Lost Innocence
Everyday life, when everything feels different
The American flag flew at full staff again last week, marking the end of the nation's official mourning period. The ghostly seven-story shell of the World Trade Center was removed amid talk of rebuilding. And Late Show host David Letterman poked fun at New York City, untouchable turf just two weeks ago.
While people are moving on, life is hardly back to normal. Letterman's digs at the Big Apple were things like New York cockroaches spelling out U.S.A. in his soup. When Mayor Rudolph Giuliani made a guest appearance, Letterman dispensed with the usual barbs and movingly thanked him for his service. In Natchez, Miss., townspeople have gone back to mowing their lawns, says Kevin Cooper, editor of the Natchez Democrat, but with a sense of "nervous anticipation--like something ominous may be around the corner no one wants to talk about." At Rutgers University in New Brunswick, N.J., political science professor Caroline Heldman scrapped two weeks of assignments, instructing her 200 students to record their thoughts about the attacks in journals instead. "My students were upset about being told to get on with life," Heldman says. "They lost their innocence in such a horrible manner that it's hard to keep up with the regular coursework."
Unlike the rubble at ground zero, the emotional fallout cannot be measured in tons. People are seeking "a renewal of belief that goodness will triumph over evil," says Rabbi David Saperstein, director of the Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism. Americans have filled churches, synagogues, and mosques, stocked up on Bibles, and dug more than $675 million out of their pockets for charity.
The tens of thousands of blood drives, bake sales, and car washes represent more than simple acts of kindness. Traditionally, government and civic organizations have channeled such helpful urges into public support for war. During World War II, for instance, war-bond sales led by singer Kate Smith and others were as useful in pumping up patriotism as they were in pumping money into the treasury.
Yet what that "greatest generation" underwent provides no blueprint for today's America. Roosevelt asked the country to pay dearly. Millions of men were drafted, many never to return. On the home front, the war forced Americans to get by on less. Products from gasoline and tires to meat, sugar, and shoes were rationed, and nearly everything was in short supply. By contrast, President Bush asks only that the country be resolute. No one has yet suggested a resumption of the draft. Nor is 1940s-style scrimping called for. Quite the opposite. To get the terrorized economy up and going, the public is urged to spend.
There may be one parallel: a renewal, however brief, of national unity and purpose. At the University of California-Berkeley, college Republicans and Democrats issued a joint statement pledging to "unite and support our government in one voice." Military recruitment centers have seen an uptick in inquiries, although not in enlistment. Few people are as decisive as Mike Shelest, a 28-year-old window washer from Albuquerque, N.M., now on his way to basic training in Oklahoma. "Considering the circumstances," he says, "I think someone has to go teach them--whoever's responsible--a lesson, and I'm the man for it. I am so gung-ho!"
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