November 22, 1963 -- Processing Tragedy

When I was a kid, I used to joke about where I was the first time the adults in my life launched into their "Where Were You" stories about JFK.

Then we had the blackout of 1977 -- and the moment of looking up to see all of the bulbs in the ceiling lamp fade to brown then go out etched itself in my mind.

A blown fuse? No... it wouldn't have dimmed out that way.

My sister and I wandered to the kitchen, shocked to see everything pitch dark -- and all the lights in the neighborhood too.

My father realized it was a blackout, lit up our kerosene lamp, and told us his memory of the blackout of  November 9, 1965 (also his 28th birthday) -- walking down Fourth Avenue where each street light blinked off in sequence, like falling dominoes. Then the confusion, some panic, and then calm upon realizing what had happened and what to do about it (i.e. walk home under the full moon; no biggie ... things were pretty chill in 1965, apparently).

And then came 9-11.

I'd awakened to the radio, jumped in the shower and emerged at 8:50am to find the NPR signal had dropped out.  I shrugged and continued on to work.

When I arrived a security guard told me a plane flew into the World Trade Center. "Poor plane," I said, figuring it was a small craft, like the B-25 that crashed into the Empire State Building in 1945, killing some people but leaving the building intact.

Then came the hysteria in the office when it sunk in; people worried for their friends and family downtown, then seeing the hole in the North Tower from our window in midtown, rushing back and forth from the window to the computer for any update ... then the petrifying news -- a tower had fallen.

And then the second tower.

For weeks Manhattan stunk of the burn, debris were found throughout the five boroughs, and every single conversation one could hear -- walking down the street, in offices, restaurants, bars -- was about that event, as we gradually wrapped our collective mind around the incomprehensible.

Tragedy rips us from our known moorings, sending us floating until we can tether down again.

It is generally believed that strong emotion aids memory, etching those highly charged events most potently in our minds -- and there is further evidence that pain is recorded more vividly than pleasure.

I am wondering if this may be because, unlike pleasure, pain is a sudden tearing of the fabric of our reality, which we must then work to process, and so our own effort infuses the memory.

And this processing can take years, decades -- during which each telling of the story, each meshing the personal experience with the collective one, is yet another stitch to bind and ultimately heal the wound.

So let's keep talking, sharing our stories, hearing those of others -- and healing together. Until the next time.....