This isn't a tradition I'm necessarily happy about. But this time every year, I try to make some kind of visual tribute to that awful day, and of course, I play Alan Jackson's song, sometimes several times.
I may not remember all the details anymore, but I can tell you where I've been. I was 13, just barely entering eighth grade. First heard the story on the radio when Dad was chauffeuring me that morning. Dad often liked to listen to the news, even though I preferred music myself. The reporter's voice was very shaky; it wouldn't surprise me now if he had been crying for real. Being a young teen, I didn't really give it that much thought, though I was genuinely stunned to hear about four planes crashing on the same day. My thoughts ran along the lines of, "Wow, what a horrible accident."
It wasn't until much later, when I heard more about it and I saw the footage with my own eyes at home (that was all they talked about on every single news station, all day long), that it really hit me how bad this was. This was no accident.
The next few days, weeks, and months can only be described as an emotional mess. At least twice, I broke down crying at school. Mom told me the terrorists wanted us to be scared (hence their name) and I could only think, "Well, they're sure doing a good job!"
To this day, it still sickens me that anyone could do something like this on purpose. Only God can judge, but the way certain people are taught to hate this much, how thoroughly they can be brainwashed, how few qualms they harbor about causing this kind of harm, is horrifying.
I can only imagine what Pearl Harbor was like, or the Holocaust, among many others.
No comments:
Post a Comment