The Thing I'll Never Forget

I still remember my reaction when a classmate ran to the door of the room we were all waiting in front of—she was running late that morning, as was our teacher—and broke the news to us: a plane had flown into the World Trade Center. My response: “Cool!”

Now let me explain, lest you think I’m some kind of a sadistic psychopath. I did not think it was cool that we were under attack, or that so many people had died, or that the building could collapse as a result—in face, none of those things occurred to me in that moment. All I had been told was that an airplane had flown into the 2^nd tallest building in the world (at the time). I was picturing just that, one huge object crashing into another huge object. I was picturing the fiery explosion that must have followed, the earth-shattering boom, the kind of special effects usually reserved for actions movies. Cool.

Then one of my more enlightened classmates asked, “Was anybody hurt?” and I was suddenly snapped into the reality of the situation. Airplanes were piloted by people, and people were in the dozens of seats behind the cockpit. Buildings, especially buildings in Manhattan, had scores of people inside of them. On the streets below, where glass and metal were falling from the crash, there were still more people who could be hurt by what came raining down. This crash, this explosion, what we would soon learn was an attack, didn’t happen in a vacuum; it wasn’t about two lifeless objects crashing into each other. This was about people.

Today is September 11, the 18^th anniversary of the attacks. All over social media, I’m seeing reminders to “never forget.” I’m never exactly sure what people mean by that, though I can guess. Some mean we should never forget those we lost. Some mean we should never forget the way we came together as a nation in our grief. Some mean we should never forget the surge in patriotism. Some, unfortunately, mean we should never forget the fear and anger we felt that day.

I choose to remember something different today. I choose to remember my first reaction to the news that a plane had hit a building: “Cool!” I choose to remember the shame I felt when my classmate asked if anyone had been hurt, a question I hadn’t considered. I choose to remember what I forgot in that moment: current events don’t happen in a vacuum. What you see on the news affects real people.

When we talk about war, we talk about freedom and sovereignty and security. But it’s also about people. American soldiers die. Innocent civilians suffer. Families are changed forever. War affects real people.

When we talk about politics, we talk about leadership and polls and scandals. But it’s also about people. Decisions made in Washington help decide whether poor children get a decent education and whether retirees will see a doctor this month. Politics affects real people.

When we talk about immigration or abortion or the death penalty or gun control or any other hot button issue, we almost always frame it in the abstract, according to the political jersey we wear. We cheer victories by our side and we curse the stupidity of the other side. It’s a game.

But this stuff affects real people. As much as we tend to treat current events like entertainment—something to talk about with our friends, something to distract us from our daily lives, something to get excited or angry about—these things are too important to keep doing that. We have to think less about winning the argument and more about the people being affected. We have to love the game less than we love our neighbors.

My middle-school boy reaction to 9/11 was to think of the objects instead of the individuals. But the truth, then and today, is that current events don’t matter because they’re controversial or exciting or made-for-TV. They matter because of the human beings who are affected.

Never forget.