I was a fourth-grader at Willis Campbell Elementary School, and I remember that Tuesday morning as clearly as if it happened yesterday.
My class made its way from Mrs. Sherman’s classroom, down the hall, into Mr. Hobbs’ music class. Upon entering, it was evident that something was different. At the back of the room, the T.V. was on. But we were not watching “Fiddler On the Roof,” as we had the previous week. Instead of Tevye the dairyman, the screen was filled with the astonished faces of newscasters. Mr. Hobbs directed us to sit down, then explained that a tragedy had taken place in New York City, a place most of us knew only from shows on the Disney Channel. An airplane had accidentally crashed into the side of a building called the World Trade Center. Then, it happened. As we sat, our eyes fixed on the screen before us, another plane appeared out of nowhere, bursting the side of the second tower and making it clear that this was no mistake. Though our group of nine- and 10-year-olds had no context for what had just happened, we knew it was bad. Mr. Hobbs looked at the screen in disbelief. “This will be remembered as the Kennedy assassination of your generation,” he told us. Even then, I thought what he did next was noble. He walked to the front of the classroom, sat down in front of his keyboard, and led us, tearfully, in singing the “Star-Spangled Banner,” “God Bless America” and “God Bless the USA”. Though we did not yet know who had done these horrid things, nor why, Mr. Hobbs intuitively knew that the best response was a defiant patriotism, lyrical reminders of who we were and what we stood for. Just three days later, President George W. Bush would strike a similar tone in his remarks to New York rescue workers when he shouted through a bullhorn: “I can hear you. The rest of the world hears you. And the people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon.” For those who were alive to remember it, the memories of that day, and of the weeks that followed, are as fresh as ever. Everyone, it seems, knows exactly what they were doing and what they felt when they heard— and saw — the news that changed history. There was a national cohesion then that, sadly, seems to be a thing of the past. Democrats and Republicans stood side-by-side on the steps of the U.S. Capitol that night. American flags flew proudly from stately flagpoles and modest front porches, alike. Churches were packed with people, many of whom had not set foot in such places in years. It was an era of paradoxes, a time when Americans were both humiliated and proud; shaken, yet possessed by a steely resolve to forge ahead. The nation will soon commemorate that horrific day. There will be speeches and ceremonies. There will be posts on social media and reflections, like this one. What there will assuredly not be, however, is unity. As far as I can tell, America is in the midst of a cold civil war, one marked by social media propaganda, extreme ideologies, and general vindictiveness in virtually every sphere. We are doing to ourselves things of which our enemies could only dream. That the American experiment possesses the power to self-destruct was alluded to by Benjamin Franklin. In his journal, James McHenry, a Maryland delegate to the 1787 Constitutional Convention, writes that, following the adjournment of the Convention, “A lady asked Dr. Franklin, ‘Well, doctor, what have we got, a republic or a monarchy —A republic, replied the doctor, if you can keep it’.” “If you can keep it.” There’s the rub. It seems that the only thing all Americans agree on today is the general feeling that that cherished republic is quickly slipping through our fingers, and the problem is us. As we pause to remember the events of that fateful day, it would be good for us to examine ourselves, nationally; not to blame the left or the right, but to consider what we have become and what we are willing to do to regain what we have lost. There is no simple solution to the problems we have created, and I am not certain that recovery is possible at this point. But a dose of self-reflection, paired with some of Mr. Hobbs’ defiant patriotism, certainly would not hurt.
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AuthorTy Perry is a writer based in metro-Detroit. Archives
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