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!"
Whether Shelest will ever test his mettle in battle is uncertain, given that most people now believe Bush's "war" will consist mainly of quiet, covert action, not displays of might. "We have received a slow education of how complicated this is," says Cooper of the Natchez Democrat. Such complexity will make it harder to keep public support strong over time, observers say. "It's become a think-tank war," says Stephen Hess of the Brookings Institution. "That's not even CNN, that's C-SPAN."
Tough talk. Yet small battles have already broken out at home. Two journalists--in Oregon and Texas--were fired after writing pieces critical of the president's actions on September 11. And when Politically Incorrect host Bill Maher characterized as cowardly the U.S. launching of cruise missiles at distant targets, White House spokesman Ari Fleischer responded, "There are reminders to all Americans that they need to watch what they say."
Behind the tough talk is a pervasive sense of vulnerability. Some, like the man who contacted American Science & Surplus in Skokie, Ill., inquiring about its steel aircraft cable, are searching for the ultimate safety net: "I live on the 14th floor," his E-mail began. Is the cable "strong enough to use in the event that my wife and I needed to rappel down the outside of the building?" And fear has indeed inspired people to spend: on gas masks, bottled water, and guns and ammo.
A bunker mentality isn't the only response. Around the nation there are signs of a devil-may-care approach, with reports that people are drinking more--and more expensive--liquor, giving in to vices like smoking, and relaxing limits on red meat. And while rentals of movies about attacks on America like Independence Day have catapulted to new popularity since September 11, other Americans take comfort in wrapping themselves in the flag: Lee Greenwood's 1992 album American Patriot, featuring his song "God Bless the U.S.A.," is topping sales charts.
But the country may not be quite as fragile as it was just weeks ago. Humor, perhaps the ultimate measure of the American mood, is slowly regaining its footing. "There is a service to perform, and it's probably a gentler version of what we usually do," says political satirist Harry Shearer. "The job [now] is to point out the ways that people, especially those in power, go off the sanity tracks. We're probably normal enough that you can start saying that Bush's rhetoric sounds like it comes from a comic book." The online newspaper The Onion went back to work last week with satiric headlines like "U.S. Vows to Defeat Whoever It Is We're at War With."
Some comics are even targeting Osama bin Laden. "It's easier to make fun of Hitler than the Holocaust. It's easier to make fun of bin Laden than the acts of terrorists," says Larry Mintz, director of the Art Gliner Center for Humor Studies at the University of Maryland. But the jokes don't feel like much of a weapon. "The problem is that people still fear him," Mintz says. Still, on the outskirts of Charleston, S.C., a starkly lettered sign reads: "Yo' mama, Osama."
With Mary Lord, Lewis Lord, Dan Gilgoff, Carolyn Kleiner, Holly J. Morris, Nancy L. Bentrup, Betsy Streisand and Jeff Glasser
This story appears in the October 8, 2001 print edition of U.S. News & World Report.