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The gifted India Arie was spot-on when she sang about “the little things and the joy they bring.” I’m one of those infinitely lucky people capable of finding joy in even the most miniscule items and instances: a cat’s purr, a great song, shared laughter with a close friend over an inside joke, the smell and hue of the trees after an overnight rain.
After this especially difficult week, when the media’s perpetual parade of maudlin images mixed with everyone’s own continued sadness, leaving me disjointed and melancholic, I had accepted that, at least temporarily, the little things were not going to bring much joy. However, that changed Friday night. Through my connection with Hairspray, I was able to catch a preview of Little Shop of Horrors, opening next month. As cliché as it may sound, there really is nothing like a Broadway musical (especially one as silly as Little Shop) to renew a sense of contentment and lift the spirits to a level far more acceptable than the lows they often sink.
I observed a theatre full of eager patrons, young children excitedly clutching their Playbills, possibly seeing their first Broadway show, adults returning to enjoy a show they hadn’t seen in decades. One young woman entered the lobby with her brother, only to find 15 friends awaiting her with shouts of “Surprise!” while cameras flashed in her face and the rest of the people in the area (including myself) applauded. As I assisted with selling t-shirts before the curtain, an excited teenaged boy approached with his mother, both wearing t-shirts from his recent small-town high school production of Little Shop.
For a brief while, the light mood of the theatre and patrons had me puzzled. “Wait! Don’t you people remember yesterday’s date? How can you be laughing? Aren’t you people still sad and shocked and horrified by what happened two years ago yesterday?”
It didn’t take me long to realize that, had I stood on a chair and shouted those questions to the crowd, their answer would have been a resounding “Yes!” But it didn’t matter. Because, no matter who you are, where you’re from or what activity you may be engaged in, every person in this country (like myself) thinks of that terrible September morning on a daily basis. No amount of contentment, pleasure or joy in any of our lives will EVER remove those sickening images from our minds or let us forget what happened. And that is somewhat comforting to me, especially when looking around seeing things return to “normal” after that day and after each anniversary plummets us into reliving it.
However irrelevant, my primary emotion -- above the transfixing, nauseating sadness -- continues to be disbelief. Absolute disbelief. I know where those low-flying planes ended up. I know there were people -- human beings -- in those buildings. I am well aware of the facts of that day and that our Twin Towers are gone. Yet I still CANNOT BELIEVE IT REALLY HAPPENED. How can someone who saw the images, read the newspapers, smelled the smoke and witnessed the rescue effort actually remain so incredulous that the event actually took place? I don’t know if I’ll ever understand it. Nor will I understand or come to terms with the survivor’s guilt I continue to subject myself to whenever I consider the lives lost and those they left behind. Even after two years, I go to sleep each night in utter disbelief over what happened and questioning why I was spared.
One emotion I did not experience that day (or since) was fear. I choose not to allow fear any home inside my mind. I do not fear death, at least not my own. If terrorists want to attack us again, I have no doubt they can and will. There is no way in hell our incompetent president or Tom Ridge or any other talking head will ever convince me we are safe. But I choose not to fear. Raise that terror alert as many notches as you want… I’ll be outside, living my life, flying in airplanes, riding the subway, walking the streets. It’s not insolence or defiance or even boldness. It’s simply a refusal to be afraid of anything. And it’s always propelled me. Because I have experienced true fear. I know what it’s like to truly believe you are about to die. January 17, 1994. 4:31am. A 6.8 earthquake shook the ground under our house outside L.A. with such force that our refrigerator wound up three feet across the floor from where it had been, a speed bump was created where the floor lifted through two main rooms and almost nothing remained on our walls. For more than 10 terrifying seconds, I lie in my bed, curled up in the fetal position, hands protecting my head, while bookshelves, artwork and furniture landed on top of me. “This is it,” I thought. “The roof is going to collapse and I’m going to die.” I screamed, but no one could possibly hear me over the deafening roar of the trembling earth. Fear took hold, but I was prepared to die there in my bed, at 22 years old. It was the only time in my life I believed -- without a doubt -- that my life was about to end. And the last time I ever allowed myself to feel afraid.
Posted by ayelet at September 13, 2003 12:59 PM