11 Sept 2013

It's just dawned on me that I've been writing all the dates as August, but it's actually September.  See, I'm not perfect.  Ahem.

Today marks the 12th anniversary of 9/11, a day which I will always remember.  I was in grade 12, and we were sitting in class when the entire school was pulled into various places to watch the unfolding events.  More than any other image in my mind from that day -- groups huddled around televisions in the library, the endless loops on the TV of the first tower raining down on itself in a shower of smoke and devastation, my teachers talking in hushed voices with creased brows -- I remember the falling man. 

I don't know why that image has stuck in my mind so stubbornly.  I would love to forget him, with his suit jacket (grey) billowing around him, spread eagled as he fell face down toward the ground.  I've wondered so much about him in the convening years.  How old was he?  Did he have kids?  Did his family recognize him as his image was broadcast to billions?  Perhaps they saw his tie (I think it was blue) flapping next to him and realized that this was their loved one.  

Our culture is so hopped up on violence that broadcasting images like the falling man or watching videos of tsunami victims being swallowed by the wall of water they're desperately trying to outrun seems entirely unreal.  It's just another special effect, complete with bangs and crying and handheld cameras.  And we watch without looking away.  Our access to horrible moments of pain and loss is never censored.  

I got into a minor disagreement on Twitter this summer over media being denied access into High River on the day hundreds of people returned after the flooding in Southern Alberta tore open their homes.  The media person felt that it was their duty to broadcast the reactions of these folks returning to chaos and broken lives and memories swept away.  It was "good journalism".  My question was and remains, what purpose does it serve?  We know people are devastated.  We know there are tales of sadness and horror at the states of their homes.  We know people have lost everything.  What does a direct line into that suffering and sadness do, for them or us?

There are times when I am worried about raising children in an era where, like no other, privacy is a rare commodity.  Ironic perhaps, considering I'm sharing these private musings on a very public forum; but these are thoughts of my own that I choose to share. 

The falling man, to me, is a representation of the rape of the most private moments.  What should have been private, the final moments before a person's death, was shown to all.  Please take a moment to think of all that was lost that day, and remember those taken in the tragedy.

**Of note: the falling man does not refer to the picture, which is referred to as the same, but to a man who was filmed falling.