Where to begin with this day…it’s hard to believe it’s been ten years. The most gut-wrenching part of watching the memorial coverage this morning was seeing the grown children who lost their parents. I was forced to consider the possibility of losing my mother that morning but lucky enough to never face the actuality of it.
I was 24 years-old on September 11, 2001 and taking classes at Manatee Community College in Bradenton. I wasn’t on campus that morning, but thanks to an English assignment, I have a small record of my personal experience that day. We were reading Editha by William Dean Howells, a short story written after and set during the Spanish-American War. Editha is a young woman who romanticizes war under the guise of patriotism. Government propaganda and her own ideals has Editha so desperately wanting her boyfriend to come back from war a hero that she knowingly ignores the much more likely outcome – his death or dismemberment.
Editha was published in January of 1905. As with any lasting piece of literature, it could have been published any time since. War, at its crux, never changes. Howell makes points that are as valid to the War in Iraq today as they were to the Spanish-American War then. I encourage you to read the story and because of that will refrain from any major spoilers…on second thought, I’ll put them in the comments section.
Follow this link to read Editha courtesy of The William Dean Howells Society.
This is the paper I wrote about Editha around the time of September 11, 2001. It’s a small contribution to the record of that terrible day and my personal answer to the most common history question people are ever asked, “Where were you when…?”
William Dean Howells, Essay # 2
I have always had that “proud to be an American” feeling. I have never been blind to what that affords, such as freedom, justice, and a higher standard of living. I’ve traveled to third-world countries and have seen the poverty under which some are born. I feel grateful for everything I have. I’ve also seen what a communist nation looks like. I was visiting family in Germany as a child, and we stopped at a border between East and West. I remember looking through the barbed wire fence at guards in watchtowers scanning the area through the eyes of their rifles. It was equivalent only to what I had seen outside of prisons, except there was no penitentiary. It just looked like two sides of the street. On one side you were safe and free, but on the other, beware because the man with the firearm may be watching you. It was all very frightening and confusing. I was only ten, but I gained an appreciation and respect for my country and government that day. It is a sight that to this day is fresh in my mind.
Those are some of the experiences that have helped me define patriotism in my own terms. I do love my country. I am sure of that. However, am I as devout as Editha to say, “My country, right or wrong…?” I don’t believe so. Our assigned reading of Editha came eerily close to the September 11th tragedy at the World Trade Center. The first time I read the story was before the 11th. I was, at the time, thoroughly annoyed by Editha’s patriotism. I viewed her as overbearing and exhausting. After the 11th, I read it again. This time, I was more angered by her so-called patriotism. I had now for the first time in my life felt the fear of losing a loved one due to war.
Returning to the morning of September 11th, I was on my way to 7-11 to pick up the paper when I heard on the radio that two planes had crashed into the World Trade Center. I felt disoriented. I literally couldn’t believe it. I immediately turned the car around and headed back home to my television. I had to see it before I could begin to imagine that what I was hearing was true. When I reached the television, it started to process. This was really happening. All of a sudden, panic rushed over my body. My mother, who is my world, works in midtown Manhattan and goes to those towers frequently for business. She could be in that mess! I spent the following two hours leaving frantic messages on her voicemail and calling relatives to try and locate her. Finally, the phone rang and I heard her voice. In that instant, it was like I got my life back. The sense of relief was overwhelming. She happened to be on her way out of the office headed in that direction when the news broke. Had those planes hit a half an hour later, my mother could have been among the thousands lost that day. My panic had turned to humbleness as I thought of the other families and realized how truly lucky I am.
The terror I had felt stayed with me as I read Edith for the second time. Before, she was just an irritating loud mouth. After my experience, her attitude was infuriating. This woman’s layers of self-absorption seemed to never end. When considering the possibility that George may be injured, she responds with excitement instead of concern. Her mother tries to deter her from manipulating him by saying, “Well, I guess you’ve done a wicked thing, Editha Balcom.” Editha’s nonchalant response; “I haven’t done anything-yet.” That one little word “yet” speaks volumes. She is fully aware of her wrongdoings, but proceeding as planned. Her romantic notions are taking control of life altering decisions. Editha’s disregard for George’s well-being is appalling. It is difficult to comprehend sending a loved one so blindly into danger.
In the end after setting the book down both times, the result was basically the same; I detested Editha. This, to me, is a wonderful thing. For a character to evoke so much emotion is an accomplishment. The timing certainly had something to do with it, but I do feel that regardless of September 11th, the brilliant writing of William Dean Howells would have brought these emotions to the surface anyway.
