An hour or so ago, I was about to post something really silly, really ridiculous, but I made the mistake of looking up. Or, not mistake. I just looked up from my keyboard to the TV playing silently in front of me. NOVA was on–a Saturday afternoon favorite–but it was a very old episode, one about the collapse of the World Trade Center. And I thought, “Jeez, how many times are they gonna show this one? I mean, it’s a poignant documentary, but c’mon…”
I’d completely forgotten, of course.
Despite the fact that I’d seen the piece no less than three times previously, I turned up the volume and began watching. I couldn’t stop. You know the analogies. And when I finally remembered today’s date, I shut my laptop and bumped up the volume some more. Despite my reluctance to be sentimental about anything, despite my attempts at iconoclasm, I guess I have limits. In a weird, childish way, I guess watching the episode was my way of paying some kind of respect, or at least chastising myself for being forgetful.
Sure, I have more connections to New York than some people I know, but far fewer than others. Fact of the matter is, I live over a thousand miles from the city, and I knew no one who died on the 11th of September, 2001. So, on the one hand, I’m awed by the impact such a distant event has had on me and by the level of empathy it’s aroused. On the other, what right do I really have to feel connected to it, being, ultimately, a guy who lost nothing truly significant that day?
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