But something inside me that Tuesday morning shielded my eyes from what was happening. I did not know I was watching people die.
There were humans jumping from enormous heights, but my mind only saw debris. The view looked more like a scene from a high-budget Hollywood film rather than a tragic, historical event in the making.
Terrorism was something I read about in history books, so on that day, I was naïve enough to think it was just a huge boo-boo from the Air Traffic Control center. That didn’t make much sense, but neither did three thousand people dying in literally, my own backyard. As a 16-year old boy, I had no prepackaged emotions to respond with. I knew I should laugh at parties, cry at funerals, and yell when the game is on. But when two commercial jets crash into skyscrapers across the street, I didn’t know what to do or what to say. Worse, I didn’t know how to feel.
So I laughed. I laughed not because I thought something was particularly funny. But I laughed because I knew no other way to react. I laughed because it was the best emotion to express false hope. I was hoping that our homeroom teacher would tell us everything was going to be okay or our principal’s voice would resound on the loudspeaker: “False alarm.” These messages to calm my childish worries never came. Instead, they just told us to go.
“Go where?” I asked. “North, north, north,” they said repeatedly.
So I walked north even though my home was east across the river. Eventually, I made my way back to Queens and did what everyone else did: watch the news for hours, or maybe days on end.
But then, we went back to school and everything was almost too normal. We had our reminders like ID tags and bad air quality, but many students seemed preoccupied with appearing strong or unwilling to reopen a healing wound. Even though the school hired extra counselors, there was no influx of students seeking their help.
Personally, I kept quiet. I felt embarrassed bringing up the nightmares that I would eventually have, often pretending like the attacks never happened. Even though countless newspapers and magazines began labeling us as the “the school at Ground Zero,” I wanted no special recognition. For many months after that day, I wanted to believe that the attack had no direct impact on my life.
But with each passing year that I reflect upon that day, I realize that as cliché as it sounds, September 11th did change my life forever. I saw a tangible evil force and a sacrificial love people can offer. I felt a hug from my mother and father who thought they lost their son. I knew the world was not perfect and it needed people like me to change it.
To this day, I go back home to New York always a little mournful when I see a skyline that is never as impressive as it once was. Each time I’m riding on the 7 train, I hope to see my beloved towers standing across the river in its original, magnificent glory. But instead, I know it is forever gone, buried with my pre-9/11 innocence that could not see a broken world.
Today, I’m still trying to put back together those broken emotional pieces from that morning. But like most New Yorkers, I’m not sure I will ever finish.
