Anniversaries
The anniversary is hitting me harder this year. I don't know why. Maybe it's the mood I'm in. Or it might be because I was supposed to be flying to Boston tomorrow for a meeting, and the thought of booking a flight on 9/11 was surprisingly stressful, even weeks ago when it first came up. But the trip fell through and I don't have to go anywhere, and I'm avoiding the travel nightmares around my office (usual access points are blocked) and working from home.
Today, though, walking through the financial center, I passed two men dressed alike in brand new black t-shirts with big ugly white letters proclaiming "9/11 was an inside job." We were in the enclosed walkway between two buildings, directly across from Ground Zero. I'm not generally in favor of censorship, but these two sickened me and I couldn't believe that they could walk around in those shirts. I gave them a nasty look and they snickered at me and I so wanted to shove them up against the wall and tell them they were fucking idiots. How insulting, to be in that place, so close to the anniversary, making that ludicrous statement.
It startled me how angry they made me. I realize it's not them, it's just what they remind me of. The stress of this time of year, again. It's almost my birthday, too, so I try to pretend that I am angry that I can't look forward happily to my birthday without dealing with the bad day first, but that's not entirely true. A friend with an adopted child told me once that adopted children, even those in happy loving homes, often get anxious and stressful around their birthdays, even when they are too young to understand or vocalize why. Birthdays are symbolic of the events that shaped their lives: the physical connection to a birth parent that is no longer a parent, a separation that, despite how wonderful their lives may now be, is still a source of confused feelings and incomprehension. (Guilt, blame, sadness, loss.) I think on some level that is true of all of us; not just the obvious "another year older" but a more fundamental, "this is when I came to be."
Today, though, walking through the financial center, I passed two men dressed alike in brand new black t-shirts with big ugly white letters proclaiming "9/11 was an inside job." We were in the enclosed walkway between two buildings, directly across from Ground Zero. I'm not generally in favor of censorship, but these two sickened me and I couldn't believe that they could walk around in those shirts. I gave them a nasty look and they snickered at me and I so wanted to shove them up against the wall and tell them they were fucking idiots. How insulting, to be in that place, so close to the anniversary, making that ludicrous statement.
It startled me how angry they made me. I realize it's not them, it's just what they remind me of. The stress of this time of year, again. It's almost my birthday, too, so I try to pretend that I am angry that I can't look forward happily to my birthday without dealing with the bad day first, but that's not entirely true. A friend with an adopted child told me once that adopted children, even those in happy loving homes, often get anxious and stressful around their birthdays, even when they are too young to understand or vocalize why. Birthdays are symbolic of the events that shaped their lives: the physical connection to a birth parent that is no longer a parent, a separation that, despite how wonderful their lives may now be, is still a source of confused feelings and incomprehension. (Guilt, blame, sadness, loss.) I think on some level that is true of all of us; not just the obvious "another year older" but a more fundamental, "this is when I came to be."
posted by medusa at 10:42 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home