Buckle Up

I undo my left pigtail braid one more time. It just isn't symmetrical with the right and it looks funky. I spray some more body spray and redo the braid. I really want to look cute today. I know I will be running around and getting dirty with water balloons and sand, but this could be a big day. Who knows what group I will placed in? There are about 70 people in our middle school. I don't really care much for the 8th graders, and the 6th graders are also kind of lame. But some of my classmates are awesome.

Of course, 20 of us out of 26 have been in the same class for all 7 years of school, but that just means I've been able to develop truly maniacal crushes on boys who I have known since birth. And this year there are new boys. Charles and Julian. School's only been back for a month, so the verdict is still out, but they have potential. Out of the 13 boys in our class, I wouldn't mind being in a group with about 8 of them. Maybe today is my chance to step out from the shadows of my gorgeous and experienced friends. Maybe today I will woo a crush-worthy boy with my athletic abilities and quick wit.

I am not at all optimistic, however. Because in my 12 long(suffered) years, I already know that I am not that girl. Ugh. Well, maybe I will at least get one of the fun teachers to be my group leader.

Impact Tuesday is an annual team-building event at my Christian private school. We are divided into completely un-random groups with a teacher/leader and race to complete challenges, answer clues, and possibly win the prize at the end of the day. It is also, of course, an opportunity to spend a whole day flirting with each other.

My mom pulls around the circle drive to drop me off at the front of the school. As I'm about to open the door, we hear a breaking news report on the radio. There is a fire in the World Trade Center. They think it might be related to some kind of horrible plane crash accident. But that is all the information they have. My mom and I both pause for a moment, but plane crashes and fires happen sometimes. It might be a devastating accident, but it is nothing we can't deal with. So I grab my disposable camera and head in to school, my group member fate awaiting me.

During homeroom before we start the activities of Impact Tuesday, Steve (definitely a worthy group member!), asks our homeroom teacher if they know anything about the plane crashes. Like a good teacher, she redirects and reassures. We have things to do, there's nothing to worry about!

My group is assigned, my leader, Mr. S. is perfect, and my team is decent. Good friends, but no prospects. Oh well. We all put on our matching bandannas. Because we have so many groups all the solid colors are taken. My group will be wearing red, white, and blue American flag bandannas.

We begin the challenges and laugh and compete and flirt. But everyone can tell that the teachers are a little bit off. They are subdued. After lunch, they say that we aren't finishing the activities. We're going to pray. For four hours, we pray and sing songs. We have no idea exactly what is going on, just that something horrible has happened. Many of the adults are crying. Finally, at three, my mom picks me up. I don't remember the drive. I don't remember actually hearing what happened. But she must have told me, because I knew when I got home. I knew when I sat in front of the TV and watched the destruction.

I have no idea if we ate dinner that night or what my dad looked like when he got home from work. I remember exactly what I was wearing that morning, but the only things I remember after getting home from school are the scenes of people jumping out of the towers, the tower falling, the pentagon on fire, debris everywhere, confusion in New York and across the country.

It seems so unreal, so cinematic. But the death toll is real. Almost three thousand people. Most of them are just normal people who went to work one day with no idea of what was going to happen. And through it all the question remains: why?

Even at 12 years old, the message I get is clear: some people hate us. They hate us for actions we've taken in the past, they hate us for pushing democracy, they hate us for being American, they hate us so much that they are willing to die just to kill us. Some are celebrating as we uncover the dead. And one man emerges as the responsible party. On that very day, I learn the name Osama bin Laden and shortly after, he takes credit for the attack. He gloats and his eyes are filled with mirth.

We were not attacked by a foreign nation with military bombs and planned attacks on military bases. No, a single man orchestrated an attack to kill 3000 civilians. And yes, I hated him. Nothing was the same after September 11th. Every one was on the edge of their seats. Almost ten years later and I still feel my stomach drop when there is breaking news.

US troops have caught other prominent al qaeda leaders. There is no celebrating on the streets. But catching bin Laden was different. One man planned the attacks, one man evaded capture for nearly 10 years, and that one man was killed on Sunday night. It felt like letting go of a breath I had been holding for 9 years. And although I went to sleep after watching the news for a while because I had to get up early, I did want to be on campus with all the other college kids. Our university had one of the top ten biggest celebrations, with fireworks and everything.

I wore red white and blue the next day and expected the other teachers to do the same. I expected conversation and revelry. But it was just a normal day at school. And that is when I realized just how varied all our experiences of 9/11 really were. I was old enough when 9/11 happened that I knew exactly what was going on and I didn't get shielded from anything. But I am young enough that almost half my life, the US has been at war. I know people who have died in the Middle East and a couple years ago, my own brother in law could have easily been part of the mission on Sunday night. Whether or not I agree with the engagements, it does not change the fact that it has dominated my life.

I've been trying all week to think of a way to explain why I felt happy that someone died. But honestly, when it comes down to it, I believe that Osama bin Laden was evil and I'm happy that he is no longer on earth. No matter what you believe, killing 3000 innocent people is evil. I don't want to see the pictures and I don't want to seem glib over the death with naivete about retaliation. And I know that it might not change anything at all. I'm just satisfied that he is gone.

I'm not sure how of you will read such a long and not-thought-out post, but hopefully it didn't seem like a pitch. This is just how I feel. After 10 years of war, 2 years of a horrible economy, $4 gasoline, and basically a completely pessimistic world to be arriving in as an adult, finding out Osama bin Laden had been killed felt like the first good news in a really long time.

"The pieces of the bodies of infidels were flying like dust particles. If you would have seen it with your own eyes, you would have been very pleased, and your heart would have been filled with joy."
-Osama bin Laden