Word Count: 258
I remember I cried when my uncle took us fishing out in the stream through the woods. He joked that we were lost. I was terrified and howled. He didn’t know I would believe him so completely.
And the year I didn’t make the cheerleading squad in high school. For some reason it was important to me at the time. I’ve cried at the loss of parents, family, dear friends; memories are ghosts without the warmth of the living.
And when the planes ripped through the twin towers as if they were fragile as flesh. We all cried. As much for the lives lost as for the terror of reality that seemed more like watching a movie in which we all played a part.
I realized since then that the terrorists hated Americans not only for their power, but for their success. They stabbed at the heart of America. Made it bleed people and dust.
What we’ve learned is not all good. We’ve learned to distrust a certain color of skin, big brown liquid eyes. But we’ve learned this is wrong and do what we can to focus instead on the cause. We’ve learned to hate what forms the heart of America. We’ve learned to resent money and corporations and the wealthy, no matter how they have earned it. We’ve learned to point fingers, fling blame at ourselves. Like children, we believe what they’ve seen as the evil. We have become the terrorists they’ve taught us to be and hate not them, but ourselves.
That makes me cry.
