A couple of summers ago, in a bout of ‘90s nostalgia, I decided to devote a weekend to marathoning the entire first (and only) season of My So-Called Life. I was a huge fan of the show when it first aired in 1994-1995. Angela Chase (Claire Danes) and I were the same age -- 15 -- and it finally felt like someone was paying attention to 15-year-olds. I mean, there were “Sweet 16” parties and 17-year-olds had a magazine named after them, for goodness sakes! But, now I had Angela Chase and she was speaking my language. (A language that, in retrospect, featured the words “like” and “whatever,” as well as copious amounts of run-on sentences.)
At first, my little marathon was nothing more than a chance to lay on my bed all weekend and reminisce about my purple Jan-Sport backpack, my Dexter loafers, my hunter green Girbaud-for-the-sake-of-being-able-to-say-I-had-a-pair-of-Girbaud jeans, and the first time a boy told me that I looked nice. (For the record, thank you, Doug L. for that moment after sophomore year World History.) Then, I got to an episode called “Guns and Gossip” and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. As was customary with the show, Angela’s voiceover kicked in as the first scene faded in, giving us the quote that kicked off this blog entry. (Clip.) Little did Angela know -- little did writer Justin Tanner know -- that almost exactly seven years to the day after the episode originally aired (Sept. 8, 1994), Angela would get her moment. And I’d be willing to bet she knows where she was. Right down to the second.
I know where I was: inside 310 Gaston Hall, Texas Tech University, Lubbock, Texas, 79406. Asleep. But I will never ever forget the moments after I woke up. I can still feel the cold of the tile floor of my dorm room as I climbed out of bed and shuffled to my desk. I can still feel the just-woke-up-tightness in my lower back as I bent over to look at what e-mails might have come overnight. And I can feel the confusion when I saw the e-mail from my younger sister with the subject line “BOMBS.” The body of the e-mail is too profane to share, but to paraphrase, Katy expressed a very strong interest in joining the FBI or CIA in order to take the terrorists out.Craving some sort of context, I flipped my TV on to find what I literally thought was the beginning of Armageddon. Smoke was billowing from a hole in the Pentagon, from both of twin World Trade Center towers, and from a smoldering hole in a rural Pennsylvania field. I saw people jumping out of the towers -- an image I will never, ever forget. I saw the towers fall. I’d like to say that the next thing I did was pray or, at the very least, brush my teeth, but I can not. Instead, I did the only thing I knew to do in that moment: I dialed my dad’s office. The first words out of my mouth were, “Daddy, what’s happening?”
The rest of the day was chaotic. Girls who should have been spreading gossip, walked up and down the halls of the third floor, spreading news of what they’d heard. Someone had heard there were planes heading to Dallas, Houston, and Austin, fears that were thankfully allayed with the reports that all planes had been grounded. I went to my Film Studies class, only to be sent home after roll was taken. I went to Wal-Mart and bought red, white, and blue streamers to decorate my door with. I watched more news coverage and saw a toothless old woman in Gaza celebrating in the streets. Up to this point, I had felt only a numb form of sorrow and confusion. Now I was angry. I went to my last class of the day which my instructor helpfully turned into a sort of an open forum to discuss the day’s events. I went with my friends Ugo and Olivia to church to pray. That night, the numbness finally gave way and, as I sat in my desk chair watching news coverage of the search for survivors, I began to sob.
Over the next couple of days, I had different urges. At one point, I wanted nothing more than to stuff clothes in a bag, pack some sandwiches in a cooler, and drive to New York to do what I could to help. At another, I wanted to walk into the Armed Services Recruitment Center on University Avenue. But for the most part, all I could do was lay on my bed with the television on, a cloud descending upon me as if I was Eeyore from the “Winnie the Pooh” stories.
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Now, ten years later, I only remember a couple of things clearly from the following days and weeks. The first was a surge of national unity, the likes of which I’d never seen. Both Houses of Congress came together to sing “God Bless America” that Tuesday night. People made musical tributes (this was before video software came pre-loaded on every new computer). When I drove home to San Angelo the following weekend, farmers had painted “GOD BLESS AMERICA” on bales of cotton in fields. More American flags than I can ever remember seeing popped up on the landscape along U.S. Highway 84 and State Highway 208. My driving music of choice was the soundtrack for Pearl Harbor, which, I guess, was appropriate. (Say what you will about the quality of the movie, but the soundtrack is quite beautiful.) The music, combined with the images of my country, my state, my home, gave me goosebumps. To this day, when I listen to that soundtrack, I no longer think of Ben Affleck or Josh Hartnett -- I think of Post, Snyder, and Colorado City, Texas.
(Given all of the political animosity of late, I really miss that unity -- even if it did come at a price.)
Most of all, though, I think of the fear -- on a personal and a national level. I remember telling my mother through tears that I couldn’t imagine bringing a child into a world where this could happen. I worried that if we went to war, my brothers might be drafted and sent overseas. Earlier that spring, I had visited and fallen in love with Los Angeles, but all of a sudden, the perceived safety and security of a smaller, lower-profile town seemed the best option. As a nation, many of us -- I would say the majority -- began to cast a suspicious eye on anyone of Middle Eastern descent. Whether you feel that suspicion was warranted or not, looking back, I actually feel pretty guilty about it.
We may have lost the unity, but fear remains. We’ve got political candidates talking about banning mosques. I don’t even want to get into the ridiculous hullabaloo that arose when people alleged that President Obama was a Muslim. The word “socialism” is thrown around in a similar manner to the word “communism” during McCarthyism. People are afraid that their own marriages are going to somehow be devalued if same sex couples are allowed to marry. People are afraid of what happens if a subway runs through their neighborhood. In fact, I honestly feel that most of the hot button issues of the moment are rooted in some sort of fear.
Life is too short, people. Jesus and Hugh Grant said it best:
“There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love” 1 John 4:18
(Actually, that was John talking and not Jesus. But still.)
“Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge - they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I've got a sneaking suspicion love actually is all around.”
(And okay, okay... That’s talking about hate and revenge, but as we all know, fear leads to anger and anger leads to hate. Thank you, Yoda.)
By the grace of God, the love of my family, and the friendship of some pretty amazing people, I moved to Los Angeles after all. I’m not saying I’m completely over some of my fears. My heart stops when I see a plane flying lower than what I am comfortable with and I sometimes have to take an anti-anxiety pill when I board a flight, but the other stuff? Gravy. Yes, the city I’ve chosen to make my home is a known terrorist target, but I’d have never met so many of the wonderful, wonderful people in my life if I’d opted to stay home. (The thought actually makes me emotional.) I love my life and my friends and the big smile on the face of Ramez when I stop for a (forbidden) Diet Coke on the weekends.
If God forbid something happens to me -- whether it’s from my city actually being attacked, or an earthquake, or something as mundane as a traffic accident -- I hope the way I live my life and the way I interact with people will lead me to be remembered with two short words: Amanda loved.
Because I do.
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