The Day That Changed Us

For some time now, I've been considering what to write, and indeed whether to write anything about 9-11. It is a day upon which every blogger in the galaxy shall no doubt post some deeply felt thought, or deeply emoted political rant.

And probably virtually all posts will begin with a discourse of "what I was doing that sunny Autumn morning in 2001." Like the "where were you when Kennedy was killed?" of the 60s, 70s, and 80s, this will be the "where were you when..." of our latter days.

As traumatic as that day was, and the blanching horror of its unfolding, it is what happened directly after that I'm concerned with here. Our culture immediately precipitated into two distinct phases: those committed to restoring peace by any means, and those committed to the integrity of the nation by any means. There is nobility in both impulses, no doubt, though many of us have learned that they are mutually exclusive. But it's only an observation--please don't mistake this for a political rant. I'm digging for deeper ore.

When a piece of iron is struck hard, the atoms within are suddenly shocked out of their crystalline lattice, and in a split second align with the Earth's magnetic field. Some to the North, some to the South, now irreversibly aligned. Our nation was similarly struck on that day, September 11, 2001. If I were to say that we were all changed forever, would it be a cliche? Yes--but it's one of those cliches repeated because they are so true.

This much may have been obvious, at least to you who lived it. But it is strange for me to look at birthdates of children--some as old as 9 now--for whom all this happened in the dim ancient history before they existed. And it is hard for me to imagine too in some ways, for I was different then. In fact I was a different person. The cells in a human being's body live for seven years, to be replaced by other cells. So in a sense, the organic structure that comprises the person that is you is regenerated every seven years. Beyond that biological trivium, I firmly believe that people change--psychically and spiritually--sometimes so drastically that the old person is cast aside. There is redemption and damnation and purgatorial transfiguration, all at our own hand and under our own will. The catalyst is history.

In those days I had no desire or use for children. I despised the squalid little things. I had better things to do with my life and time. Only a fundamentally different person could want to adopt a very strong willed, stubborn, difficult, devious, obsessive, sometimes impossible, and physically very strong child. Now I've discovered that the same little monster can be brilliant, deeply loving, and fascinatingly creative.

The day that changed us is never from an external event; it's always something we determine for ourselves. It may seem a happy cycling of events, from bad to good. But something now haunts me. Someday, I will have to explain 9-11 to my daughter. I will have to explain Evil.

I hope I'm not underestimating my child (again). But it's not enough to explain that "bad men did this." Every child understands that. Not even I comprehend what went into this atrocity. It is so repulsive, so... filthy, that I feel almost that I were abusing this child even to talk about it.

Unfortunately, there is no ignoring it. The children will find the most shocking of these videos and watch them. They always do. They are morbidly curious and always outwit our attempts at censorship.

If I've learned anything from being a parent, it's that children ask when they're ready to listen. When the question comes, I don't know what I will say. It will have to come from my deeply held beliefs, my experiences, and whatever poor understanding I've managed to glean from the wisdom of the generations. And it will have to be said clearly and simply.

Obviously, I am not up to the task. But on the day that changed me, I volunteered for things like this.

Wee Barbarians

I shall confess here and now that I have never been completely comfortable with children. It's something we are made to be ashamed of, as a favorite Hollywood conceit tells us that people who prefer not to be around children are very bad people, not to be trusted, possibly conservative toetappers. It is in fact the opposite--people who like children a bit too much are to be suspected.

But I have digressed already.

My daughter is now in preschool, a kind of advanced placement program to help one's children get into the very best Kindergartens. In dropping her off and bringing her home, I have been in contact with some of her classmates, and countless billions of germs as well. But I have found to my delight that I really enjoy interacting with children and their incandescent little skulls.

I learn so much from these wee barbarians, for that is what they are. What we call Innocence is actually a primitive and brutally honest packaging of our own impulses, except in bodies too small and cute to do much damage. When they are displeased with some breaking of the order, there is no passive-aggressive blocking of lanes or presentation of the birdfinger; they simply push the transgressor's oversized head down a sliding board. I can almost see the wisdom of making preschools gun-free zones, for in them a real potential for mayhem exists.

What we as adults forget is that children's senses are hypercharged; they perceive things openly and directly; colors are so vivid as to be almost tasted. And surroundings are viewed as much more imposing. I stood aside at her school's tiny playground--an average sized yard, really--and tried to see the playset and the trees and the sky as they did. I mostly felt sad because it was so very hard for my dulled senses, jaded over nearly half a century. I felt touches of it only when I walked down a basement stairwell to look up at the fence, playset, and teachers, and imagined them to be 20 feet tall.

At bedtime I always read H a story. If I'm feeling playful of an evening, I might improvise. What's interesting is that when I make up a story, H is entertained, and that is the aim, but I take some learning from it. A couple of her favorite themes are vicious beasts, such as grizzly bears, arctic wolves, and bumbles (Sasquatches), and punishments for wicked children. Children are not particularly interested in warm morality tales, save that bad children are punished in extravagantly cruel ways, and besides, what morals the kids take away may be imposed ruthlessly on others.

Out of these tales has arisen a hero of sorts, from the German folk tale of Knecht Ruprecht ("Servant Rupert"), a dark figure whom Santa Claus employs to punish bad children. Children are fascinated by the Santa trope insofar as it cajoles them into a sense of morality (admittedly artificial, at first) that nevertheless allows them to reckon their potential year-end haul for being good. It is rewarding but tedious. What is really satisfying about the Ruprecht legend is what happens to other rotten little bastards who trangress The Rules.

It is a splendid tale to frighten the bejeezus out of the little skulls, and it goes something like this:

Ruprecht arrives every year to leave coal or other droppings in the stockings of badly behaved children. True delinquents receive a good switching, or possibly a sjambok to the soles of the feet if Herr Ruprecht is in a foul mood that evening. But the worst of the worst, the truly rotten and irredeemable, are put into a giant sack and Shanghaied to his castle for a year of purgatorial labor.

Now, if Santa lives at the North Pole, where must Ruprecht live? This provides the opportunity to grope the globe and learn a bit of geography. At the opposite end, of course--the South Pole! Here the very worst children are brought for horrible punishments. The young mind is eager to know all details. What happens to these wickeds?

Rupprecht wears a costume similar to Santa's, except it's green with black fur trim, the opposite of Santa's colors. No quaint sleigh and charming reindeer either for this adversary of the bads. On Christmas Eve, Ruprecht travels the world over in a green and black Zeppelin powered by flying penguins. He metes out punishment in his penal colony at the South Pole. In the prison, like Dante's Inferno, each punishment is diabolically engineered to fit the child's sin.

Kids who are mean to animals are given honeysuckle soap to bathe in, and are beset upon incessantly by insects and woodpeckers that painfully peck the vermin off them. Braggarts are fed a special kind of supergenerative bean casserole, so they can puff up all they like. Liars find that Whopperslugs have crawled into their ears overnight, special slugs that expand, contract, and squirm tortuously whenever a lie is told. This, because liars spend their time filling others' ears with abominations.

For dinner, junk food and candy gluttons are given mud soup with turnip, plus sandwiches made with real sand and a little peanut butter. Tattlers have lead weights suspended by a string tied to their tongues. Cheaters and kids who take credit for others' work are tarred upon arrival, so that all manner of things--paper, pillows, utensils--stick to them. Bullies wear a kind of mail made of pennies; they move so slowly that would-be victims can simply pace off to a safe distance and mock them. And the lowest of the low, graffitists (especially those who consider themselves artists) are tickled unto incontinence but also rather nicely decorated by having paint-covered worms crawl over their armpits, backs of the knees, and between the toes.

Ruprecht has installed tubes leading to his dining room so that the ghastly screams can be piped in while he sups. An elaborate panel of tuning knobs allows him to bring up the low moans and attenuate the shrillest shrieks, for a more enjoyable listening experience. So beware, all ye who have been extra naughty.

Rulebreakers and intransigents are made to sit in their nudity on a giant ice cube. And made to sleep on a tray of hard, uncooked peas. Or cooked, depending on the foulness of Ruprecht's mood. The really hard cases spend six minutes a day in a tiled room where an ill-tempered Chinese nanny waits with black rubber gloves, a jar of chili paste, and a much-applied wire brush.

The punishments are not at all meant to be remedial. Ruprecht has tired of redemption ("I so hate it vhen dey repent.") and believes that he is an unappreciated artist, for truly deserved punishment is a lost art.

Perhaps you, gentle reader, have been likewise naughty and your curiosity has been piqued. You have been mostly good, but not entirely. You would like to know what reward lies in store for you. You will have to wait for the rest of the story. The fear lingers at the end of the allotted time. We never outgrow it.