We Weren't There

Where were you when the twin towers were struck? Or when President Kennedy was shot? Or when the Challenger blew up?

We answer these questions over and over again whenever a horrific anniversary rolls around. "I was strolling my 8-month-old baby," or "I was riding my bike," or "I was at work that day."

When my neighbor told me her September 11 story--that she'd been on the night shift and had developed a debilitating migraine, which left her in bed and oblivious to the horror unfolding--I realized how mundane our stories are. Especially when we weren't there, at the site of the disaster. Even President Bush was in the midst of ordinary life, reading The Pet Goat to second graders in Florida.

I wonder why this is, this need to tell our story. Is it to affirm that we're still here and alive? Is it to give meaning to our lives--that even though we weren't there, we're still important to the story?

I'm reminded of the 1950s television program hosted by Walter Cronkite, You Are There. It was a terrifying show where viewers were transported back in time to tragic events. I still remember the fear that gripped me at the beginning of one episode, when we found ourselves aboard the Titanic on April 15, 1912. Another episode took us to Lakehurst, New Jersey, on May 6, 1937; my brothers gasped at the mention of the Hindenburg, but I didn't know what it was and feared all the more the terror that awaited me.

At the end of these episodes, though, and at the end of all of them, we were let off the hook. For, in fact, we really weren't there. We were safe in our recreation room lying on the floor in front of the TV.

Perhaps this is the subtext of the story we tell each other: we're safe, we made it, we dodged the bullet again. Our story protects us. It's a healthy delusion, one that we probably couldn't live without.