Occasionally when you have nothing to add, you still have to write. On 9/11, 2001, I started to drive to work. Crossing over the freeway the music station began to report the news. My kids were at home, their father would be driving them to school. Except I turned my car around and walked back in my front door to say that nobody could go anywhere. My daughter rolled her eyes because I was over-reacting. She was a teenager.
Just another day, in many ways, as is often true of tragedies. The best thing I’ve read about 9/11 is this story in the Atlantic, probably because it stays so close to the particular experience of a family most profoundly affected.
I do find myself wondering how much, in 2021, it matters that we are Americans. National boundaries and priorities seem less important to me than other dangers. I could be wrong. And I understand that human beings don’t organize well in the grand scale, that nations may be necessary, as are states, provinces, cities, towns, named neighborhoods, families. The bigger institutions get, often the less humane, the less welcoming, and the less conscientious. Nor do I mean to discount the suffering of those who lose their lives in conflict organized by national boundaries.
I suppose I do mean, “what scope kindness?”
Almost everyone, unless they are to my mind broken, can be nice to one baby at a time. Funnily enough, on the other end of the scale, we seem able to articulate the good in global humanity. But at the in-between groupings–international internecine battles, CEOs against their hourly workers, neighborhoods closing ranks against the toddler who screams a lot at night–we stink. Grievously.
Such a platitude, kindness. It’s easy for me, with my nice little backyard, and Persian carpet, and new throw blanket, to urge benevolence on others. Also I hate fighting, at any scope. Some people want backyards, and I wish them backyards. Some people like to fight, and I do not wish them opportunities to do so.
Simply stated, an optimist would hope that in the face of germs and rising seas we might organize more generously. Soon?
Until then, I grew some zinnias.
Took something like two months to get a bloom. So much stem, so little flower. They are a monument to hope and hubris, and make me laugh every morning. Don’t take it personally, zinnia buddies.
On the other hand, the chives and parsley I’d planted in the same pot just keep regrowing. They’re invisible. Thank you for better salads and potatoes, little green friends.
Have a good weekend, everyone. I would never presume to exhort you all to be kind and generous because I am certain you already are.
23 Responses
Your certainty does you credit. And this is the first thing I have read regarding this painful anniversary that hasn’t made me cringe in some way. This is not faint praise – I am truly refreshed and even encouraged by your words, and I thank you for them.
I don’t take it as faint praise at all. I’m honored. Thank you for telling me. This writing whatever I’m thinking on a given morning can be tricky sometimes.
It is disheartening to me, that the worse off the world is..pandemic, climate change, etc. the more divisive we’ve become as a nation, and as neighbors. Small thing, but I can’t even be on the App Next Door anymore, because it’s nothing but fighting over masks, bike lanes, tree trimming ….and it depresses me.
Such a sad anniversary too – the world changed forever that day.
I almost mentioned Next Door, but used the example of the loud toddler (which was told to me by someone who lived in the house across the way) instead. At what scale can we maintain the idea of “neighbors,” I wonder?
Thank you for sharing Bobby’s story from the Atlantic. I caught Smerconish’s interview with Jennifer Senior as I was driving back home from the airport. The interview was powerful and I knew I had to read the article.
You’re more than welcome. It’s really something, the article. Brilliant.
Your words, as always, calm me. The Bobby article in the Atlantic was a great recommendation – thank you.
There are often times in our lives that the universe seems to be listening in on our conversations. In one such conversation with friends yesterday, we broached the subject of a lack of civility in the world we often see and each of us expressed a real longing. Your essay here is spot on, as it often is. It seems there is a thread of this feeling popping up everywhere I look. Your words remind us that we’re all fallible and can stand to reflect a bit in order to be the change for which we long. Here’s hoping we all can muster the hope that you express for zinnias in all our lives.
I thank you for the reminder.
You are so welcome. I too feel that longing.
You are reminding me of something deeply meaningful particularly in paragraph five or six. We are all trapped in our privilege until “the bell tolls for thee”.
I am trying not to avoid the unvaccinated cashier. I am not afraid of him but rather angry about his lack of concern for others. (He is easily twenty but, “My parents don’t want me to”). Also that he now wears no mask as he has apparently found a way to slip through the rules. Friends what do we do about that fifteen percent?
Perhaps, my anger is justified but all I can really do is mind my own yard. Which is something like you planting Zinnias Lisa. I dislike arguments and shirts that espouse us to “be kind”.
Yes, 911 changed us forever but we were far closer to each other.
It’s so hard to balance righteous anger and forgiveness. One of the great tasks of being human, and wholly unmapped for most of us.
Just yesterday I took myself off Next Door. It was disheartening to read all the mean and unkind comments people were posting in response to innocent posts. It’s not what I originally signed on for. I wonder what all the combativeness is about. Everything devolves into an argument.
I was of course thinking of Next Door as I wrote. Such petty meanness as I never hope to experience in person.
I’ve been thinking about this a lot, too. About the importance of kindness and caring about our community. In the days immediately after 9/11, there was so much kindness and compassion and gentleness. That’s faded over the years. Now we have people who believe that their personal choice to wear a mask or not is more important than protecting our community. Twenty years isn’t long; it’s sad that so much of this goodwill has faded so quickly.
I have been thinking long and hard about this. How is it that calls for compassion and caring for the “other” feel like an affront to so many? How does my request for shared protections threaten someone’s values?
Perhaps I’m overgeneralizing from my own experience (and privilege) but it seemed like when I was growing up, there was societal agreement that kindness was in the greater good. Something to aspire to, at least. Even if in practice it fell short.
Now, it feels as though a substantial proportion of our society seems to think kindness (and empathy and community spirit) are for “suckers.” The “I’ve got mine, Jack,” attitude writ large.
I’m hoping there’s a cycle to this and that we swing back (perhaps this time with greater understanding of other’s experiences). In my lifetime, maybe?
And now you’ve made we want to plant some chives.
Chives are wonderful. I hope you’re right about the cycle.
What’s is good for the group as a whole seems to have taken second place. Sadly, sense of community is in decline. Yes, as a subscriber, The Atlantic magazine is outstanding. Like you, I enjoy the flowers and herbs growing in my garden. Small things still delight.
And the need for community, now, seems to be as great as ever.
I’m thinking that the behavior of people is showing us who they really are at this point in their lives. Add some stressors – there are plenty of those right now – and people reveal who they are at bottom. Some of it isn’t pretty, and is dangerous to others and to our country as a whole.
Thank you for your always insightful writing. And the Atlantic article was wonderful.
Thank you. And if people are revealing who they’ve always been I am so sorry that life is squandered on such lack of caring.
Lovely photos. Your yard looks so inviting. I can hardly believe it’s been 20 years. I watched the plane hit the second tower as I fed my infant daughter. She’s 20 and in college now, and neither she nor any of her sisters know a world before 9/11. Thank you for sharing a little home-grown beauty on an otherwise sad day.
You are so welcome.
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