SOMEONE ASKED ME what I'd be doing to commemorate Sept. 11 next week. You mean, Wednesday, I asked?
"No, Sept. 11," they said, as if the two were completely different days. "Well," I said, lingering in the moment of calendar confusion, "the same thing I do every day, I guess."
I'll probably wake up around 7 in the morning — a full hour earlier than I'd like to, but the family of stampeding water buffalo that are my upstairs neighbors just won't stand for it. Then after stumbling from my bedroom to the bathroom, I'll rub the double vision from my groggy eyes, flinch slightly at the sleep beast that stares back at me in the mirror, brush my teeth and go to the bathroom. (Not all at the same time, however.)
Some schedule of school-work-school-eat-work-work-school-work-work follows, and I collapse back into my bed at night with my four-foot Beluga whale named Bunson. (Don't underestimate the soothing powers that an oversized furry, stuffed porpoise can bring.)
Sure, it's a routine, but it's mine and I'd rather not deviate, even for a Wednesday. This, however, was an unsatisfactory answer for my interrogator, who insisted on knowing my real plans for the "anniversary," which seems too close to the word "celebration" or "birthday" to me, as in "happy birthday, tragedy!" Hmm — just doesn't have the proper ring to it.
"But what are you doing for Sept. 11?"
Sigh. OK, if you must have an answer — there are a few local bands playing that night, or the Improv is hosting the Funniest Man in the Valley contest. Maybe I'll grab a martini after work or relax to reruns of That 70s Show.
Judging by the grimace, growl, frothing at the mouth and "You're the spawn of Satan" stare, I figured this, again, was not the right answer. But finally, I understood.
I'm not allowed to laugh next Wednesday. Or be entertained. Or do anything I might have done the day before. Neither are you. Because, well, that would be wrong. That would be disrespectful.
Instead, I'm supposed to relive the Sept. 11 of last year. I'm supposed to watch in terror as explosions and screams and fires and bloody, ashen faces fill my TV screen. I'm supposed to cry and mourn those lost, and then remain silent for a minute or two to pay homage to their lives.
These horrible events took place exactly one year ago, and now is the time to bring it all back. Brush your teeth at the same time on Tuesday and Thursday, but Wednesday — excuse me, Sept. 11 — is a special day.
At least, this is the message I've received from every would-be philanthropist who has sprung from the ashes of misfortune and heartbreak over the past year. They take comfort in planning one-year memorials and reliving the grief just so the "evildoers" know that, hey, a year may have passed, but we haven't forgotten your evil doing, and we still have the tears to prove it.
Of course, uniting with friends and family next week may offer solace to those who still feel lost or uneasy about walking freely in this world. Some may feel it's their duty to visit the memorial on Hayden Lawn and cry with their peers — or the nearest church service to pray for mankind — or to sit glued to their set as TV clips, some new and even more gruesome, flash instantaneous moments of fear. These things are expected. These things are understandable. But to want to laugh and carry on a normal day, to some at least, is purely unacceptable.
The day itself has been so tainted with negativity and gloom that it's difficult to even think about having fun. To say "Sept. 11" is not to mention a month and day of the year anymore. It's a term now — a euphemism for pain and destruction. Sept. 11 is no longer anyone's birthday or wedding anniversary — the date itself has been given up to the history hell gods, stuck somewhere between "V-Day" and "The Day Pearl Harbor Was Bombed" — all expressions with different stigmas, not dates in time.
So, what will I be doing for Sept. 11? The same thing I did today. The same thing I'll do Sept. 12.
Sure, I might be a little more thoughtful of the people affected and the events that still linger because of what happened last year, but only because the media will tell me it's the right thing to do.
Otherwise, I'll be walking to and from class, grabbing a drink along the way, going to school, then work, then school-work-work-school-eat-work-work, until I lay down next to Bunson and start the next day all over again.
Reach the editor at ashlea.deahl@asu.edu.
