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I don’t remember September 11th
When geography gets in the way of patriotism
by David Volk

Oh, sure, I remember where I was when I heard the news. I was in an English language bookstore in Paris when two young Americans asked the store clerk if he had seen the news. They said something about planes attacking the Pentagon and Philadelphia . I was so stunned I told my wife even though I didn't believe it. I almost thought the two were engaging in the sort of sociology experiment where a rumor is spread about something horrific in an effort to see how long it would take to get back to them.

I remember riding the Metro back to the Hotel Napoleon at the end of Paris’ workday looking for some sort of confirmation or denial of the rumors, but none was forthcoming.

I remember repeatedly turning the idea over in my mind, looking at it, wanting desperately to believe that it was just an exchange student’s sick joke, but worrying it wasn't.

I remember looking through the hotel doorway and seeing the first piece of proof, the worried look on my mother’s face as she stood at the concierge desk. It was a look even now I can’t remember having seen all that often in my life, but one that I knew at the time couldn’t be good. At that moment, all hopes and illusions were gone.

I remember turning on the television in my hotel room just in time to puzzle over footage of a plane flying behind the World Trade Center, only at the wrong angle. The plane flew near the tower, then disappeared almost behind it, then cut across the inside of the building.

I remember having to go to the Moulin Rouge because we had already made reservations earlier in the week, but having difficulty enjoying such gaiety in the midst of such tragedy.

I remember staying at a four-star hotel just two blocks away from the Arch d’ Triomphe, making a long distance phone call to a friend, and hearing him say, "There are worse places to be stuck.". True, Paris was better than Kabul, but I still recall thinking we were in the wrong place at the wrong time and that there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t have given to be back home. It was obvious from the looks on the faces of other Americans at the Delta Airlines that they felt that way, too.

I remember wondering as the days wore on, with no sign of flights leaving for America, whether we would ever leave. At one point, I sought solace in food, buying chopped liver at a Jewish Quarter bakery that would later be shot up by a gun-toting anti-Semite.

I remember my mom giving me a long letter in a sealed envelope telling me what to do once I got back to the States if the plane she was on didn’t make it. It was a scene straight out of a war movie and one I hope no one else ever has to experience.

I remember how giddy I was the night before we were finally supposed to fly home. In fact, I was so delirious I’m sure my wife and my mom were convinced I was drunk. I wasn’t. I was just happy that I might be going home.

But, I don’t remember what the stunned silence throughout the country was like in the hours following the disaster because I wasn’t here to experience it.

I don’t remember the fear that swept the country as worry over additional terrorist attacks took hold because I wasn’t here to feel it.

I don’t remember how Seattle and other cities became virtual ghost towns with most businesses shut down and few people venturing far from home because I was far from home.

I don’t remember how eerie it was to look up into the sky and not hear the sounds of planes flying overhead because planes kept flying in Paris.

All I remember is leaving one America, an America I had always known and loved, and returning to a completely different one.

When I left, it was a U.S. where the country’s largest city was headed by a schnook who wasn’t quite leaving office in disgrace, but it was close. It was a place where a people were still actively engaged in questioning the outcome of the presidential election less than a year before. It was a place where dissent was tolerated, even loudly celebrated in forums ranging from "The Jerry Springer Show" and "Politically Incorrect" to the U.S. Congress. It was also a place where constitutional guarantees to a right to privacy, free speech, and freedom from unlawful imprisonment without just cause were sacrosanct.

When I returned, Rudy Giuliani was a hero who had turned the World Trade Center collapse into a marketing opportunity (and the disasters of flight 293 and the Pentagon were all but forgotten). It was a place where a president who initially turned tail and fled for cover was being saluted as a leader with record approval ratings (and who is still trying to capitalize on the tragedy by trying to get rid of a leader who tried to kill his daddy). It is a place where any Senator or representative who questions an action of the president is condemned as not being patriotic and a man who hosts a show called "Politically Incorrect" is reviled for (shock of shocks) being politically incorrect. It has also become a place where the attorney general is encouraging cable installers to snoop and snitch, where police can go into libraries to find out what you’ve been reading, where everyday people who question the president’s actions are considered un-American, and where people can be imprisoned for the color of their skin and held without access to representation.

Yes, I think what happened last year was a tragedy resulting from the inexcusable actions of fundamentalist madmen. I cried then and I cried when I heard NPR’s recent airing of "We Were on Duty," a retelling of the stories of the victims of the Pentagon disaster. And yes, I think the people who did this should be brought to justice (then killed).

But I don’t think these people died just so that our freedoms could be curtailed. Nor do I think they would have wanted that.

I’m sorry to say that I don’t remember what September 11th was like here in the States. And I’m sad to say that it’s getting to the point that I don’t remember what this country was once like, either.