Memorializing the Past, Envisioning the Future

It's not every day that you wake up and plan to visit a graveyard of thousands of people--but yesterday I did. Yesterday, I visited the 9/11 Memorial where just over 10 years ago innocent people, heros, and every day workers lost their lives as three of the center's buildings collapsed after two planes crashed into the Twin Towers. The Memorial recognizes all those who died that day on each of the two planes that his the towers, those who were in the buildings, bystanders, silent heros, and those that were on the other two planes that crashed into the Pentagon and a field in Pennsylvania.

It's nearly unimaginable what America would look like now if 9/11 had never happened, what the news would be focused on, how many people would still be in New York City, what our economy would look like, what kids would be learning in schools, what our tolerance in terms of equality might be, what disaster or tragedy may have happened instead.

It's a wonder how many troops lives we could have left unharmed, what the front page of the New York Times would be, each and every day since then--what millions of photos of New York may look like now, who our president might have been from 2004 through 2008.

The truth is that the moment the first plane hit the Twin Towers was the moment America's lives were forever changed--the moment our world became a little more fuzzy--the moment things came crumbling down.

When the teacher I had, at the time of the attacks, recently emailed me, he told me that he

asked his current 8th grade class questions about 9/11--and some of them didn't know how many planes had crashed. For all they knew was that they had been in a war since the moment they could say the word..."war."

I hope that one day the kids I have can visit this site and not be in a war, that they can talk about how well the country is doing, how nice it is not to be battling someone else.

I know those times of calm and happy are few and far between, and that life without war, in our country, and most all other countries, is rare, but I hope for their sake they get to experience that rarity, that they get to experience front page news that makes people smile, rather than news that drives people to duck tape their windows shut. That they get to live life without terror and overhyped media dramatizing inaccuracies. I hope that they get to live with people who tell the truth. And, I hope, above all things, they get to live.

Mi Amore

Translated to English, this means my love. But most people probably know that. Love has this way of being a universal language. So when I say "love" or "amore" I know a lot of people are tuning in. I try to avoid writing about love--I often think I am too young to know what it really is, and that I am too far past my angsty years to write a post that stares it in the face and analyzes it.

.Love is a difficult thing. Even LIKE is a difficult thing.

A friend of mine and I recently tried to analyze our future by the first letters of names of boys we have dated. We laughed trying to figure out which letters would eventually form the U and I in our lives.

But what I am starting to see, learn, and understand about love is that it's not as predictable as the alphabet is--that it's not as easy as A-B-C-D. Love is not the D after C. It is not the Z after Y. It's the confusion of the "next time won't you play with me."

Love is like trying to figure out which way is north, south, east, and west, when you walk out into a dark night with no stars in sight.

Love is an expression--a feeling--a deeper part of us. It is what we say we feel for our family, our friends, and what we search for in a soul mate. It is what we believe the sole purpose of existence has come to be: "To find love--and to be loved in return," (Moulin Rouge). It's not in people, it's in passion. It's in all.

It doesn't have to be romantic, it just has to be sincere.

Sometimes we just need to believe that love is out there. Sometimes we just have to believe that love will find us--all the while we find it. We have to believe that love is out there--that it can be easy--and less difficult--that it can be worth all the waiting. Sometimes we just all need a little love.

And sometimes we will find love...in the crooks, crannies, and nooks of our city streets, boulevards, and subway trains. In the crevice of a booth at our favorite cafe, or in the bottom of a grocery cart we've chosen to use today. Sometimes we need to just have love find us.

I believe in love. With every part of my heart. Do you?

P.S. Check out www.moreloveletters.com if you are in the need for some serious love right now or want to send love to someone. It's kind of like Post Secret--only...Better.

While we continue to praise our present condition, we must not forget to protect our future

Nearly ten years ago, there was a teenage girl, sitting in an 8th grade history classroom, who was denied the right, with the rest of her fellow classmates to watch history unfold in the United States--to see the news that surrounded the 9/11 attacks. Nearly ten years ago, there was a teenage girl who questioned how anyone could purposely attack another country, how anyone could take the time to plot an attack on thousands of innocent people. Nearly ten years ago, there was a teenage girl who heard Osama Bin Laden's name for the first time.

"They think it was the terrorist Osama Bin Laden," my friend's mom said to me as we sat around a kitchen counter. Our field hockey practice was cancelled that day, but none of us had a true understanding of why. By 10:00 our teachers had been asked to turn off the televisions in all of the middle school classrooms and to keep their students off of computers. I was 13 years old when the twin towers came down, and by the time I actually knew the full extent of what had really happened, I was 5 hours older.

(This of course doesn't mean I understood it--I still don't to this day).

Each September 11, I am reminded of these memories. Each time I walk past a sign that says World Trade Center, I am reminded of these memories. And each time I look out the window at my office building and see the day-by-day progress of the new World Trade Center going up, I am reminded of these memories. Last night, at 11:00, these memories were again brought to the forefront of my mind as I turned on the television, following a text message that told me Obama was just about to announce that Bin Laden had been killed. This time, instead of sadness assisting my memories, my memories were paired with questions: "Where did they find him?" "How did they do it?" "Were any Americans harmed?" "What's next?"

Watching people gather outside the White House and seeing newscasts of the area outside the World Trade Center, I was instantly filled with chills--my skin covered in goosebumps. "This is a moment we will never forget," I said out loud and to myself.

And now it's time to move on--and remember that despite our victory, last night, despite our old memories now being kindled by newer, better memories, that now what we do to protect our country--will be even greater, that despite reaching a stepping stone--there will be many other obstacles to face, and that we will need to continue standing together, as we embrace what we hope to be a safer-and-better world.

While we continue to praise our present condition--we must not forget to protect our future.

Those who died on September 11, 2001, in the buildings, in the Pentagon, and on the planes- those who died due to injuries, cancer, or other life threatening ailments--and those who died fighting for our country because of the attacks will always be remembered: Their lives, their stories, and their families will always be with us.

A little voice inside my head said: Don't look back--You can NEVER look back

image copyright: Creative Commons

I refuse to sit backwards on a train unless I absolutely have to. I have always said that this would be the perfect character detail---the perfect architecture for the personality construction of someone who is stuck in the past—who can’t see tomorrow or even the present. All that is on his or her mind is yesterday, or the day before that—the mistakes made that are long past, the regrets, the moments that have already gone by.

I like to think of myself as someone who will always sit looking forward on a train, because I am always thinking of the next step, the next place, and the next goal I can set for myself—another deadline—another dream.

So when I look back, I try to make it on very prime moments in my life—very proud moments.

A lot of people might say their proudest moment was the day that he or she got accepted in to college—or the day they graduated college. Someone might say that it was the moment they hit their first homerun on the baseball field, or drew their first accepted museum piece. Another person might say it was in making their loved ones smile. But when I do look back, and see these things—these achievements, none of them are the ones I want to say are my proudest moments. Even being given the opportunity and being asked to play for a division one field hockey team doesn’t rank on the top of my list, despite the hard work and effort – and money for camps and equipment – that contributed to that achievement.

No. My proudest moment was nearly two years ago, when I finished the Lehigh Valley Half Marathon, after four months of intense training. It was the moment that I fell to the feet of one of my high school teachers and said “I did it.” It was in the moment that I thought I couldn’t take anymore pain—that I would have to cut off my legs—that I would never walk anymore. It was in the moment that I accomplished something I had once said I would never even attempt. It was in the moment that I came back from my runner’s high and realized what I had just done. It was in that moment, that my heart pounded heavily, and that I truly felt on top of the world. It was in that moment, that I found the most pride in my life.

It’s hard to believe that was two years ago. It’s hard to believe that a moment in two years hasn’t topped that. So as I look back and smile over a proud moment—over a moment of ecstasy, I turn myself around on the train, and I begin to look forward again, I remind myself to set new unrealistic goals—new unrealistic dreams—and make them real…make them something I never would have believed I could do—make them my next proudest moment.

What’s your proudest moment? What’s your next proudest moment?

"These tears are just a disguise for happiness"

His story lingers in my mind, his tears the dessert to our meal that had just ended. His words echo. His story is strong…his tears are stronger—they are for joy, not sadness. His tears are for the past, the future, and the present. And just a week ago he was a stranger to me, to all of us here in Italy. Just a week ago, I would have never known him, or this story, the one of the love he had for his grandfather, the one of the last record he played by his grandfather’s bedside, the one of strength and what it truly means.

Strength in tears.

As I sat and watched my new friend shed tears about the past, over a final glass of wine with six of us sitting at the table, I thought to myself, how strong of a person to let the tears just roll out, to just let us all the way in, to let us learn a bit more about him and his past—to let us know him.

I often cry, but most times the tears are hidden in embarrassment, because they tend to be tears for nothing, sadness, or emptiness. But I realized recently how much I actually enjoy crying, letting it all just flow out, letting the droplets just drip down my cheek.

My friend Hannah has pointed out the importance of gaping wallows in the past, and it is in this moment, at dinner, that I see the gaping wallow in progress. Though his stream of tears doesn’t fill the restaurant like a bathtub, it does offer a release, an escape. It is in these moments that I realize the importance of our tears and the importance of sharing those tears with or without stories. It is in this moment I realize the importance of letting people in—the importance of letting ourselves out.