By now we Americans know exactly how to behave in the wake of violent and incomprehensible tragedy.
It was much easier in years past.
“You’ll never catch me in a spaceship hurtling toward the stars at 75,000 miles per para-second. No way.”
Or, “Those poor people. One second they’re simply enjoying a bowl of rice and the next a 1,000 foot wave has destroyed their entire village. I’ve never been happier to live in Nebraska.”
And we would settle in on our couches and davenports and Chesterfields in our lounge wear, snacking on potato chips, or nachos, or brie on baguette slices, flipping the T.V. station back and forth between that night’s preferred disaster network and preferred entertainment network.
But now, as certain cynics might call it, the tables have turned, and as the tragedies pile up here in the United States we have developed a more intricate and familiar routine to handle them.
At the school where I teach we have a fire drill at the end of every month. During our first faculty meeting in August these fire drills are explained in detail by an assistant principal somewhere between Agenda Item 30 and 92. Since I am usually still stuck somewhere around Agenda Item 1.3, I am attempting to enter the dates of future faculty meetings into my Smartphone, and the only fire drill detail I retain is the word baseball field. We are given two laminated sheets of construction paper. One green, indicating all is safe, and one red, for the alternative.
So, the first fire drill comes along some weeks later, and I and my charges are scrambling around in panic with me waving my green safe card and roster yelling “baseball field, baseball field.” We rush into the congested wave of students in the hall and all head for different exit doors. Some minutes later, most of what I think is my class is standing in the vicinity of second base looking to me for direction while trying not to get red dust on their new sneakers.
I, of course, am the last person they should be looking to for direction since number one, I wasn’t paying attention during the faculty meeting, and number two, school hasn’t been going on long enough for me to even recognize exactly who my students even are. But luckily, I spot a far more reliable teacher who is on my hall and say with sweaty authority, “Neal’s class follow me, Neal’s class follow me,” all while frantically waving my green card in the air signifying that everything is okay, when it’s not, but we all know it really is because it’s only a drill. By lunchtime, all of my students (I think) are in a line, where we are roughly supposed to be, between Ms. Galmes and Ms. Seller’s classes in left field.
But come May, we have all become a finely tuned machine. That fire-alarm rings and within four minutes we have gone out the correct exit and are orderly, in line, and in our proper place, all children accounted for and green card confidently in the air.
If 9/11 was the Mack Daddy of all September fire alarms, our other National alarms are executed as predictably as the ones in May.
Maybe the tragedies aren’t taking place exactly in our own backyards, but they might as well be. They all seem to happen in places that are American ubiquities: McDonald’s, schools, offices, and now, movie theaters. Places that we have all been to. Places that are so mundane that they blend into the landscape as naturally as, well, nature. Put someone in the Smithsonean Museum of Space next to a replica of a U.S. space shuttle and they shiver thinking of it hurtling through space at 75,000 miles per para-second. Put someone next to a dogwood or a McDonald’s and the only remark it might generate is, “Boy, something sure smells good.”
So, the tragedy happens and we all immediately assume the minor roles that have been written for us all.
Glued to television sets broadcasting news of the horrific via satellites hovering over us, we first numbingly absorb the details of the who, what, when, where, and how. We were taught to ask these questions as children in school, so they come very easily to us. The answers might be suspect but the questions might as well be tatooed on our inner arm.
“Did you hear about what happened in Colorado?”
“Yes, but I heard it happened in Tennessee?”
“No, it was definitely in Colorado. The town next to that other town where those kids were shot.”
This conversation wouldn’t be so bad except for the fact that it occurred between two journalists on ABC News broadcasting live from the scene.
After scrambling to identify the basic elements of the four Ws and the H, we settle in to make connections.
Bob in Topeka or Portland says to his wife,“I didn’t want to say this in front of the kids, but I stayed at the Best Western in that town when I went to the plumber’s convention last year.”
Maria in Pittsburgh or Juno says to her boyfriend, “See the smirk on that kid’s face? He just looks like trouble. He should have been locked up years ago.”
And it goes on.
And we get scared and makes vows and assign blame in order to make some kind of sense out of something that has none.
For a few days we talk of little else and the ordinary becomes suspicious and the innocent seem guilty. And a dream might be had where two State troopers knock on your door to tell you someone you love exists no more.
And as more facts emerge, thin, without any real substance they lack the answer to that one, and most important W not a soul can really answer: Why? 24 hours of news multiplied by forever, every rock unearthed, every bread crumb trail followed, and it will not, can not, be answered.
So for a few weeks we are more careful in crowded areas. We watch video games, movies, and television with wiser eyes, noting how violent so much of it is. Have more dinners at home, as a family. Talk to our neighbors. Attend a PTA meeting. Wonder if assault rifles are sold at the same store where you bought your bathing suit.
But the moment passes and our real lives resume. And before you know it, a mega store is having a huge midnight back-to-school sale and we all go, pushing our carts down crowded aisles, throwing in ridiculously low priced glue sticks and crayons, thinking about how tasty McDonald’s smells, and wondering if that new Spider Man movie is any good.
Our red fire-drill card has been absently filed away, but we know where it is if we need it.
It was much easier in years past.
“You’ll never catch me in a spaceship hurtling toward the stars at 75,000 miles per para-second. No way.”
Or, “Those poor people. One second they’re simply enjoying a bowl of rice and the next a 1,000 foot wave has destroyed their entire village. I’ve never been happier to live in Nebraska.”
And we would settle in on our couches and davenports and Chesterfields in our lounge wear, snacking on potato chips, or nachos, or brie on baguette slices, flipping the T.V. station back and forth between that night’s preferred disaster network and preferred entertainment network.
But now, as certain cynics might call it, the tables have turned, and as the tragedies pile up here in the United States we have developed a more intricate and familiar routine to handle them.
At the school where I teach we have a fire drill at the end of every month. During our first faculty meeting in August these fire drills are explained in detail by an assistant principal somewhere between Agenda Item 30 and 92. Since I am usually still stuck somewhere around Agenda Item 1.3, I am attempting to enter the dates of future faculty meetings into my Smartphone, and the only fire drill detail I retain is the word baseball field. We are given two laminated sheets of construction paper. One green, indicating all is safe, and one red, for the alternative.
So, the first fire drill comes along some weeks later, and I and my charges are scrambling around in panic with me waving my green safe card and roster yelling “baseball field, baseball field.” We rush into the congested wave of students in the hall and all head for different exit doors. Some minutes later, most of what I think is my class is standing in the vicinity of second base looking to me for direction while trying not to get red dust on their new sneakers.
I, of course, am the last person they should be looking to for direction since number one, I wasn’t paying attention during the faculty meeting, and number two, school hasn’t been going on long enough for me to even recognize exactly who my students even are. But luckily, I spot a far more reliable teacher who is on my hall and say with sweaty authority, “Neal’s class follow me, Neal’s class follow me,” all while frantically waving my green card in the air signifying that everything is okay, when it’s not, but we all know it really is because it’s only a drill. By lunchtime, all of my students (I think) are in a line, where we are roughly supposed to be, between Ms. Galmes and Ms. Seller’s classes in left field.
But come May, we have all become a finely tuned machine. That fire-alarm rings and within four minutes we have gone out the correct exit and are orderly, in line, and in our proper place, all children accounted for and green card confidently in the air.
If 9/11 was the Mack Daddy of all September fire alarms, our other National alarms are executed as predictably as the ones in May.
Maybe the tragedies aren’t taking place exactly in our own backyards, but they might as well be. They all seem to happen in places that are American ubiquities: McDonald’s, schools, offices, and now, movie theaters. Places that we have all been to. Places that are so mundane that they blend into the landscape as naturally as, well, nature. Put someone in the Smithsonean Museum of Space next to a replica of a U.S. space shuttle and they shiver thinking of it hurtling through space at 75,000 miles per para-second. Put someone next to a dogwood or a McDonald’s and the only remark it might generate is, “Boy, something sure smells good.”
So, the tragedy happens and we all immediately assume the minor roles that have been written for us all.
Glued to television sets broadcasting news of the horrific via satellites hovering over us, we first numbingly absorb the details of the who, what, when, where, and how. We were taught to ask these questions as children in school, so they come very easily to us. The answers might be suspect but the questions might as well be tatooed on our inner arm.
“Did you hear about what happened in Colorado?”
“Yes, but I heard it happened in Tennessee?”
“No, it was definitely in Colorado. The town next to that other town where those kids were shot.”
This conversation wouldn’t be so bad except for the fact that it occurred between two journalists on ABC News broadcasting live from the scene.
After scrambling to identify the basic elements of the four Ws and the H, we settle in to make connections.
Bob in Topeka or Portland says to his wife,“I didn’t want to say this in front of the kids, but I stayed at the Best Western in that town when I went to the plumber’s convention last year.”
Maria in Pittsburgh or Juno says to her boyfriend, “See the smirk on that kid’s face? He just looks like trouble. He should have been locked up years ago.”
And it goes on.
And we get scared and makes vows and assign blame in order to make some kind of sense out of something that has none.
For a few days we talk of little else and the ordinary becomes suspicious and the innocent seem guilty. And a dream might be had where two State troopers knock on your door to tell you someone you love exists no more.
And as more facts emerge, thin, without any real substance they lack the answer to that one, and most important W not a soul can really answer: Why? 24 hours of news multiplied by forever, every rock unearthed, every bread crumb trail followed, and it will not, can not, be answered.
So for a few weeks we are more careful in crowded areas. We watch video games, movies, and television with wiser eyes, noting how violent so much of it is. Have more dinners at home, as a family. Talk to our neighbors. Attend a PTA meeting. Wonder if assault rifles are sold at the same store where you bought your bathing suit.
But the moment passes and our real lives resume. And before you know it, a mega store is having a huge midnight back-to-school sale and we all go, pushing our carts down crowded aisles, throwing in ridiculously low priced glue sticks and crayons, thinking about how tasty McDonald’s smells, and wondering if that new Spider Man movie is any good.
Our red fire-drill card has been absently filed away, but we know where it is if we need it.
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