I'm the guy in the building with the TV. This is my reputation. As such, the doorbell kept ringing, and I kept answering. Before I knew it, twelve people were crowded on and around my bed, waiting for President Obama to give his speech. It was such a surreal moment, as I began to realize that I was going to remember this for the rest of my life.
"Where were you when you found out about Bin Laden?"
Here. In this room, switching between looks at the TV and glances at the faces before me. Shock and all the different memories came back to the forefront. Ten years ago, we were different people. We dressed differently, listened to different kinds of music, spoke in different mannerisms, had different friends. And now there was that collision bouncing off the screen, reminding us how far we've made it.
If nothing else, being "the guy with the TV" has made me more connected to the media than ever before. Even with the Internet and cell phones, I still wonder what exactly it was that made all of my friends want to come here. Is it something about the immediacy of it all, of that firm newsman sharing his world to us? Perhaps on a more specific level, yes. But when it comes down to it, there is something much stronger. The community, that idea of putting yourself into a situation, sharing your stories and dedication, and getting them in return. That's what Sunday night was about, and we are stronger people for it.
On September 11th, 2001, my alarm didn't go off. Mom had already left for work, and Dad was frantically trying to get me up and moving so that he could drop me off at school and head off to his publishing meeting at 2 World Trade Center, scheduled for later that morning. The TV was on, just as a habitual background noise, nothing special, while we tied ties and pulled sweaters over heads. At 8:46 a.m., I desperately slugged down my orange juice as I heard the footsteps running down the hallway and into the kitchen. The hand over Dad's mouth as the disastrous illumination came over the room still sticks with me.
"What am... how..." he looked at me, yearning for the answers. Like Gregor Samsa in The Metamorphosis as he was beginning to realize that he had turned into an insect, he was stuck, powerless. It was just him and me, the two men of the house, watching our city in ruins. New York was invincible, cradling us and teaching us lessons that we never could have learned on our own, and here it was, crying out in front of us next to where we ate. We just stood, motionless.
This is precisely why I am disappointed that photographs of Osama bin Laden's body have not been released to the public. If the people of this country have to sit in awe and witness the World Trade Center fall apart, men diving to their deaths, and rubble caking into the air of the city, the public must be able to put it all into perspective. Without media having the ability to inform and verify, at least partially, our rationale for the War on Terror, the purposes of both war and news go unacknowledged. And for a nation that has spent the past decade priding itself on the wars it has fought, regardless of legality or legitimacy, the people--soldiers on the battlegrounds, first responders, children afraid to go to sleep, parents trying to comfort them--at the very least deserve to know why, or to at least have the resources to conclude something. Anything. Without these clear definitions, this nation can rely on absolutely nothing. In order to truly rebuild and get on the so-called right track, we need to honor ourselves and see the pieces among the chaos.
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