September 11

Katie D.

September 11, 2010 - 5:19 PM

We all have rituals for remembering and grieving. We all have ways of marking the pain behind us and the pain within us currently. Ways of honoring, ways of forgetting. Ways of carrying memories with us.

Today is September 11th. I was in eighth grade, sitting in Miss Reed's homeroom class when my friend Nikki came in and announced "something weird happened and planes crashed into a building in New York City." The rest of the day was a kind of confusion of national grief beyond the understanding of a sheltered child. But I remembered the fear in the building, and the way the teachers understood something huge and terrifying happening outside our walls.

This morning I finished reading The Hour I First Believed, by Wally Lamb. Maybe that's why I'm remembering so clearly the feeling of fear in that classroom, down the hall from the class I was in when we received news of the Columbine school shooting happening in the same city. There was a similar feeling of tragedy happening so near to me, beyond my control or understanding.

This evening I'm considering the pain and tragedy we feel as a country.

I am pursuing a Master's in Conflict Resolution because I want to work to heal some of the wounds between people and on the large scale. I want to try to learn ways of preventing damage, and ways to provide space to speak to hurts of our past. I am so afraid for what we do to each other, and so hopeful about the compassion we so often show. I worry that we do not teach compassion in our schools, and that we so seldom give space to discussion about the way that we feel.

I started this blog with a reflection of rituals and ways of honoring those in pain.

It is common to light candles. There is so much symbolism there, such a gesture of faith and hope in the light of a candle in a dark room. I light a candle and sit quietly, holding within myself all the knowledge of pain and sadness present on this day. Holding it and trying to breathe some peace and calm into that hurt, trying to find a place of healing within myself and holding it out to others. Like the light of my candle.

My other ritual is more personal.

Last spring break, when I was volunteering on the Arizona/Mexico border with humanitarian aid organization No More Deaths, I was given a gift that holds great meaning to me. One of the founders of the organization, who has become a dear friend of mine, gave me a bracelet. It is small wooden panels with images of saints. Migrants wear them while crossing the desert. Catholics use them to count off prayers. I, neither migrant nor Catholic, wear the bracelet daily to hold myself close to the people I know who are suffering pain or oppression. It's hard to put in words, exactly, but the bracelet keeps me connected to the migrants I have met, and those who I will never know but who are crossing the desert as I speak. It holds me close to the people I know and those I know of who are living in prisons around the country, and I keep hope for them close with me. I use the bracelet to think about friends and family who are in trouble, and to send out love toward the strangers who are suffering loss and grief.

I wear it every day, and most nights. It is not a sad thing. It is hopeful. It maintains my gratitude and joy for what I have in life, and my passion for ensuring others the same joy.

I hold so much relief in my heart tonight, hearing that the church in Florida will not be burning copies of the Quran. I hope the peace and reconciliation meetings, such as the one held at First United Methodist Church yesterday evening, outnumber the rallies held by those espousing hatred. I hope that we can find a way as a nation, as a city, and as a community to reach toward rituals of hope and renewal: of remembrance rather than vengeance.

I hope we can all hold some peace within ourselves on this September 11th. Peace within and peace without, and hope for our future.