A Moment to Stop and Reflect

On Monday, September 4th, I sat in my economy class seat on a plane headed to Providence, Rhode Island. I quietly congratulated myself at having carried-on more bags than the limit specified and, as the plane prepared for take-off, I began to pour through the glossy new pages of the September issue of Glamour magazine. Now, nearly a month later, I can hardly recall that recent scene without its seeming strange, somehow disjointed from my present reality. The recent terrorist attack has made familiar parts of my life—from flying across the country to flipping excitedly through the pages of a fashion magazine—appear foreign to my mind’s eye. The general skepticism with air travel has, I think, already been discussed by those more insightful than I; they have identified the weaknesses in our nation’s airport security system and detailed specific flaws in the system from a skimpy air marshal program to heavily underpaid security workers. What I haven’t heard anyone discuss is the general uneasiness I feel with doing what everyone says we should be doing, namely moving on.

The column that I hope to write will be a silly bi-weekly romp through the pages of Glamour magazine, complete with tantrum-type rants and bizarro generalities about a magazine we all pretend not to read. I hope to add a splash of frivolity to the editorial page while putting in print the psuedo-stream of consciousness babble that echoes in the recesses of my mind. But, for obvious reasons, I found that I couldn’t jump into the intended frivolity with this, my first column. The crumpled, thumbed-through Glamour is sitting on my coffee table, the same all-teeth smiling model giving anyone and everyone who will look at her that “come hither” stare. But the capriciousness symbolized by my monthly dose of fashion and fornication tips leave a stale taste in my mouth. Reading about boyfriend tips and diet fads—in general my mindless Saturday afternoon activity—has become, to some extent, trite or insipid.

In much the same way that my late night hero, David Letterman could not bring himself to jump back into the merriment of stupid human tricks or cynical jokes about the Commander-in-Chief when his show went on-air again, I can’t justify spending time reading about the right way to flirt with a crush or why the red and pink two-piece combo is so last season. The alternating accounts of devastation and heroism that are a constant part of most conversations and news clips have made whimsical decisions and activities harder to enjoy. And yes, I find that some amount of solemnity, or at least an awareness of the larger, oftentimes troubling, picture is needed in my life. No one wants tragic events like the one we have all witnessed to occur, but when they do, the healing begins, I think, with an assessment of our daily routine, of the activities that we take for granted.

There are grander means by which a society can and should measure its ability to heal. There are economic and political markers that will signal to us the strength and effectiveness of our corrective measures and the steps we are taking towards “getting back to normal.” On a more personal level, I find that healing comes with the desire to be silly again, to take a break from the poignant reflection and introspection and feel comfortable doing what probably won’t add to my overall character but will make me smile. I look forward to the day when my casual perusal of the newsstand won’t always be dictated by the feverish need to know the latest in foreign policy or the threat of war. And perhaps, given recent developments, that day is further off than any of us had originally anticipated, I don’t know. I do know that even in the distant future I hope to take from these recent events a heightened ability to move between the realms of casual frivolity and significant personal reflection with greater ease. With an anchored awareness of the world around me and a mature sense of priority, I hope to be able to enjoy the lighter side of life, the fashion and make-up and week-long crushes, without being chained to mindless tedium. I’d like to have an appreciation for silliness without living an especially superficial life. If anything, I believe that having lived through the recent events will clarify for us how the one can and should exist without the other.

Antoinette C. Nwandu ’02 is an English concentrator in Cabot House. Her column appears on alternate Mondays.