Blood, Violence and Death, Part I: 9/11/01
Some people are taught that blood, violence and death are themes for adults. They are not. They are reality. War surrounds us every day. Wicked souls in the streets beating up grandmothers just to snag a purse with $40 dollars in it. Selling my soul to the Devil in exchange for two pieces of paper with an engraved portrait of Andrew Jackson’s face doesn’t seem like a world in which I want to exist. People decay and eventually wither away into nothingness. Connected to the ground from which they came — all fueled by the Sun. All for nothing. All in vain.
My nation is all I know, and I am watching it ripped away in front of my eyes. Not in a real-time sense, but slowly over time. I can even remember the day this all happened. It was chock-full of blood, violence and death.
When I grew up, Kindergarten was the bridge between Pre-K — which I did not attend — and 1st grade. I don’t remember much before Kindergarten, consciously — stumbling upon snippets and deep-seeded memories occasionally — but I do remember this day.
Unlike [current year], where Kindergarten is an all-day affiar, I grew up at a time when there were two Kindergarten classes in the day. One in the AM, and on in the PM. I took the AM class. When my mom picked me up from school, I recall her telling me that “the terrorists have attacked.”
I had never heard of the concept of a terrorist before this point. Why would I have? I was a child of the Nickelodeon generation. I wanted to own the cloning device that Jimmy Neutron invented, going as far as to pray to a box of Jimmy Neutron branded pencils that one would appear in my closet one day. Perhaps this was my first prayer, though I directed it the wrong way. However, at this point in my life — around age 7 — I had never been to a church unless someone was getting married or had passed away. The concept of God as He is was foreign to me.
I remember seeing news reports about this incident, but never properly comprehending it. I remember the general sentiment I had, and being a child raised on a TV, it happened to align mostly with the 24-hour cable news hosts. It didn’t matter what party they affiliated with, or what candidate they supported, if they were talking to me on the glowing box, I listened to them.
My parents usually controlled the remote, so as to monitor our viewing habits. In hindsight, I appreciate this action, yet disagree with their methodology. They had relied on the MPAA to warn them purely about the films content, thus denying me access to literal art. As a filmmaker, I pine to once again live in a time when films are as strictly regulated as they were in the lifetime of William Harrison Hays Sr.
I remember a surge of patriotism in this country shortly after 9/11, but not enough to feel any passion or participate in it. Just enough to know it was happening. I didn’t even understand why the perpetrators committed such an act, but now I know it is because if they told us the truth, we’d topple over every domino. I know this truth, however, but am denied the chance to proclaim it without fear of being ostracized.
