Maybe I am just an Insensitive Virago

September 11th. A sense of weight bears down inside whenever I hear
or see this date.

9:11
911
9/11

Anyway these numbers appear in that order, memories which are seared
deep into my brain spring up for a moment. Usually, a moment is
spared to recognize how lucky I am and I move on. Today, it's not so
easy. Every time I write the date on the board. I debated sharing
my stories of being in New York on 9/11 with my students and when I
thought about not sharing, a feeling of dishonesty lurked. So I
shared, though I am dubious if it was more for my edification or
theirs. A few had questions. Most were silent. Somehow, I managed
not to cry, something I've never done in front of students.

I realized that 9/11 has shaped me in ways I never knew and still do
not fully understand. A sense of security was robbed. For a moment,
however brief in the greater history of my life and my world, I
understood what it meant to live in fear of outside violence. Not
the fear of getting mugged walking down the street, but of bombs
dropping, of those you love and cherish, of your home and city and
life, disintegrating in an instant. Destruction wrought with hatred,
a destruction of the spirit. But just a bump in my life. I wonder
if this bump is what catapulted me across the country to Los Angeles,
the bump that threw me off course, a course that lead to teaching, to
yoga, to rediscovering my spirituality. Was this the bump that threw
others into their own courses, diverging from mine, adding to the
sense of loss of meaning and purpose, a loss I needed to find
something new?

And today in yoga, my body resisted and I resisted knowing this.,
until, finally, tears. My teacher, at this point, perhaps knowing
or not, came and placed his hands on my lower back, helping me to
move deeply into the forward bend, a position of rejuvenation, of
relieving depression, reaching a place I have lost for months. A
simple touch, just the support I needed. No words needed to be spoken.

If only we could do this for our nation. A simple hand, a deep
breath, and release. Instead, we relive the drama, the footage, the
pageantry as if replaying a Hollywood blockbuster. I turn on the
news this morning, annoyed as the reading of the names begin. I
wonder how long we will do this each year? I feel manipulated. I
pray for those who lost loved ones, friends, coworkers in the fall of
the twin towers, for those who are haunted by witnessing this
atrocity. yet, there is a selectivity in this that seems false, that
is blind to the fact that loss and violence exist in many lives
between September 11, 2001 and now.

Where are the reading of the names of all the people who were stabbed
and shot in East Los Angeles. Every year, I read multiple essays
about boyfriends, best friends, enemies, fathers, mothers, brothers,
sisters who are victims of violence, many who did not survive. My
students are the witnesses, abandoned to figure out how to heal these
wounds, this trauma alone, at fifteen.

Where are the reading of the names of the citizens we have killed in
Afghanistan and Iraq over the past five years, who live with the fear
I felt for a blink in time for days, weeks, months, and years?

Where is the reading of the names of young men and women we have sent
off to do this killing under the protection of our flag? Who is
there to walk behind them with a gentle hand, asking them to breathe
deeply into the pain, to let go of the resistance, allowing them to
move into a place of healing and letting the tears was away the pain
and confusion?

Before yoga, Bush was on the radio saying something about an
ideological war. In my mind, it was babble. Just as the reading of
the names over and over is Bush's attempt to lead the nation in a
chant, mesmerizing us with the extension of grief, the public
regurgitation of the pain and the horror. My annoyance from the
morning became clear, the use of these services, of people's pain and
loss to propagandize for a war fewer and fewer Americans want.

Where is the naming of the names of those who are profiting? Where
is the naming of the names of those who use our fear and uncertainty
to make our world less safe for all but a privileged few? I wonder,
as the pass a gas station with dropping prices as Bush touts his
justification for starting this war in Iraq if homeland security
picked up a bit too much chatter about bio-diesel and hybrid cars.

And like this blog entry, the ultimate significance of this
historical trajectory is one whose conclusion still eludes me.