Normalcy As Self-Defense

On the afternoon of Sept. 11, several hours after learning of the morning’s horrific events, I decided to voyage to the post office for stamps and to Staples for desk supplies. I had not been able to contact my mom, who lives in New York City, but I assumed she would be fine, as we live nearly five miles from the World Trade Towers. The probability of her being in the area at the time of the attack was remote, and I needed stamps.

When I woke that Tuesday morning, I had checked The New York Times online at about 9:30 a.m. The web page featured a little image of the Trade Towers in the upper right hand corner. A stripe of orange and black interrupted the otherwise calm, monolithic facade. A small caption said that a plane of unidentified size had crashed into one of the towers. Though I found this surprising, I figured it was another case of an inexperienced pilot losing control of a two-seater. I threw on some clothes and rushed to breakfast.

As I chatted with a friend about courses, my House Master stopped by to tell us that it appeared as if the crash was not accidental, but intentional and probably terrorist activity. This made the situation graver and I knew I would have to find a television. I decided to head over to Sever Hall to register before the stampede.

Leaving registration, I ran into a friend who inquired about the summer and then mentioned that New York City had apparently come under terrorist attack and one of the towers was on the brink of collapse. I hurried to a television and watched the news for an hour. I tried reaching my mom, but the phone lines weren’t operational.

Pangs of worry entered my conscience as the day aged. I wanted to hear my mother’s voice, to know she was safely lodged in our apartment. She was able to get through to me at 8:30 p.m. and my pangs ceased. My relative detachment from the events continued. I watched President George W. Bush’s speech and then developed a strategy for shopping period.

On Wednesday morning, the first class I went to was Fletcher University Professor Cornel West’s Afro-American Studies 10: “Introduction to Afro-American Studies.” We began with a moment of silence. At moments like this, at funerals and memorial services, one thought quickly, yet consistently, enters my mind: What if someone laughed? The thought disturbs me, both thinking it and thinking of the consequences, so I rush it out of my mind. West wondered aloud why President Lawrence H. Summers had not canceled classes for the day. The appropriateness of a day of mourning suddenly struck me and yet, within minutes, I was taking notes. No professor quite knew how to preface the introductory lectures. Why were we there?

In the afternoon, I began to acknowledge the extent to which I had isolated myself from what had happened. I had divorced myself from the images coming from the press, neither watching television nor looking online. I had stopped reading articles, feeling overwhelmed by the scope of coverage and not knowing where to begin. The enormity of the event had not resonated. How do we act in the midst of such horror? Is it okay to smile or laugh? Should we attempt to talk about anything aside from the attack? Is doing so a sign of insensitivity and apathy or a healthy resilience, to the tune of “America will not be stopped; freedom will not relent.” Shouldn’t the events move us to cry, even if we have no personal connection to the victims? If the death of over 6,000 fellow Americans doesn’t draw tears, how hardened are our hearts?

Sadly, it does not shock me that many Americans were not brought to tears. In the past, we have remained calm as thousands died in mass genocide in the Balkans and Africa. Yet, where has been our fundamental love, not for principle, but for humanity itself? Shouldn’t that love stir us in times like these, softening our hearts of their outrage and disgust, so that we may know the depths of our shared sorrow?

A friend noted how quickly a question about one’s friends and relatives became a platitude. One needs not say more than “Is everyone...?” and the questioned would comprehend. If the question were uttered between friends, aware of a household in one of the affected states, it would most certainly be the first part of a greeting. Otherwise, perhaps it was inserted after inquiries about the summer or even at the very end of a conversation. How would you react if the person had said, “Yes, my father was killed”?

I didn’t truly reflect on what had happened until Thursday evening, when I finally went online to look at several images of the disaster area. The emotional impact of seeing a man falling through the air or a wall with hundreds of “missing” signs far surpasses the emotional impact of the written word, at least for me. Next to the piles of rubble, rescue workers look like ants. The Trade Towers defined lower Manhattan and the debris defines the carnage.

It was odd to see students frolicking on Friday evening, as if nothing had happened three days before. I went to a little soirée as well, catching up with those I had not seen in months and cracking the occasional joke. Though understandable, the normalcy was a bit disturbing. But one cannot mourn indefinitely.

Our national leaders pushed for a resumption of normal life and America quickly accepted the decree. President George W. Bush said the country would not be paralyzed and Mayor Rudolph W. Giuliani of New York asked his fellow citizens to return to work. The stock market has opened and professional athletes have taken the field. Perhaps we accepted the decree a bit too quickly at Harvard—one day of mourning could have probably fit the schedule without creating chaos.

Normalcy is a potent symbol of resilience after such a tragedy. It is also an understandable means of self-defense to deal with the enormity of what happened. One can only hope that an individual’s return to routine is neither an expression of denial nor of apathy. To go through this tragedy without reflecting should be profoundly alarming.

Robert Madison ’04, a Crimson editor, is an English concentrator in Leverett House.