THE MEN IN THE MIRROR

Effective communication is built on the concept of both sharing experiences and shared experiences.  As Americans, we ascribe to the notion that there is value in being able to connect with others by telling ones own story in some meaningful way. Pictures. Words. Actions. All mediums which can be harnessed to impart to others something about ourselves as individuals. The telling and retelling of each individual perception with the goal of creating a better understanding of ourselves personally while contributing to a greater overall comprehension of how others think and feel as a group. In many ways, our entire economy relies on the concept of communication in its various forms. Not merely the obvious; such as the internet, movies and journalism, but also the capitalist idea that Americans are interested in using commerce as a form of expression. Cars, clothing, houses, dining, travel. All examples of things on which people are willing to spend money in order to expand their ability to communicate various things about themselves. Even more utilitarian businesses such as oil, farming, distribution and transport exist in our economy largely to support a concept of freedom of expression. In this country, we are not only free to express ourselves, we are expected to do so. Economic growth in America relies heavily on our desire to be noticed. Appreciated. Desired. Accepted. Loved. 

At certain points in time, events conspire which allow large groups of people to communicate with each other by articulating individual experiences about a shared experience. At these junctures, the two concepts of sharing experiences and shared experiences dovetail. For Americans, today is one of those junctures. Over the past thirteen years, we have all read countless recollections from journalists using 9/11 as a tenant by which to share individual stories about where they were on that day. It seems axiomatic to say that most of us create a mental picture in our heads of where we are and what we are doing when life altering things happen to and around us. We all access that little flash of memory, that feeling of recognition that we hold onto because it gives our experience context. Especially when the experience is one over which we feel we have no control. 

This morning as I drove my daughter to school, I saw the members of our local fire department wearing full dress while in formation outside the fire station. Their trucks, pristine and beautiful vessels of salvation, American flags flowing freely from their ladders, parked in front of the station for all to behold. Perfectly shined police SUVs, normally hidden from taxpayer view until they lumber out of their hiding places to let you know what you are doing wrong that day, were lined up across the street from the station. On this day, a point of pride for the city, not merely an inconvenience for its hurried drivers. As I surveyed this scene, I began to do what most Americans are doing with our shared experience on this day. I began to think about where I had been on 9/11. And in that moment, those firefighters and police officers still visible in the rearview window of my car, my thoughts fell hollow on my own heart. Because I realized that by thinking about where I was on 9/11, I had missed the point entirely. What is important, what makes the shared experience poignant, was not where I WAS on 9/11. But where I WASN’T. 

I wasn’t on Flight 93. I wasn’t in Tower One. Or Tower Two, where I had spent a summer as an intern when I was nineteen. I wasn’t on the PATH, commuting from my parents home in New Jersey as I had done all those years ago. I wasn’t on Ladder 3 prepared to risk my own life to save another. I wasn’t at home waiting to hear if a loved one was going to survive. I wasn’t serving our country in Afghanistan. Or Germany. Or Kuwait. Wondering what this development was going to mean for my deployment. I wasn’t working at New York Presbyterian Hospital when the burn victims arrived. I wasn’t on the scene as a reporter, trying to simultaneously comprehend the situation and articulate it. I wasn’t on the street as a bystander, feeling terrified and helpless. I wasn’t worshipping in an American mosque, only to emerge later and discover that what it meant to be an Arab in America was forever changed. I wasn’t in the pentagon building. I wasn’t an elected official tasked with the duty of figuring out how to balance the cost of American lives with the cost of curtailing freedom. Simply put, I was experiencing 9/11 as more an observer than a participant. I am an American. And as an American, I am a participant. As a human, I am a participant. This happened in my country. To my fellow Americans. To people. And I mourned as I mourn every time I think about what happened. I mourn the loss of life. The loss of freedom. I mourn the fact that our response has cost even more lives. Even more freedom. In a way, I suppose, I mourn the human condition. But my experience was indirect. It was not first hand. Because of where I was. And where I wasn't.

Given the tragic circumstances and comparatively dire consequences of the events we remember on this day, it is easy to recognize why, for most people, where you were on 9/11 is less relevant than where you weren’t. When extrapolated into a larger idea, it becomes obvious that in order to be an effective communicator, it is incumbent to always be mindful of where you weren’t. Your mental picture gives emotional context. It is a good place to start, in your own head. But when you find yourself communicating primarily in terms of what YOU experienced, what YOU think, what YOU believe, you are significantly limiting the scope of the discourse. What is disappointing about the legacy of 9/11 is that the subsequent media and legislative responses have proven to be devoid of effectiveness because so many people in those pursuits are intent on making the tragedy about themselves and the advancement of their own goals. Sharing individual stories is a cornerstone of the human experience. Without the corresponding capacity to recognize how everyone else’s story creates the requisite mosaic, the cornerstone begins to fragment. In this scenario, the observer has a story. A story of perception and context. The participant has a story. And it is a different story. It is a story of perception and context. But also of survival. Both are important. 

This morning, a visual metaphor of American courage caught my eye and then occupied my mind for the majority of the day. Firefighters and police officers displaying obvious pride about their service to our community reminded me to not allow whatever it is that I am doing to obstruct me from seeing the importance of all the things I am not doing. Once my mind recalled the context of my shared experience of 9/11, my next thought was about all of the people whose losses were unimaginable to me. Where I was that day, what I was doing, is merely a footnote on the unlimited volume of pages the experience of 9/11 has to teach me. Once I placed the thought of my own story in the background, once I limited its use to merely a brief emotional touchstone, only then was I ready to receive the message which that few seconds in my rearview mirror colluded to send me. 

BB