Guy Wheatley
The Texarkana Gazette
Yesterday morning, I was a Democrat. I'll undoubtedly be a Democrat
again, but as of this afternoon, I'm an American. There just doesn't seem
to be room for anything else.
I was running late, trying to get out the door and on my way to work.
Just as I picked up the remote to shut the TV off, I saw a tall building
billowing smoke on the screen. The announcer was saying that a plane had
apparently hit the World Trade Center. Memories of the first bombing came
to mind as well as black and white mental images of the hole left in the
Empire State building when it was hit by an airforce bomber. Both buildings
survived those events.
I hit the power button and left for work. On the drive in I wondered
how long it would take to repair the damage, and how many people were killed.
I simply assumed that as horrible as the incident was, it was an accident.
Arriving at work, I wasn't surprised to seek people huddled around
the TVs and wire machines. That's not uncommon in a newspaper newsroom.
What is uncommon are the looks of shocked disbelief I saw on their faces.
I started checking wire services while TVs and radios murmured in the background.
I quickly exceeded my capacity to assimilate the information assailing
me.
I was trying to find a context in which to react to what I was seeing.
Humans need a context to understand events. When a bill passes in congress,
we react as Texans, or Arkansas, Democrats or Republicans, as Southerners
or members of some ethnic group, or religious affiliation. The only context
I could find was as an American. There just wasn't room for anything else.
As the day progressed, the images got worse. I was looking at a screen
showing about twelve small images. You have to click on an image to see
it full size. My mouse was zipping all over the screen, clicking first
one picture then another. I was trying to get enough information to do
a timeline graphic. I was reading the cutline of any picture of the Trade
Center buildings. At first it was just buildings and smoke. I knew in my
head that people had died, but it was still clinical knowledge. Just some
number that I didn't know yet. Then I ran across the first pictures that
weren't just numbers.
My finger trembled over the mouse button, milliseconds before clicking.
I could see a small dot just outside one of the buildings in the thumbnail
image my cursor was on. I remember reading a wire story where someone was
talking about people falling out of the sky. Shaken, I started to cautiously
move to another picture, one without dots. Somehow, I couldn't abandon
that small dot. Make no mistake, I didn't want to see what I knew was in
that picture. But I couldn't just bury my head in the sand. That dot doesn't
deserve to be abandoned. Someone needs to know and acknowledge what happened
to him. My finger twitched and the image, in all of its horror, filled
the screen.
My mind and my heart went out to a fellow soul. You were real, and
I know what happened to you. You spoke to me from the picture. You're speaking
to me now. You will continue speaking to me as I struggle for a way to
react to what has happened. Yes, the image upset me, but my discomfort
is nothing compared to yours. You and that terrible moment are not gone.
I will carry both with me for the rest of my life. You will continue to
have an impact on the world through me.
I don't know his name. I don't know his religion. I don't know his
political affiliation. I don't know for sure that he was an American. But
he was a fellow human. When I take his memory with me, to shape my impact
on national policy with voice and vote, it won't be as a Texan, or a Democrat,
or a Southerner. It will be as an American. That's all there's room for.
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