This Thursday, October 20, is National Spirit Day, in which LGBT people and their allies show their support of youth by wearing purple, in remembrance of those LGBT youth who struggled so much and could find no release, and took the ultimate measure and committed suicide.
This, as you may imagine, is a very personal issue for me. Being a gay man, especially one who grew up in the South (and still lives there), it wasn't just hard. It was EXCRUCIATING.
Every time I read about a teen who killed themselves because of bullying, it breaks my heart over and over again. This is truly the most devastating thing a family could experience. The most devastating thing a parent, a sibling, could ever imagine.
I am no psychic, nor a psychologist, but I can imagine the anguish and agony that one feels after someone kills him/herself, and the constant wondering "did i miss it?" or "what could i have done to prevent it?"
What I'm about to write, I have only shared with a VERY select few. Literally, no more than a handful of people in the last twelve years.
When I was a sophomore in high school, I was more depressed than I'd ever been, and never having really understood it up to that point, I, of course, thought that it would last forever. I did not have the foresight to believe that it would just go away eventually. That time would ease my pain, and that things would get SO MUCH BETTER.
People will tell you it doesn't always get better, and unfortunately, that can be true. Cause sometimes it does get better, then it gets worse, but guess what? it can also get better again.
This time in my life, as a sophomore in high school, I had a lot of acquaintances, but only a few TRUE, CLOSE friends.
I had said something (I forget what) that clued them in on my depression, and they understood it to mean that I was ready to harm myself. And they were right. I was ready to go home and do something drastic that I could never change afterward. I was ready to kill myself.
Was it due to bullying? Somewhat. More than anything, though, it was due to shame. My own shame. For who I was, for who I wasn't, and for who I never thought I could be.
At the time, my mother had me seeing a shrink, who was nice enough, but I just didn't think he could help. In fact, that day, I had an appointment, but I was planning on blowing it off and going home and doing the deed without telling anyone. I wasn't even sure if I was going to leave a note.
Thank all that is holy and sacred that I had two VERY TRUE FRIENDS who could see what was bothering me, and who'd told me they were gonna tell my mother exactly what I was planning, so if I even STILL went through with it, they knew I'd feel guilty for her knowing and not being able to stop it.
I hear about people who kill themselves, or plan to, who suddenly feel so calm once they've made the decision, both how to, and when to do it. I couldn't believe how calm I felt that day. I was truly prepared to end everything, and nothing else could bother me. Not even when people called me fag in the hallway, or told me they were gonna beat me up because I looked at them in a "gay way."
But something...strange...happened. Something...miraculous. This calm I felt? I could see through it and realize that despite everything I'd been feeling for months, I could finally see a light at the end of the tunnel. And that light is what guided me through the rest of the day, and ever since then, the whole of my life.
I'm not saying this light was God, or anything such as that. I DON'T KNOW what it was. Maybe it was the look on my friends' Michael and Michelle's faces that day as I walked toward my mother's car to go to my appointment, but right then and there, I decided not to go through with it.
Suicide is the easy way out. There is no other way to say it. I know it sounds harsh for those who have committed suicide, and I do not mean it as such. But it's the truth. Life is hard. Life is REALLY FUCKING HARD. Those who live it, and continue to live it, and try to make it better, those are the people I admire. Those who end it early? Those are the ones I feel for. Not pity. Those are the ones I empathize with.
A lot of people say they understand, or they may "know" how someone feels when they want to commit suicide. I don't believe anyone truly understands, or knows, how another may feel, unless they've been in those shoes. So when I tell you I know, or I understand, believe me, I DO.
Reading this week about Jamie Hubley, in Canada, and last month, about Jamey Rodemeyer, both of whom killed themselves due to bullying and depression, and both of whom who had posted their troubles online in videos, and tried to beat them, but failed, really made me thing back to that fateful day in sophomore year.
I can't, for the life of me, ever show my ETERNAL GRATITUDE to those two friends, Michael Mohler, and Michelle Moreno (Avila). Thank you, so much, for seeing in me what I couldn't, and believing in me.
These days, I'm a college graduate, with dreams of making it big in New York. I've found, throughout the years, full of both depression and elation, that having a goal is what truly makes a difference, for me. That, and role models, both old and young, who have shown me that I can not only see that IT GETS BETTER, but also that I can MAKE IT BETTER MYSELF.
A special thanks goes out to those who have made IT GETS BETTER videos, and promises, but I would like to specifically site a few...
Zachary Quinto, who just this weekend, revealed that he was gay, had a very powerful video...
Matt Doyle, a favorite of mine, and a true inspiration, every single day...
Chris Colfer...who, if you've read any of my blog before, you know how much I admire and adore...
And because I mentioned him earlier, and it is important to see that even the strongest of us can face such unseen obstacles of pain and torment, Jamey Rodemeyer...
PLEASE, if you are thinking of hurting yourself, please DON'T. Please, for the love of humanity, God, and all that is good in this world (because there is STILL PLENTY OF GOOD), call the trevor Project.
1-866-4U TREVOR
I promise you, it's worth it. I'm not longer considered a GLBT youth, but I've called the number before, just a few short years ago. They can help you. They can guide you. They can show you IT GETS BETTER.
Please...we've lost too many young people who could have made such a difference in this world.
And, please, don't ever forget those we have lost...
Billy Lucas, 15
Seth Walsh, 13
Tyler Clementi, 16
Jamey Rodemeyer, 14
Jamie Hubley, 15
Aiyisha Hassan, 19
Asher Brown, 13
Justin Aaberg, 15
Raymond Chase, 19
Cody J. Barker, 17
Zachary Harrington, 19
Lance Lundsten, 18
A list too long already, but not even close to everyone who should be honored...
Please, wear purple on Thursday, October 20, and don't just wait for people to ask...tell them why...
Showing posts with label remembrance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label remembrance. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
PRIDE, PART II
please watch this first...
Today is October 11. This day is very important to me for a couple of reasons. First, is known, in the LGBT community, as National Coming Out Day. It is the day we have decided to embrace everyone in our community, and make our voices heard, our presence known, and our hearts open. Why October 11? It is the anniversary of the March On Washington for Gay Rights, on Oct. 11, 1987, where almost a million people marched on the Washington Mall for recognition of gay rights, including marriage, military service, and other issues.
Well, it's been 24 years, and we've done...okay, so far. Marriage is legal in six states now, including my dream home of New York City, and if I so chose, tomorrow I could go to a recruiting office, sign up, and serve my country.
This is important to me because I recognize that there is no ONE person who can make a difference...not without a ton of help. We are called a COMMUNITY because we share common things. Traits, sure. Politics? Sometimes. Desires? Well...not always. And goals? Depends on who you ask.
So what is that we share? An identity? Not necessarily that, either. Plenty of people who are attracted to the same sex don't call themselves gay, lesbian, or what have you, and that is perfectly within their right.
What most people don't understand about labels is that it is not what OTHERS call me in how I define myself. It is what I CALL MYSELF.
And what I CALL MYSELF is not just gay, not just an actor, or a writer, or a lover of musicals, or GLEE.
I CALL MYSELF...MICHAEL.
That is my name, and I like my name. In fact, I have the greatest name in the world. Besides being the most popular name in America for a VERY long time (I believe I read somewhere it was 45 years running at one point...), it means, in Hebrew, "He Who Is Like God."
Yeah, I know. Ego trip, right?
But more than that, it is the name I was given by the people who brought me into this world.
I also have a middle name. Roy. I don't always tell people my middle name, not because I'm embarrassed, but because it's kind of hard to talk about sometimes. My middle name is from my paternal grandfather, Roy Wayne Stratton, who died long before I was born. I never met him. I wish I had. I've heard stories over the years, stories which have made me proud, but I really wish I'd gotten a chance to meet him and get to know him myself.
So, there's that.
But...I said this day is important for a couple of reasons. It is the second reason which touches me deeper, and more emotionally, than anything ever has, or ever will. My last post was about 9/11, and how that affected me, and that is still such a great tragedy, and I would never poke fun or make light of it.
But to me, personally, the greater tragedy than thousands of lives taken...is the one taken, targeted, by hate.
I am referring to Matthew Shepard, the gay University of Wyoming student who was beaten, tied to a fence, and left for dead. He never woke from his coma, and he died in the early morning hours of October 11, 1998.
I was not even 16 yet, a Sophomore in high school, not much younger than Matt himself. And certainly not completely out. Only a handful of people knew, including my best (and oldest) friend, a couple other schoolmates (not exactly friends, anymore, anyway), and my parents, who knew in their hearts, even though they'd had the decency to go along with my "God told me not to be gay, so I'm not" phase. (Thanks, mom and dad, btw...)
I remember reading the paper (as I did every morning. I'm STILL a news junkie...) about how he'd been found, never regained conciousness, and how his mother and father stayed by his bedside every moment till after he was gone. I thought, if I could do ONE THING, other than going back in time and making it never happen, it would be to reach out to Matthew's mother, and give her the biggest hug I could muster.
Alas, I was unable to.
This haunted me for weeks, until finally, I broke down, and I confessed, again, to my parents, the truth. That I was gay, and there was nothing that could change it. I was pretty surly, if I remember correctly, and I'm pretty sure my attitude was something like "if you don't like it, then fuck you."
Fortunately, my parents were (and ARE) totally awesome, and they told me they loved me. And THIS TIME, I didn't take it back. ;O
Five years later, I'm a sophomore in college. I'm a theatre major, and I have the brilliant fortune to be cast in a production of The Laramie Project, a play that was written directly in response to Matthew's murder, and which to this day, evokes a gut wrenching sob every time I read it or think too hard and long about it.
I couldn't believe my luck. I wanted to tell this story more than anything, especially in the face of protesters with their disgusting signs of GOD HATES FAGS and MATT IN HELL and THANK GOD FOR AIDS.
Oh, what I wouldn't have given to knock some sense into those bastards...
Luckily, my brethren at Bruce Hall did it for me, all without violence, and with quite a bit of humor and charm.
But the best was yet to come.
A mere week after we finished our production, there was a very special guest speaker on campus. A woman by the name of Judy Shepard. Matthew's mother, who still travels to tell her story, and to fight homophobia all over the country.
After her speech, the audience (of which our entire cast had been invited to), was asked for questions. Being me, I sprang up out of my seat, and had the honor of asking the first question. After thanking her for taking the time to come to our little campus, I asked her what she thought her son would think of the protesters, and how he would react to them. I also asked what she would want to tell him if he were alive, and what she thought he would want to tell us.
She seemed to smile (as best as I could tell. I was at least thirty yards away while she was onstage).
She told me she'd tell him she loved him, and that he would probably ignore the protesters, or make a joke, and go about his business, because he was a peaceful person.
I was happy enough to be in the same room with this incredible woman, nevertheless get an answer from a question I had asked.
But the best was yet to come.
Thanks to a dear friend of mine (David Warner, I'm talking about you!) our cast was invited to lunch with Judy, through the campus group GLAD (Gay and Lesbian Association of Denton).
It is there I met her in person, shook her hand, told her how inspiring she was, and I finally, after five years, got to do what I'd promised I would. I gave her the biggest hug I could muster.
Tears were in my eyes, and I don't know if she cried, too, but she seemed grateful, and for that, so am I.
I left that lunch that day with a renewed sense of purpose, and a renewed energy towards fighting for equality, and fighting for what I believe in.
October 11 is a very special day in my life, and I will always remember what it means to me, and to others.
Thank you, Matthew.
Thank you, Judy Shepard.
Thank you, Mom and Dad.
And thank you to all the people out there who have fought for equality.
And to all those who struggle with their identity, and struggle to be who they are, and more than anything, to be honest with themselves, and their loved ones...IT GETS BETTER.
It might suck now. It might suck for a while. BUT IT GETS BETTER.
YOU. ARE. LOVED.
GOD LOVES YOU, AND GOD BLESSES YOU.
Today is October 11. This day is very important to me for a couple of reasons. First, is known, in the LGBT community, as National Coming Out Day. It is the day we have decided to embrace everyone in our community, and make our voices heard, our presence known, and our hearts open. Why October 11? It is the anniversary of the March On Washington for Gay Rights, on Oct. 11, 1987, where almost a million people marched on the Washington Mall for recognition of gay rights, including marriage, military service, and other issues.
Well, it's been 24 years, and we've done...okay, so far. Marriage is legal in six states now, including my dream home of New York City, and if I so chose, tomorrow I could go to a recruiting office, sign up, and serve my country.
This is important to me because I recognize that there is no ONE person who can make a difference...not without a ton of help. We are called a COMMUNITY because we share common things. Traits, sure. Politics? Sometimes. Desires? Well...not always. And goals? Depends on who you ask.
So what is that we share? An identity? Not necessarily that, either. Plenty of people who are attracted to the same sex don't call themselves gay, lesbian, or what have you, and that is perfectly within their right.
What most people don't understand about labels is that it is not what OTHERS call me in how I define myself. It is what I CALL MYSELF.
And what I CALL MYSELF is not just gay, not just an actor, or a writer, or a lover of musicals, or GLEE.
I CALL MYSELF...MICHAEL.
That is my name, and I like my name. In fact, I have the greatest name in the world. Besides being the most popular name in America for a VERY long time (I believe I read somewhere it was 45 years running at one point...), it means, in Hebrew, "He Who Is Like God."
Yeah, I know. Ego trip, right?
But more than that, it is the name I was given by the people who brought me into this world.
I also have a middle name. Roy. I don't always tell people my middle name, not because I'm embarrassed, but because it's kind of hard to talk about sometimes. My middle name is from my paternal grandfather, Roy Wayne Stratton, who died long before I was born. I never met him. I wish I had. I've heard stories over the years, stories which have made me proud, but I really wish I'd gotten a chance to meet him and get to know him myself.
So, there's that.
But...I said this day is important for a couple of reasons. It is the second reason which touches me deeper, and more emotionally, than anything ever has, or ever will. My last post was about 9/11, and how that affected me, and that is still such a great tragedy, and I would never poke fun or make light of it.
But to me, personally, the greater tragedy than thousands of lives taken...is the one taken, targeted, by hate.
I am referring to Matthew Shepard, the gay University of Wyoming student who was beaten, tied to a fence, and left for dead. He never woke from his coma, and he died in the early morning hours of October 11, 1998.
I was not even 16 yet, a Sophomore in high school, not much younger than Matt himself. And certainly not completely out. Only a handful of people knew, including my best (and oldest) friend, a couple other schoolmates (not exactly friends, anymore, anyway), and my parents, who knew in their hearts, even though they'd had the decency to go along with my "God told me not to be gay, so I'm not" phase. (Thanks, mom and dad, btw...)
I remember reading the paper (as I did every morning. I'm STILL a news junkie...) about how he'd been found, never regained conciousness, and how his mother and father stayed by his bedside every moment till after he was gone. I thought, if I could do ONE THING, other than going back in time and making it never happen, it would be to reach out to Matthew's mother, and give her the biggest hug I could muster.
Alas, I was unable to.
This haunted me for weeks, until finally, I broke down, and I confessed, again, to my parents, the truth. That I was gay, and there was nothing that could change it. I was pretty surly, if I remember correctly, and I'm pretty sure my attitude was something like "if you don't like it, then fuck you."
Fortunately, my parents were (and ARE) totally awesome, and they told me they loved me. And THIS TIME, I didn't take it back. ;O
Five years later, I'm a sophomore in college. I'm a theatre major, and I have the brilliant fortune to be cast in a production of The Laramie Project, a play that was written directly in response to Matthew's murder, and which to this day, evokes a gut wrenching sob every time I read it or think too hard and long about it.
I couldn't believe my luck. I wanted to tell this story more than anything, especially in the face of protesters with their disgusting signs of GOD HATES FAGS and MATT IN HELL and THANK GOD FOR AIDS.
Oh, what I wouldn't have given to knock some sense into those bastards...
Luckily, my brethren at Bruce Hall did it for me, all without violence, and with quite a bit of humor and charm.
But the best was yet to come.
A mere week after we finished our production, there was a very special guest speaker on campus. A woman by the name of Judy Shepard. Matthew's mother, who still travels to tell her story, and to fight homophobia all over the country.
After her speech, the audience (of which our entire cast had been invited to), was asked for questions. Being me, I sprang up out of my seat, and had the honor of asking the first question. After thanking her for taking the time to come to our little campus, I asked her what she thought her son would think of the protesters, and how he would react to them. I also asked what she would want to tell him if he were alive, and what she thought he would want to tell us.
She seemed to smile (as best as I could tell. I was at least thirty yards away while she was onstage).
She told me she'd tell him she loved him, and that he would probably ignore the protesters, or make a joke, and go about his business, because he was a peaceful person.
I was happy enough to be in the same room with this incredible woman, nevertheless get an answer from a question I had asked.
But the best was yet to come.
Thanks to a dear friend of mine (David Warner, I'm talking about you!) our cast was invited to lunch with Judy, through the campus group GLAD (Gay and Lesbian Association of Denton).
It is there I met her in person, shook her hand, told her how inspiring she was, and I finally, after five years, got to do what I'd promised I would. I gave her the biggest hug I could muster.
Tears were in my eyes, and I don't know if she cried, too, but she seemed grateful, and for that, so am I.
I left that lunch that day with a renewed sense of purpose, and a renewed energy towards fighting for equality, and fighting for what I believe in.
October 11 is a very special day in my life, and I will always remember what it means to me, and to others.
Thank you, Matthew.
Thank you, Judy Shepard.
Thank you, Mom and Dad.
And thank you to all the people out there who have fought for equality.
And to all those who struggle with their identity, and struggle to be who they are, and more than anything, to be honest with themselves, and their loved ones...IT GETS BETTER.
It might suck now. It might suck for a while. BUT IT GETS BETTER.
YOU. ARE. LOVED.
GOD LOVES YOU, AND GOD BLESSES YOU.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Ten Years Later...
For Americans, this coming Sunday is a somber day. It is the day we look back and we remember those who fell, and pray, or hope, that no more need fall for our safety, our liberty, or our freedom.
Growing up, I've always been a history buff. Especially when it comes to presidents. I read everything I could about the Kennedy assassination, and heard my parents tell stories about that day. I'd always read that "everyone remembers where they were when they heard Kennedy had died." I never thought there'd be a moment in my life where that would be true for me.
I'm sorry to say I was wrong.
Ten years ago, on Tuesday, September 11, 2001, I was in a college math class, full of people, with a teacher who was from the middle east. Mr. Arthur was his name. This was before cell phones were so common like today, and text messages were unheard of. (At least, for me). Class started at 8:00 am, and I was amazed that I had made it to class, but it being only the third week or so of college, I'm sure I was eager to please and not ready to be a slacker yet.
So I was in class, attempting to learn something I never would, until about 9:20. My next class was only three doors down and ten minutes later. I walked into class, where some had already gathered, and sat down amid hushed whispers. I didn't know what was going on, nor did I really care, because they weren't talking to me. Then someone came in and burst out with the news. I was confused. Was it an accident? How could this have happened? How many people were hurt?
The next thing I knew, our professor, himself a New Yorker, came in with a look of sheer horror on his face. He said, "go home. call your families. Class is cancelled. Go now."
He didn't even say what happened, just...left. I walked back to my dorm with a bit of a hurried pace, looking around campus, trying to discern what had really happened from everyone, but no one was paying any attention. Everyone that had a cell phone was on it. I pulled my new cell phone out and called my mother. I couldn't get through. I thought of calling my dad, but knew he'd be asleep, as he works nights. So I ran the rest of the way to the dorm, where in the lobby, they'd already wheeled in a television, and a crowd had already gathered around. The towers had already fallen by this time, but I didn't know that. So I watched with shock, horror, and so many other emotions I can't even name them, as the news replayed the falling of the second tower.
I hadn't been to church in a while by this time. Over a year and a half, I think. But I found some friends, and we decided to go to church. We found a catholic church (one of the friends was catholic), and I watched as he made his way to the front of the church, knelt and crossed himself, and lit a candle. The thing that surprised me the most was that besides the priest and the three of us...it was empty.
Even now, I think back, and realize more people were in panic and disarray then were looking for comfort. Of course, there are people who seek comfort alone, rather than in a building with others, but I never thought about it at the time.
As the hours, and then the days, went on, there was a flurry of activity. A friend of mine helped organize an emergency blood drive from our dorm, which was able to collect a lot of blood to aide in sending to victims in New York.
We held a vigil the next evening at the Eagle statue on campus, and it was clear it was a non-denominational gathering. We simply spoke of peace, and love, and hope, and sent positive thoughts, and those who believed prayed for the victims, and survivors.
Then one young man, older than me, stepped forward, and clutching a Bible in his hand, spoke of the sins of our nation, and our people, and how we, as Americans, and as sinners and decriers of God, had brought this upon ourselves. That THIS was OUR FAULT.
Immediately, people clamored to shout him down, saying this is not the time, nor the place, for a discussion on religion, and that anyone saying such things would be asked to leave. This was a time for peace, and a time for hope, and we did not need that negative attitude at our gathering.
The group then dispersed, but this young man stayed, repeating his claim, while another friend of mine (My RA, actually, and still a good friend), countered his argument with a lecture on love and peace.
It's funny how you forget things over the years, only to remember them so vividly much, much later. I usually forget about the vigil and this young man when I remember this tragedy. But now that I think about it today, it makes me angry.
Yes, our country isn't perfect. Yes, we've made plenty of mistakes. But does that, or does ANYTHING, justify the murder of 3,000+ innocent civilians?
I didn't personally know any of the victims (that I'm aware of), but today, I still find people affected by this tragedy.
I still see this kind of ignorance today, and I will go so far as to call it bigotry. I remember, within a week, people were all talking about Muslims destroying our country, and how we should attack Muslims. I even remember a friend calling me in the middle of class (though I had to wait to hear the message), that some idiots had firebombed a mosque in retaliation.
I mentioned earlier that my teacher was from the Middle East. His name was Mr. Arthur (which I learned later was an Americanization of his birth name), and yes, he had an accent. The thing I don't get, is that two days after, on Thursday, when classes had resumed, we were in my math class, and several of the students were giving Mr. Arthur an evil look, having hushed conversations behind his back. I remember hearing the word "towelhead."
I made it a point to call this person out, and when he responded that it was his people that caused the tragedy, I not so politely reminded him that he was there, in class, with us, at the time, and that I sincerely doubted that any of "his" people were to blame. I'm pretty sure the use of the "f" word, as well as "dumbass" were used...by me.
The thing that upsets me most, and makes me angrier than anything, is injustice. Whether it is criminal or legal, or in this case, prejudice. I am sick and I am tired of people hating other people because of what they look like, how they act, and who they love. I am so very sick and tired of people who think they are better because they were born different, or "normal."
Let me tell you something, to those people who choose to believe that and act this way: you are not better. you are the same. We are ALL HUMAN.
Yes, there are people, including the people who committed this atrocious act, who don't believe that we are equal. But all you are doing is sinking to their level.
Yes, I've gotten mad and called a girl a bitch. I've called a gay person a faggot. I've even called a black person a nigger. Does that make me a bigot? Unfortunately, yes. Does it make me hateful? In those moments, yes. Does it mean I don't regret it? NO.
Everytime a thought like that enters my mind, all I have to do is remember that I don't like being called any name, and that I don't like being treated as less than human.
But that's what we are. Human. Humanity. It's not just a concept, folks. It's a real, viable thing. It is the act of charity in the moment of tragedy. It is the belief that all people are created equal, and should be treated as such. It is the ten year old schoolboy who refuses to say the pledge of allegiance until ALL American Citizens are considered equal by the law. It is the middle aged black woman who has worked all day, and refuses to give up her seat on the bus to a white man, because she is tired of standing, and she is tired of prejudice. It is the Christian who says to the Muslim, I may not agree with you, but I respect you and your beliefs, and will not condemn you for them.
But most importantly, it is US. It is ALL OF US. And it is time that we share it with the world.
Take a moment, the next time one arises, to say an extra thank you, and REALLY mean it. Take a moment, and allow someone else that spot in line when they have one or two items, and you have a basketful. Take a moment, and truly appreciate ALL the people in your life, who have made you who you are today. Because believe it or not, that includes the ones you didn't agree with, or get along with, or particularly like. Because we're all here, folks, and we're all gonna be here for a while, God willing. So we might as well get along with each other.
And, more personally, thank you, to every policeman, fireman, medic, EMT, civilian, and HUMAN who aided in the rescue effort of those trapped in the towers. I would like to say thank you, 2,819 times, but even that wouldn't be enough. Thank you to those who helped donate to the relief. Thank you to those who lost their lives on that day, and the days since, both at home and abroad, for our freedom, for our safety, for our liberty. May God bless you, and keep you, forever. Amen.
Sincerely,
Michael R. Stratton
Growing up, I've always been a history buff. Especially when it comes to presidents. I read everything I could about the Kennedy assassination, and heard my parents tell stories about that day. I'd always read that "everyone remembers where they were when they heard Kennedy had died." I never thought there'd be a moment in my life where that would be true for me.
I'm sorry to say I was wrong.
Ten years ago, on Tuesday, September 11, 2001, I was in a college math class, full of people, with a teacher who was from the middle east. Mr. Arthur was his name. This was before cell phones were so common like today, and text messages were unheard of. (At least, for me). Class started at 8:00 am, and I was amazed that I had made it to class, but it being only the third week or so of college, I'm sure I was eager to please and not ready to be a slacker yet.
So I was in class, attempting to learn something I never would, until about 9:20. My next class was only three doors down and ten minutes later. I walked into class, where some had already gathered, and sat down amid hushed whispers. I didn't know what was going on, nor did I really care, because they weren't talking to me. Then someone came in and burst out with the news. I was confused. Was it an accident? How could this have happened? How many people were hurt?
The next thing I knew, our professor, himself a New Yorker, came in with a look of sheer horror on his face. He said, "go home. call your families. Class is cancelled. Go now."
He didn't even say what happened, just...left. I walked back to my dorm with a bit of a hurried pace, looking around campus, trying to discern what had really happened from everyone, but no one was paying any attention. Everyone that had a cell phone was on it. I pulled my new cell phone out and called my mother. I couldn't get through. I thought of calling my dad, but knew he'd be asleep, as he works nights. So I ran the rest of the way to the dorm, where in the lobby, they'd already wheeled in a television, and a crowd had already gathered around. The towers had already fallen by this time, but I didn't know that. So I watched with shock, horror, and so many other emotions I can't even name them, as the news replayed the falling of the second tower.
I hadn't been to church in a while by this time. Over a year and a half, I think. But I found some friends, and we decided to go to church. We found a catholic church (one of the friends was catholic), and I watched as he made his way to the front of the church, knelt and crossed himself, and lit a candle. The thing that surprised me the most was that besides the priest and the three of us...it was empty.
Even now, I think back, and realize more people were in panic and disarray then were looking for comfort. Of course, there are people who seek comfort alone, rather than in a building with others, but I never thought about it at the time.
As the hours, and then the days, went on, there was a flurry of activity. A friend of mine helped organize an emergency blood drive from our dorm, which was able to collect a lot of blood to aide in sending to victims in New York.
We held a vigil the next evening at the Eagle statue on campus, and it was clear it was a non-denominational gathering. We simply spoke of peace, and love, and hope, and sent positive thoughts, and those who believed prayed for the victims, and survivors.
Then one young man, older than me, stepped forward, and clutching a Bible in his hand, spoke of the sins of our nation, and our people, and how we, as Americans, and as sinners and decriers of God, had brought this upon ourselves. That THIS was OUR FAULT.
Immediately, people clamored to shout him down, saying this is not the time, nor the place, for a discussion on religion, and that anyone saying such things would be asked to leave. This was a time for peace, and a time for hope, and we did not need that negative attitude at our gathering.
The group then dispersed, but this young man stayed, repeating his claim, while another friend of mine (My RA, actually, and still a good friend), countered his argument with a lecture on love and peace.
It's funny how you forget things over the years, only to remember them so vividly much, much later. I usually forget about the vigil and this young man when I remember this tragedy. But now that I think about it today, it makes me angry.
Yes, our country isn't perfect. Yes, we've made plenty of mistakes. But does that, or does ANYTHING, justify the murder of 3,000+ innocent civilians?
I didn't personally know any of the victims (that I'm aware of), but today, I still find people affected by this tragedy.
I still see this kind of ignorance today, and I will go so far as to call it bigotry. I remember, within a week, people were all talking about Muslims destroying our country, and how we should attack Muslims. I even remember a friend calling me in the middle of class (though I had to wait to hear the message), that some idiots had firebombed a mosque in retaliation.
I mentioned earlier that my teacher was from the Middle East. His name was Mr. Arthur (which I learned later was an Americanization of his birth name), and yes, he had an accent. The thing I don't get, is that two days after, on Thursday, when classes had resumed, we were in my math class, and several of the students were giving Mr. Arthur an evil look, having hushed conversations behind his back. I remember hearing the word "towelhead."
I made it a point to call this person out, and when he responded that it was his people that caused the tragedy, I not so politely reminded him that he was there, in class, with us, at the time, and that I sincerely doubted that any of "his" people were to blame. I'm pretty sure the use of the "f" word, as well as "dumbass" were used...by me.
The thing that upsets me most, and makes me angrier than anything, is injustice. Whether it is criminal or legal, or in this case, prejudice. I am sick and I am tired of people hating other people because of what they look like, how they act, and who they love. I am so very sick and tired of people who think they are better because they were born different, or "normal."
Let me tell you something, to those people who choose to believe that and act this way: you are not better. you are the same. We are ALL HUMAN.
Yes, there are people, including the people who committed this atrocious act, who don't believe that we are equal. But all you are doing is sinking to their level.
Yes, I've gotten mad and called a girl a bitch. I've called a gay person a faggot. I've even called a black person a nigger. Does that make me a bigot? Unfortunately, yes. Does it make me hateful? In those moments, yes. Does it mean I don't regret it? NO.
Everytime a thought like that enters my mind, all I have to do is remember that I don't like being called any name, and that I don't like being treated as less than human.
But that's what we are. Human. Humanity. It's not just a concept, folks. It's a real, viable thing. It is the act of charity in the moment of tragedy. It is the belief that all people are created equal, and should be treated as such. It is the ten year old schoolboy who refuses to say the pledge of allegiance until ALL American Citizens are considered equal by the law. It is the middle aged black woman who has worked all day, and refuses to give up her seat on the bus to a white man, because she is tired of standing, and she is tired of prejudice. It is the Christian who says to the Muslim, I may not agree with you, but I respect you and your beliefs, and will not condemn you for them.
But most importantly, it is US. It is ALL OF US. And it is time that we share it with the world.
Take a moment, the next time one arises, to say an extra thank you, and REALLY mean it. Take a moment, and allow someone else that spot in line when they have one or two items, and you have a basketful. Take a moment, and truly appreciate ALL the people in your life, who have made you who you are today. Because believe it or not, that includes the ones you didn't agree with, or get along with, or particularly like. Because we're all here, folks, and we're all gonna be here for a while, God willing. So we might as well get along with each other.
And, more personally, thank you, to every policeman, fireman, medic, EMT, civilian, and HUMAN who aided in the rescue effort of those trapped in the towers. I would like to say thank you, 2,819 times, but even that wouldn't be enough. Thank you to those who helped donate to the relief. Thank you to those who lost their lives on that day, and the days since, both at home and abroad, for our freedom, for our safety, for our liberty. May God bless you, and keep you, forever. Amen.
Sincerely,
Michael R. Stratton
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