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Official release date – 10.12.11
My wife and I recently shared our 9/11 memories with our 10-year-old son and talked with him about the events of that day. As we spoke, it dawned on me that he never really knew a pre-9/11 world. To him, the scenes we recalled are images he’s always known — a perennial part of his reality. Sure, such things are horrific to hear about and see, but they’ve already happened. They’re history. They no longer carry the immediacy, surprise, uncertainty and weight they did when we watched them unfold in real time.
The same could really be said of any historic event. Take D-Day, for example. I could talk to dozens of people who experienced the Normandy invasion firsthand. I could watch every documentary and every film reenactment ever made, but in the end, the best I could hope to achieve is a better appreciation of the events and the people involved. I would never be able to experience it the way they did. I wasn’t there. The context is gone.
Of course, even shared events resonate differently from one person to the next. Yes, I witnessed 9/11, but I wasn’t there in New York or Washington, D.C. I didn’t lose a loved one that day or in the wars that followed.
The fact is, no two people ever experience the same event in exactly the same manner. Even people standing side-by-side watching it happen. Everything we witness passes through our own set of internal filters. Race, religion, age, gender, sexual orientation, our individual upbringing, values and personal history… they all color our perceptions and play a role in how we see the world.
Understanding these differences — and embracing them — is the first step toward building meaningful and lasting relationships in all aspects of our lives.
I read the unthinkable tonight: one of my favorite high school teachers, Mrs. Alice Davis, is dead. She had gone missing last week. A few days later, her husband (the prime suspect in the case) committed suicide. Yesterday, a body was discovered in the woods behind a church, not far from her home. Today, that body was positively identified. More details are sure to emerge (there were signs of trauma), but that’s just denouement. Mrs. Davis is dead, and nothing can change that now.
I first met Mrs. Davis when she was still Miss Parsons. I was a freshman and was allowed to take her creative writing class, usually reserved for upperclassmen. The following year, I had her for sophomore English class (as Mrs. Davis).
Last weekend, I dug out my old journal from creative writing class and started rereading all of the comments Miss Parsons left in the margins alongside my entries. Always supportive. Always positive. Always encouraging.
After an entry about my shyness and my fear that I would never change, she wrote, “You will. I used to be the same way. When you get older and more sure of yourself, you’ll relax and the real, wonderful you will come out!”
To a 15-year-old kid lamenting his inability to find a date, she wrote, “Don’t worry about dating. You’ll soon find someone who realizes how special you are!”
After another entry, where I compared life to an escalator ride (full of ups and downs), she wrote, “Mostly I’m on a down escalator trying to get up to the top.”
When I wrote about the hope of seeing my name in print, as the author of a book, she replied, “I have a feeling some day you will.”
But my favorite note came toward the end of the journal, where she wrote, “Carl, your writing is always enjoyable to read. Keep at it; you’ve got what it takes! It has been a pleasure to have you in class.”
Writing had been important to me even before I took Miss Parsons’ class, but that level of encouragement strengthened my confidence and helped reinforce my decision to make a living with words. I only wish I could have somehow written a worthier ending for Mrs. Davis. She deserved far better than she got, and she will be sorely missed.
