September 2002 - Essay # 4
Ad
Arma Vocare!
- A Writer's Call To Arms -
By Peggy M.
Bennett
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"Good
morning Boston," the perky blonde television anchor said.
"It's a beautiful autumn morning today-- Tuesday, September
eleventh, two thousand one. These are today's headlines ..." The
TV reception wasn't the best in these airport coffee shops, but it would
have to do. My attention switched from today's news to the tall,
dark-haired woman who sat down at the counter. She was pretty--quite
pretty really--and probably in her early twenties. Her lilting voice
carried across the room, downright cheery for this time of the morning.
Still half asleep myself, I sipped a cup of Earl Grey. "Thanks,
that's great," she said, as the waiter poured a hot, steady stream
of coffee into her cup. She tore open a packet of sweetener, pulled a
small red cell phone from her backpack, punched three or four buttons,
and held the phone to her ear. "Hi Dad, it's me," I heard her
say loudly after a few moments. She motioned the waiter to turn the
volume down on the large television that hung suspended in one corner of
the room. "Sorry,
Dad," she said loudly. "I can barely hear you over the TV
here. Hold on a sec." The waiter grabbed the remote from behind the
counter and quickly turned down the volume, waiting for her response.
She nodded and went back to her conversation. "I'm
doing fine, Dad, just a little stressed trying to make it here on time.
You know how I despise alarm clocks! But I'm all checked in now and just
waiting to board. I thought I'd grab some decent java before I leave.
Besides, I wanted to call and tell you that I made it here okay. I know
how you worry," she said, catching my eye with a grin and a wink. I
smiled in return and went back to my tea, trying to concentrate on the
morning news instead of her conversation. A
few moments later, an announcement came booming over the loudspeaker.
"Good morning. Welcome to United Airlines. We are now ready to
board Flight 175 from Boston to Los Angeles. Those holding First Class
tickets may board at this time". "I
have to run, Dad. They're starting to board my flight, " I heard
her say. "Yes ... I will, don't worry. Will you and Mom be at the
gate when I get there? Good. Bring bucks with you too, Dad. I'm dying
for a good meal on the way home. Okay? Great. I have to get going now. I
love you, Dad. See you there!" She blew a kiss into the receiver,
turned off the phone, and dropped it into her backpack once again. "Cute
girl," I thought to myself as I watched her drop a tip on the
table, gather her copy of Cosmo, and walk away. I
returned to my tea, the morning news broadcast, and my own thoughts. I
glanced at my watch. It was only five minutes past eight. I had plenty of
time for another cup before I met my husband at eight-forty five. When I
caught the waiter's eye, I raised my cup to indicate I needed a refill.
Then I removed my favorite pen and brown leather journal from my purse.
I found a clean, white page on which to record my thoughts. "Let's
see," I said to myself as I uncapped my fountain pen. "The
date today is..." *
* * * * * They
have identified her now. Her name was Sarah*. If
I had known, I would have tried to stop her from leaving--stop that
lovely young woman from boarding that ill-fated flight and, most of all,
stop her from having to die for someone's insane beliefs. But
I didn't know. She boarded that plane. I drank my tea and wrote in my
journal. She never made it home. I was never the same. How
incredibly cheerless our world has been since that terrible day. Even
the holidays and the Super Bowl lacked their usual flavor this year.
It's been difficult to celebrate when so many are hurting. It just
doesn't seem right. Relentlessly,
I ask myself if I could have saved her. I know the answer is no, but I
can't seem to absolve myself of the feeling that I still must do
something to make this world a better place because of her. So, I've
decided to do what I do best and that is to write. I
write to ultimately be at peace with myself, releasing raw emotions from
my head and my heart onto paper where I can begin to understand them.
But where do I begin? Are there enough words to express how I, as a
citizen of the world, feel about the horror of this tragedy? Never
before have I worried about flying off to Scotland on holiday or the
high-rise buildings that I work in toppling down on me. I've never
really considered that the nuclear power plant just down the road might
be sabotaged. I've never reacted in fear at the sound of a plane engine
overhead, even though I've lived near an airport for years. I've never
draped an American flag on my living room wall or flew one from my car
antenna, even on a national holiday. And I've certainly never been so
affected by a news event that I couldn't go in to work. I
can't say I've ever turned on the news first thing in the morning, fully
expecting to hear of another plane highjack being thwarted, an airport
being evacuated, or a historic bridge under 24-hour protection. I've
never had to worry when my daughter flew across country to attend a
business meeting; she's independent and has always taken care of
herself. And I've never been terrified that my granddaughter would turn
on the television to watch cartoons, only to see an airplane, just like
the one Mommy took to Houston, slam into the side of a building. I've
never thought of wearing gloves to open my junk mail or considered my
prized antique nail file, knitting needles, or the plastic box cutter I
keep in my kitchen gadget drawer to be weapons. I've never felt the need
to be within three feet of my cell phone at all times. I've never
questioned the true motives of the quiet computer programmer from Saudi
Arabia sitting next to me during staff meeting. Even here in earthquake
country, I've never bought an extra month's worth of groceries, drinking
water, and first aid supplies just to keep "on hand." I
could never have imagined that I would not take my granddaughter to
Disneyland for her birthday, just because of security issues. I can't
say I've ever called every member of my family within a half-hour period
just to assure myself of their safety and God knows that during the
whole 17 years I've lived in Southern California, I've never once
preferred staying at home to going somewhere fun. I've
never gladly given up my favorite television shows just to watch CNN or
hear the president speak. I've never told a flight attendant on one of
my business trips that I appreciated the courage it took for her just to
come to work. I've never really paid much attention to the huge American
flag gently waving high above a building that I pass every day on the
way to work. I've never crocheted an afghan for the family of someone
who died, especially if it was someone I didn't even know. I've never
given any real thought to civil liberties and my freedom to move around
freely. And I don't remember EVER being moved to tears when someone sang
"God Bless America". Am
I the only one who has felt this way? I think not. So I say to you, the
writers of the world: "Ad Arma Vocare!" Take up arms beside
me! Let us seize our own weapons--pens, typewriters, laptops, PDAs,
PCs--using them as a magnifying glass to observe our thoughts, feelings,
emotions, and actions, revealing who we have become in the days
following that Tuesday tragedy. True,
words may not be the first weapons most soldiers would prefer in a time
of war. But they are honest weapons in the battle for peace, truth, and
freedom. By putting pen to paper we can do more than just record the
tragic events, we can also explain, preserve, honor, and attempt to
understand--confirming again, "The pen is mightier than the
sword". As
writers, it is our honor and responsibility to help preserve our
history, not only as it was on September 11, but as it was the day
before and the days after. My grandchildren's history books will most
assuredly touch on the highlights of those events--the cast of
characters, the thousands of victims, the effect it had on our
economy--and record for posterity the bitter aftermath of war. We must
also preserve the minor details, the human stories, and the emotions we
have all experienced during this terrifying time. It's so very important
if the little Sarahs, Haileys, and Jimmys of the world are ever to truly
understand (and never have cause to repeat) the circumstances
surrounding that dreadful day. We
have changed as a country. We have all changed individually. Every
aspect of our lives has somehow been touched by the finger of September
11. But our children's world will change most of all. Flying anywhere
will no doubt be problematic and frightening for them. The sight of
armed security guards and long queues leading to an explosive and metal
detector will be the norm for them. They are destined now to live in a
world of uncertainty, with talk of war, bomb scares, and the possibility
of new terrorist attacks. Already
many books and articles litter the news stands, recounting the facts and
photos of the disastrous events. But these insights, presented without
the emotions behind them, are as empty as a seashell washed by the tide
upon the moonlit sand -- interesting to look at, but meaningless without
an understanding of the life within. Already,
Web sites dealing with September 11 and its aftermath are falling off
the Internet in record numbers. The time is now, my comrade writers, to
begin writing while our memories are still fresh -- don't let them
disappear! Just
as fact and photos are easily remembered -- the fodder for quiz shows,
trivia games, and history books -- sentiment is often overlooked or too
quickly forgotten. So I call upon every writer, both the great and the
small, to hear the cry of future generations: "Tell us! We must
know the complete story, so that we may understand … and learn!" Each
of us can surely write a few paragraphs or pages during a lunch break or
a quiet evening, sharing with our children our new world -- how we've
seen it, how we've heard it, and (most importantly) how we have felt it.
Consider keeping a small notebook and your favorite pen in your purse or
near your favorite chair, someplace within easy reach to record your
thoughts whenever you are reminded of that day and the events
surrounding it. You might even create a CD-ROM or a folder on your PC
hard-drive to collect little Internet things that have touched you since
that day, perhaps a memorial or poem (just select "File Save
As" from your browser menu to save the Web page). As your children
grow, you may want to print them and give them to your child or
grandchild in a nice binder. If
you have a poem, a news story, a prayer, a quotation, a humorous quip,
or a personal devotion to share, please take the time to save it
electronically or write it down. The important thing is to capture a
record of this time in your life. We've all given generously from our pockets. Won't you join me now in giving generously of your words? Our collective voices can honor those who lost their lives--like Sarah.
*Editor's
Note:
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Author's Biography Peggy M. Bennett is a veteran technical and freelance writer. She makes her home in Los Angeles, where she is a technical consultant. She is an avid researcher and collects Charles Dickens memorabilia. She
spends her free time writing, traveling to Great Britain, and enjoying
life's journey with her husband, her wee Scottie, and two beautiful
granddaughters.
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