“Oh great, that’ll be fun.”
“Seriously. Why would anyone want to watch that? Depressing.”
My friend Cara and I were exiting our film class at Bloomsburg University, complaining that our assignment was to watch Schindler’s List. We didn’t realize we were within earshot of our professor, who stopped walking when he heard our naïve, ignorant comments. Upon realizing it, I cringed, anxiously awaiting his reaction.
The way I see it, he had three choices.
- Put these privileged college kids in their place. Let them know how foolish it is to shy away from learning about a historical event, simply because it’s unpleasant, and might interfere with their relatively carefree lives.
- Ignore them, understanding that in their young age, they haven’t witnessed tragedy — at least not on the level of the holocaust.
- Acknowledge the comment, but rather than pointing out why it’s so offensive, let them figure it out on their own.
Professor Smith chose the third option. He looked at us and simply said, “Well that’s just a shame.” Then he walked away.
And after watching the movie and participating in a discussion about it, that’s just what I felt: shame. It was bad enough that I didn’t want to witness the horror that millions of people experienced — what made it worse was that I thought it had nothing to do with me.
When I learned the stories of those who escaped (and those who helped them), and those who didn’t, I felt disgust that people were treated that way, and grateful to be born into a world where I’d never have to feel that kind of fear.
It was a powerful experience, one that I thought about last weekend when Dan and I visited the 9/11 Memorial and Museum in lower Manhattan. Neither of us worked in the city at that point, but — like all Americans — we were deeply impacted by what happened that day, and although we knew it would be a difficult place to visit, we felt we had to do it.
It was well worth it. We spent hours looking at photos taken of makeshift memorials and rescue efforts, watching footage of the news coverage, seeing pictures of those who lost their lives, and hearing the chilling voicemails of people who were either on board one of the planes or trapped in the towers. There is nothing more haunting than hearing a man tell his wife, “I’m on an airplane that’s been hijacked,” or more heartbreaking than seeing personal items like the field hockey stick one victim had used when she played in recreational leagues.
At the same time, it was also extremely inspirational to hear the stories of heroism, like the flight attendant who evaded hijackers long enough to place a call to authorities and help identify the attackers. I can only imagine how terrified Betty Ann Ong must have been, but it didn’t stop her from contacting American Airlines, which then quickly grounded all flights, possibly preventing further attacks.
And that’s just one story (albeit an incredible one). There were the passengers and crew on Flight 93, who broke into the cabin and fought for control of the plane, forcing it to crash in a field in Pennsylvania instead of its intended target, the US Capitol. There were firefighters who rushed into the burning buildings to help people escape, and unsung heroes who helped colleagues down the stairs or provided food and blankets to rescuers.
There are countless stories of people who, rather than succumb to panic and fear, rose to the occasion and committed selfless, heroic acts. These are stories that need to be told, and heard.
To me, hearing them brought on a lot of feelings: pride, anger, inspiration, and sadness. But no shame.
Share Your Thoughts
You must be logged in to post a comment.