377 days - Blog #45 to remember and not forget

Today there seemed to be a lot of images and posts that utilized the phrases, “I remember,” “Always remember,” or “never forget.”  After over a dozen photographs of the twin towers with or without smoke, I had to wonder, is that even possible?  To forget?  

I have never met anyone for whom this day is a fuzzy recollection.  Indeed, it is a story we all crave telling.  Because, maybe, we know the other person has a story, too.  And no matter the differences, we still felt that same thing that day.  No matter what city or town or country in which we were living, breathing, being.  It is all so crystal clear (like they say the sky was that day – but that is a memory that isn’t mine).

I remember a lot of dates with unshakable clarity.  April 15, 2013.  December 3, 1999.  December 14, 2012.  Horrible days with horrid events that burned the details of their discovery into my mind forever.  And then there are the ones to which I am more personally connected.  Deaths of a family member.  The shock of a friend’s death.  Losing a job.  Getting my heart broken.   Days, minutes, seconds I will always remember… and much though I might want to, I don’t tell myself to never forget.

Why don’t we say always remember about the good days?  I actually do remember a couple of those.  I remember where I was the day Obama was elected and inaugurated the first time (however you feel about the presidency that has since played out, in the history of the country those were pretty awesome moments.)  When the Supreme Court decided in favor of gay marriage.  When I had a party where two bands played in my living room and we raised money for New Orleans.  I remember when my nieces were born.  When I got a job.  When I got another job.  When I published my book.  When I got the part.  When I saw a bunch of kids singing on the stage.  I want to hold onto those and not forget.

But we do forget.  We let ourselves forget the before.  When you could say farewell as someone got on the plane.  To get on a plane without taking off shoes or other random clothing removals.  To go to a major event with a purse or a backpack.  That there was a point in this country’s foreign policy when we weren’t sending drones or missiles to curb the unrest we did anything but quiet in the Middle East.  To look at a Muslim without the prejudice of suspicion.  To live in a world with less fear.  To live in a world where it wasn’t okay for the police to have more guns, bigger vehicles, and blindly become an army all in the name of homeland security.  We forget the privacy and freedoms we let go in the name of that security.  We forget that we send more and more young men and women to be broken by a war that doesn’t end.  We forget them when they come home and can’t cope with the trauma or pay for their medical needs… or to put food on their table.  We forget the rescue workers and their need for medical care for the diseases that came from breathing in all that toxic dust.  We forget the humanity that followed in those first few weeks… the oneness of our sorrow and hope for a better tomorrow.  We forget a lot of things.  

I understand that such simple phrases are easier to articulate or wrap one’s head around than the details of my last paragraph.  And… yes… I understand the need to remember those who died.  But what about how those people lived?  I think it is a great tragedy to be remembered by how one left the world, as opposed to how they occupied it.  And they lived in a world where this and its fallout was not possible.  They lived without seeing a great many things, but most of the lives they lost were full of so much more joy than that which was taken from them, from their families, from us that day.

Memory is always selective.  And grief is subjective.  Grief has denial and anger and acceptance.  I think I’ve moved beyond the anger and don’t need to keep telling myself to never forget.  This day, that day, this day is part of my history.  It is part of who I am now and always will be, as it is part of my world and anyone over the age of twenty as well.  

And for some, yes, it will fade away.  Just like June 6, 1944 or December 7, 1941 or November 11, 1918.  Or July 15, 1857 (thank you PBS for making me never forget the Bibighar massacre).  Or October 25, 1415.  As we return to dust, so do our memories… as have  many memories of events and so many others I never knew to remember.

But today, I do remember.  I will keep telling my part in the story.  And I will be grateful for the fact that since that day there have been so many other glorious, wonderful weddings, births, plays, books, friends, dinners, sunsets, moons, trips, walks, peace, breaths in my body that I am happy to remember I am lucky to have.