Remembering.

I remember exactly where I was.

I was in college, and I was waiting for classes to start. I hopped into a computer lab, as these were the days before laptops and devices were a thing and there were big rooms around campus filled with desktop computers.  It was almost empty.  I remember only having one new email, back in the days before it was a primary mode of communication, and it was the one I expected, so once whatever it was I needed to do was done I logged in to a chat room for a band I enjoyed listening to.

There I was just scrolling through various song discussions and pop culture references, when I saw someone post something that said “oh my god look at the news, is this for real?”  I remember thinking geez, she needs to calm down. Then I saw another one, of similar sentiment and alarm.  I read something about buildings in New York, something about war, something about the Pentagon. I remember wondering what on earth is going on, is this for real? I stood up and hurried out to the hallway; certainly if this was a real thing, there would be people who knew what was going on.

I lurched out into the hallway, still believing it mustn’t be real, when just outside (had I missed it earlier? Had I been in the computer lab that long?) there was a TV in the hallway and about fifty students gathered around it.  We all stared in horror.

I remember looking around, wondering, what do I do now? Surely we don’t have to go to class.  I couldn’t watch the TV anymore, I moved down the hall to the student center where they had the radio loudly playing a news station.  I leaned back against the wall, and slid down it until my bum hit the floor, my forehead went to my knees and I just listened in shock and horror as they replayed everything they knew over and over.

I don’t remember if I called my mom or any of my family.  I remember thinking I had to go to class, so I did, where we all sat in a daze, whispering about what we knew and what the news was saying and would we go to war and if they started drafting us, which of us would go first? We were the right age; I was 20. The professor came in and said anyone who wanted to leave was welcome to do so; if we wanted to talk, we could also do that.  I did, though I don’t remember much of the class or the rest of the day.  I remember feeling afraid, really afraid, for my life and for my family and friends, for the first time ever. 

Because I was the right age and so were all my friends; the news anchors were talking about possible war and reinstating the draft and for the first time in my life a world event shook me to the core.  I remember going home and watching MSNBC for hours and hours; I remember Norah O’Donnell was the White House correspondent there, her face for some reason etched into my memory, and every time I see her now I remember hearing her say things like ‘the Taliban’ while standing in front of the White House, a word that had never entered my vocabulary before then. 

Its funny how certain things etch themselves into your memory like that.

I had a volunteer sitting in front of me today, when I was signing a paper for her and realized I was signing 9/11, I said do you remember that day? She shared she was in first grade, and remembers the reaction of her parents, but not much about the day.  Her life was not rocked.   She doesn’t remember being able to go all the way to the gate at an airport, carrying full-sized bottles of water, juice, shampoo or perfume in your carryon if you wanted with no one batting an eye.  She doesn’t look at the skyline of New York and feel like something is missing.  She doesn’t remember the radio hosts saying things like, “until the rubble is gone, we’ll leave our headlights on” and seeing every car with their headlights on in the middle of the day.   She doesn’t remember saying hello, how are you to the random stranger at the next gas pump over.  For some reason, the guy I greeted that day stands out in my memory. 

It was not a life changing event for her, as it was for me.  And that’s to be expected.  Soon, the volunteers coming through my office won’t remember it at all. Their lives will be rocked by some other personal or public tragedy, as all are; those moments that bring us to our knees in grief, in gratitude, in disbelief, in shock, and in sorrow.

Today I find myself on my knees in remembrance.  For those that started their day just like any other, but never came home.  The kids who lost their parents, those who have fought all manner of illness as a result of trying to help, those that died in the military action as a result of that fateful day.  

As our newsfeed is filled, it seems, with daily tragedy and heartbreak, its easy to just go numb; but as I tell my volunteers, I want tragedy, injustice, the anguish of my fellow humans to make me hurt, cry, lash out, or shout from the rooftops. I need to feel that, to keep it fueling me in my life’s work and mission and passion and heart.

I am glad that I can feel, because it means I am alive, and able to use at least one more breath to speak life and shine light into dark places and make the world a little bit better, for as long as I am in it.  

On limericks and peace.

We were in our final of four weeks of training; weeks of group projects, scenarios, discussions, lectures, theory, stories, problem solving, and what feels like a few hundred people met and committed to memory. It was a super beneficial time, to be sure; I was grateful to be there, to be learning, to be surrounded by supportive, helpful people who were bending over backwards to ensure I knew as much as my brain could hold and when that was full, that I would know who to ask for when I needed whatever spilled over.  But by that day, I had had enough, and when they sent us to big pieces of paper and markers and said work together to draw a creative representation of today’s activity, I just couldn’t do it.  I didn’t have it in me. 

I’m usually a rule follower but with a spark of rebellion, I went to a quiet corner of the room with a bit of paper and a pencil, and in about five minutes came up with my creative representation of that day’s activity. 

In Zomba we had to work fast
The crises were varied and vast
We worked as a team
Respect was the theme
(and) Not one single team came in last

It was silly, but in those five minutes of solitary creativity using my preferred tool (words, not markers), I felt a spark of life in me I hadn’t felt in quite a while.  It’s the same spark I feel right now as I’m writing this.   And I realized in that moment why I had felt so out of sorts, so over this training even though I knew how important it was, so uninspired and tired and going through the motions. 

Writing feeds my soul.  Solitary creativity with words, whether it be an essay like this one or a silly limerick like the one about Zomba (the fictional country we worked in for the day) or even just a really well-written, clear, nice-to-look at email fills me with joy and peace and that everything-is-alright-now feeling that is beyond explanation or description.  After being grouchy for a few days before the Zomba activity, after just five minutes and some word craft I felt like an entirely different person.

I knew I needed to write about it, and I knew I needed to make writing a more intentional part of my life… and then I sat on these words for three more weeks before actually giving them the time and space they deserve.  But it’s never too late to do the right thing, so I’m sitting here tonight, my fingers grateful to get these words out of me into the world where they belong.  It doesn’t even matter if anyone reads them, what’s important is the offering. 

My work is all consuming, and I love it.  But as I’m settling in and finding my space here for more than just a sprint, I know I need to allocate time to things that will keep me healthy for the long run.  Sometimes I think it'll be writing about life here and there and wherever I find myself. Sometimes it'll be writing a silly limerick. But whatever it is, as long as it brings life, I need to give it the space it deserves. 

So here we are. 

-K

Taken from the top of the Watergate Hotel on 18 August 2019