Autism in the Movies: Thoughts on "Jack of the Red Hearts"

On September 24th, I had the opportunity to attend the opening night gala of the Golden Door Film Festival in Jersey City, New Jersey, which included a screening of the film Jack of the Red Hearts.

I hadn't known much about the movie beforehand, but several of the filmmakers were present at the event, including director Janet Grillo, writer Jennifer Deaton, and actors Famke Janssen (Kay), AnnaSophia Robb (Jack), and Taylor Richardson (Glory). 

[From left: Famke Janssen, AnnaSophia Robb, and Taylor Richardson in Jack of the Red Hearts.]

The movie centers around teenage runaway Jack (Robb), who cons her way into the home and life of a girl on the autism spectrum (Richardson) and her family in an effort to rescue and obtain custody of her own sister from foster care. When a young woman answers the family's advertisement (placed, strangely enough, via the use of a flyer with tearaway pieces of paper at the bottom) for a companion for Glory, Jack deceives the clearly-qualified woman into thinking the job's been filled, takes her résumé, and passes herself off as this person instead.

From this moment on, I knew exactly where the film was going and what was going to happen. I knew perhaps because this particular movie trope has been used before, especially in movies featuring disabled people. I knew because this was a movie made by someone who knows autism--albeit from the outside--and needed a way to make autism accessible to those who don't. And I knew that I have sympathized and identified with neurotypical (NT) characters in movies for years--largely due to few other options--but that somewhere, a decision was made that a typical audience couldn't be expected to sympathize with a little autistic girl, thus necessitating the addition of an NT protagonist.

It's no secret that I am a fairly sensitive person, and without a doubt, Jack of the Red Hearts struck a deep nerve. I'm not sure if "triggered" is the right word, but the film brought a great many memories rushing back and elicited an emotional response from me--but not necessarily in the good way. 

In actuality, as I sat there watching this film, I found myself fighting the urge to get up and leave the theater on several occasions. One occurred early on, when the mother of the autistic girl (Janssen) was holding and drinking from a coffee mug with the words "CURE AUTISM NOW" emblazoned on it in large letters. 

Another was witnessing the abusive--and there really is no other word for it but "abusive"--behavior of Jack toward Glory. Tying Glory to a fence with a leash as though she were an animal, when not neglecting her altogether. Forcing herself into Glory's personal space and brusquely demanding, "What's wrong with you?" Despite the film's insistence that I do so, I felt no sympathy for Jack, and instead recoiled at the thought of anyone like her ever being remotely near a person on the spectrum. 

We're presented with the tragedy of Jack's life, and made to place her desperation on par with Glory's family's desperation, and that somehow they both needed each other, even if they didn't know it. But I am an adult on the autism spectrum, and before that, I was a child with autism--a little girl, not too unlike Glory. What I wanted more than anything was to have a friend, and had a Jack-like figure been part of my life and then left as abruptly as she came into it, it would have hurt me tremendously. Jack's life might have been screwed up and rife with anguish, but that did and does not give her the right to wreak havoc on someone else's--least of all, Glory, a vulnerable child who would become attached to her and view her as a friend.

There was a Q&A with the filmmakers after the movie ended, and I had hoped for some insight into the decisions made in the process of creating this movie. What I learned instead was that, of all the people standing on that stage, only one or two truly seemed to "get" autism. I managed to push aside my emotions in favor of steeled strength and raised my hand to ask a question, but unfortunately I was not called on. I did not expect the members of the cast to have an in-depth knowledge of autism, but to hear some of the crew speak as they did made me realize just how much work there is still to be done.

When making any movie about autism, or featuring a character that has autism--a character that, in this case, was not actually played by an autistic actress--it is vitally important to receive and listen to feedback from individuals on the spectrum. Had the creators of Jack of the Red Hearts done this, I can almost guarantee that the film's climactic scene would've been completely different, as what was set up to be a poignant moment was, for me, a degrading and uncomfortable exercise in cinematic absurdity. 

I wish I could say that this film moved me. I wish I could say that I am so thrilled that there is a movie about a girl with autism as a central figure, and that I wholeheartedly recommend it to any and all those whose lives are touched by autism. But I cannot separate the dramatized elements of this movie from reality, because I have lived the reality, and the film's flaws are too troubling to overlook. I have no doubt that the intentions of the film's director and writer were entirely good, but the overall execution could have been so much better.

To say I was disappointed by Jack of the Red Hearts is putting it mildly. Individuals on the autism spectrum deserve more than being portrayed as burdens on the people around us. Movies entertain, but they also inform, and autistic people are certainly compelling enough to be the voices of our own narrative, to be the ones informing the world about what autism is and what our lives are like. Hopefully one day filmmakers will realize this, and give us a chance to speak for ourselves on screen.

And when the time comes, I know people will sit up and listen.  

My Father, the Hero

When I was a little girl, my dad would take me to a Hostess bakery outlet in Medford. It seemed very far from our house--over and past long stretches of blue sky dotted with trees and telephone poles and signs whizzing by in a blur. Stepping inside, it was as if I'd arrived at another world, one full of bread smells and baked goods with ingredients I delighted in reading because I was the only 8-year-old who could pronounce them.

We walked together through the aisles of that magical place, and I beamed up at my father, who I thought was also magical, because he always knew how to get there.

He was my hero that way, you see.

I go back to Long Island at least a few times a month, to visit. The drive there and the return trip to New Jersey were familiar before I ever had a license, so accustomed was I to going to the Garden State as a child to see my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and various cousins. But one of the main things I've learned since I started driving is that the journey isn't always the same; on the road, anything can happen.

So it was that I found myself forced to take a detour on one of my most recent drives back to New Jersey. The exit I normally take off of Route 80 is comprised of two ramps--one that goes to the right, and one that goes to the left, which is where I go. On this particular day, however, the left ramp was closed, and I had no choice but to head down the road not (ever) taken. Familiarity quickly vanished as I reached a somewhat hazardous intersection in the heart of downtown Paterson. I knew there was only one option.

I called my father.

Dad grew up in Paterson, and though the landscape and cultural makeup of the city have undergone a significant shift since his years living there, some things are still the same. 

The streets.

More importantly, the map that my father has of them in his head.

It's said that some folks on the autism spectrum have the gift of a photographic memory. That they can recall the layout of a street, or even an entire city, after being there on only a few occasions. My father, the Aspie, has not lived in New Jersey for over forty years, not since moving out to Long Island after getting a teaching job--yet the street names and placements remain clear as day in his mind.

It was due to this that he was able to perfectly guide me through Paterson to where I needed to be to complete the drive home. He spoke carefully, repeating directions when necessary, never rushing or admonishing me through each turn. It was as though he was there in the car with me, steering gently, again taking me from one world to another. Not once did I get lost, and in the moments I felt most unsure, my father stayed calm.

It can't be easy watching your daughter take charge of her own life, but when you're a parent, that's exactly what you're preparing your child to do. You let go, and let them. Even when it scares you. But maybe that's my dad's gift: Not controlling the journey, or the destination, but doing the best he can to help me arrive there safe and sound.

He is my hero that way. 

He always will be. 

Dear Jxxxxxxn

I've heard a lot about how it can be cathartic to write a letter to someone that you'll never be able to speak to, and so I decided to write this. It felt incredibly good to get all of this out, even with it being this many years later. So here it is:

------

Dear Jxxxxxxn,

I don't know why I'm writing this letter.

I don't know what I can say to you, eight years later, that would bring me any more closure than what I had to find by myself. Because you never looked me in the eye and said it was done. Never saw my face and the tears streaming down my cheeks. Your message of finality was sent to me online, or in half-eaten phone calls at random hours of the day and night. 

It was in the box that you left outside my apartment building at seven a.m. one day, along with the monogrammed journal I'd gotten you for your birthday.

I could tell you that things have gotten much better since I last saw you. The broken girl, the shell you left behind has filled back in and is complete again. Complete not because I know I'm okay even though you're not here, but because I know I was okay even when you were there.  You don't make me more or less. I am better not because you are gone, but because I  have finally arrived.

I remember you messaging me once, months after everything happened, to tell me that you were sorry for ruining my life. 

I was as angered by it then as I am at peace with it now. You don't owe me any apology, silly, because you didn't ruin my life. In fact, it's because of you that I know what being in love feels like. I know now that you didn't feel that way about me, but it does not make what I felt any less real. 

I loved you very much, you see. It surprised me how much I did, because I had no idea I could feel that deeply for someone. I thought being on the autism spectrum meant that I would never fall in love, but you proved me wrong. I learned that I could give my whole heart to someone, that I could feel tingly and slightly nauseated (in a good way) at just the thought of seeing someone, all at once. I learned that I could lose myself in love and find my way back, no matter how long or hard I fell.

In the end, you tore my heart out and stomped on it. As high as the high of being in love was, the low of losing it was the lowest I've ever gone. I felt everything and nothing at the same time, a pain so profound it just bled into numbness. Sometimes I still wonder if any of it was real, for you. If you ever actually felt anything for me. But I don't need the truth from you anymore. It wouldn't matter even if you told it to me.

You didn't fall in love with me, Jxxxxxxn. But I think instead I got something a lot better, something that maybe wouldn't have happened without you.

I fell in love with me. 

And I'm still standing.

Sincerely yours,

~*Amy Gravino

The Butterfly and the Bear

Once upon a time, there was a butterfly and a bear.

They became friends when they were little, fast frends, because the bear didn’t get along with the other bears and the butterfly didn’t get along with the other butterflies. They met and became friends because they thought they were the same.

The butterfly and the bear stayed friends for many happy years, fluttering/walking side by side (respectively). Despite their differences, no one could tell them that they weren’t alike. The butterfly thought, The bear is an animal, and I’m an animal. We’re both animals!

Over time, the bear grew bigger, and the butterfly did, too. The bigger they got, though, the more the butterfly noticed how big the bear’s shadow was. The bear made long strides with its four feet, moving faster than the butterfly could keep up with, even though it flapped its wings as hard as it could.

Most frightening of all was when the bear began to stand on its two hind legs and roared in the butterfly’s tiny face. The butterfly had never heard the bear make such a sound before, not in all the time they’d been friends, and a new, very strange thought came into the butterfly’s head:

Maybe the bear and I are different…

Such thoughts unnerved the butterfly, and it quickly shook them off and flew back to the bear, hoping that if it reminded the bear they were friends, the bear would stop roaring.

The only thing the bear did was roar some more.

Soon the butterfly could not take the bear’s roaring, so loud and chilling that the butterfly saw the bear not as its friend, but as something that could hurt it. And that made it all the worse—knowing that the bear could hurt the butterfly and not care if it did. Worse, even, than the bear actually hurting it.

Eventually, the butterfly stopped seeing the bear, as it hid deep in its dark cave, eschewing sunlight and the butterfly’s company in favor of a solitary, cold existence. The butterfly sought out other butterflies—some blue with white spots, some orange with patches of black, and even some yellow ones. Suddenly the butterfly felt alive, more at ease, and loved, things it had never felt before. The other butterflies flapped happily whenever the butterfly came near, so unlike the fearsome roar of the butterfly’s old friend.

…But the butterfly could not forget the bear entirely.

It was late the day the butterfly saw the bear one last time. Streaks of pink and purple-y blue lined the horizon, a cloudless backdrop so fitting for a moment of clarity.

The bear invited the butterfly into its cave, and the butterfly reluctantly accepted. It did not know what to expect—Had the bear learned to stop roaring? Did it remember when it and the butterfly were friends? Questions to which the butterfly had so longed for answers, and that it now hoped to get.

Slowly, the butterfly flew into the cave, peering into the darkness for any sign of the bear. The further inside the butterfly went, the more the light dimmed. The smell inside the cave was like decay, as if the life inside had all but disappeared. And finally, after flapping all the way to the back of the cave, the butterfly found the bear, and was horrified by what it saw.

The bear’s once-soft fur was matted, covered in dirt and dust. Its strong legs were splayed apart and immobile, as if the bear had stopped walking after its and the butterfly parted ways. And the bear’s eyes, previously warm and gentle, had grown cold and distant, fully devoid of their long-lost sparkle.

Before the butterfly could even ask the bear what had happened, it lifted one still-working limb and swiped at the butterfly, its razor-sharp claws tearing, and it missed the butterfly’s heart by only the barest inch.

The now-wounded butterfly turned from the bear and flew from the cave—as much as a wounded butterfly can fly—and did not stop until it reached the cool night air. Relief coursed through the butterfly’s veins, and it finally came to rest on a tree branch nearby.

The bear is not my friend anymore.

Relief. Sadness. Despair. The butterfly knew them all in that moment, unable to stop the tiny tears springing from its eyes. It thought of what the bear once was, compared to what it had become, and knew the only thing left was to return to the other butterflies and leave the bear behind.

The butterfly needs time to heal. The scars won’t ever fully fade away.

The butterfly has come out from under the bear’s shadow.

The butterfly is free.

Thoughts on Depression and the Death of Robin Williams

You came to visit me today.

You sat next to me in Science class, somewhere between kingdom and phylum. Nobody else saw you come in, of course, because you're sneaky. You looked like the boy in the flannel shirt and Reeboks, but I knew it was you.

We're not supposed to talk in class, but you did it anyway. I heard you whispering about the blinds being closed so no light could come in, and how it would always be that dark. But that classroom was always dark, and I couldn't remember when it wasn't.

Suddenly, you were sitting on my chest. I didn't see you move, but I felt you pressing into me, felt the weight bearing down. You told me that eleven or twelve years was enough, that the rest would all be the same, that there would never be anything new or different. Or better.

You were inside my head. I couldn't breathe.

That was the first time that I saw the appeal of the neck-length tape measure wrapped around a hook in the cubby.

---

Earlier this week, our collective hearts were broken and our spirits devastated when beloved comedian/actor Robin Williams passed away. He took his own life at the age of 63, and after hearing the nature of his death, I have started to remember my own experiences with depression and suicidal thoughts, which started when I was in elementary school.

It's not something I have occasion to speak about very often, nor that I particularly like speaking about. The memories, what few of them remain, are too painful to revisit. I've attempted to describe it via the passage above, but the difficult part to reconcile is that this didn't happen just once; it happened over and over and over again, in different settings and to varying degrees all through my school career.

When you are young, you don't fully understand the finality and permanence of death. As the thought of suicide grew in my mind, what I believed was that killing myself meant killing someone that everyone hated, and that if I eradicated that part of me, I would return, somehow, as someone that everyone loved.

To this day, I am still not sure what kept me from doing it. Speaking in practical terms, I couldn't overdose because I wasn't able to swallow pills at the time; I was afraid of blood and sharp things, so that ruled out a slightly more violent end; and I didn't have the necessary fine motor coordination skills to make a noose. It reads like a comedy of errors, but I feel that these obstacles were put in place almost by design. I remember thinking of each of these things as one failure after another on my part. I felt that I was a failure at life...and then I was a failure at death, too.

That was what depression told me.

What it didn't tell me was that I wasn't alone. That there were and are so many others, like Robin Williams, who suffer quietly, wanting and hoping for things to be different, but who feel trapped, isolated, and lost in their despair.

Though I did begin taking Prozac for the depression at age 12 (and voluntarily stopped when I was 15), the cloud only began to lift after I left high school, when--for the first time that I could really remember--people saw me. They saw that I was here, that I existed, and that maybe I was even a good person. Their voices became louder than depression's voice, and at long last, I could breathe again.

I know that I got very lucky.

My story is only one story, and depression affects other people in all sorts of different ways. We have a very long way to go yet when it comes to discussing mental illness and suicide, and the stigma that surrounds these issues will never go away unless we start talking about them.

If nothing else, I hope the death of Robin Williams will be the beginning of this desperately-needed change.

I only wish he could be around to see how it ends.

---
[If you are having imminent thoughts of suicide, please consider calling the National Suicide Hotline at 1-800-273-8255 (in the U.S.), or visit their website.]

Post-Christmas Reflections

The last embers of the holiday are still dying down, and I have gathered in their glow to collect my thoughts on the day's events.

This Christmas brought with it an ending, and many new beginnings as well. Ever since I was a little girl, I have written a letter to Santa every year on Christmas Eve and placed it on the kitchen table with a plate of cookies and an empty glass for milk. And every Christmas morning, without fail, I would turn the paper over to find a handwritten response from “Santa” (my dad). I’ve continued the tradition on for symbolic purposes, but after a great deal of contemplation, I decided that this will be the last year for the letters to Santa.

I knew that I wanted to send the tradition off with affection, and after searching through family photo albums, found this picture of my father and me from when I was a child:

Dad and his little girl, 1988.

I was able to scan the picture, then edited it to look like a Polaroid picture, put it in a Word document along with my final Letter to Santa, and placed it on the kitchen table for him to find.

Yesterday, I attended two family Christmas gatherings, and in both instances, was the only person present who was not part of a couple (married or in a relationship). I (literally and figuratively) stood outside of my relatives, watching and observing their interactions, and realized deep down that I am different from them, and I always have been. In the past, I thought that my being different meant that I was less, somehow; that I did not deserve to be related to them. But what I now know, through wisdom and experience, is that I can be different from them, and we can still be family.

That is what Christmas is: Finding a place where the people that you love become the true bearers of comfort and joy. All through the day, I could feel the presence of those who have passed on—Grandma, Grandpa, great-Aunt Lollie, and more—and I know that they have also been folded into the fabric of Christmas. The fact that I knew them and loved them is a greater gift than anything inside ribbon and bow-festooned boxes sitting under a tree.

In many ways, a letter to Santa isn’t so much about presents, but having just the briefest moment to have someone listen to what you have to say. I yearned for that as a child, thirsted for it…but now, my cup is nearly overrun. It happened gradually—Christmas by Christmas, in tiny, tiny increments—but the letters have fulfilled their purpose, and though they and Santa will always be in my heart, I am honored to say a quiet, respectful goodbye.

Farewell to one chapter of life. Onward and upward to the next.

In Plain Sight: Thoughts on the Center for Autism and the Developing Brain

The life of a child with Asperger's Syndrome is often filled with routines: Those that are built for us by others, and those that we create ourselves. The structure of a day divided into evenly-timed segments is a source of comfort, of knowing for certain what will happen next. When the time is ours, the routine is different, but it is made of our own determining, borne from the desire to possess the smallest amount of control over our lives.

I remember being buckled in my parents' car, the arms of the straps across my lap and chest holding me close and the humming engine vibrating under my feet. It didn't stop until we were parked in front of a strange building with too-shiny windows and loose pebbles scattered across the unsmooth asphalt.

That was when a new routine began.

I am no stranger to the inside of an office: Offices in child psychology buildings, offices of occupational therapists, social workers. An endless procession of white coats and sweet-strong perfumes and colognes wafting in and out of every door, applied liberally as if to conceal the sterile odorlessness of those rooms. Every place I went seemed shrouded, far from the public's view, tinted glass keeping the broken children hidden.

This same thought passed through my mind when I recently paid a visit to yet another such facility.

Situated in the verdant hills of White Plains, the Center for Autism and the Developing Brain (CADB) sits on the edge of treatment and care for individuals with autism across the lifespan. A casual stroll onto the Westchester campus of New York Presbyterian Hospital--where the Center is located--reveals that the building in which it resides was a men's gymnasium in a past life, back in the days when individuals with mental health issues did not live at home, but instead received long-term care at a "convalescence" facility.

A few weeks ago, I joined several of my GRASP colleagues on the campus for the annual conference of AFAA (Advancing Futures for Adults with Autism). As part of the conference program, a presentation highlighting longitudinal studies of individuals with autism was given to us by Dr. Catherine Lord, who is the founding director of CADB.

Later in the day, we received a full tour of the Center, which was also given by Dr. Lord. Visiting the Center left quite an impression on me, though even now I am not sure if it is a good one.

In the main room of the Center, the ceiling is high and open--remnants of the gymnasium from the days of yore. In the middle of the room is a playroom/gym, strewn with toys and activities, and rows of observation rooms line the perimeter surrounding it. A tall and thrumming fluorescent light acts as a divider in between, and toward the entrance are glass display cases, each covered in a grid-like pattern and brightly back-lit.

It was these lights that caught my immediate attention, the whiteness being so stark as to jar my eyes from the earthy, calm tones that dominated the rest of the decor. Though I have never had extreme sensitivity to light, several of my colleagues did, and found themselves quite discomforted in the presence of those lights.

When I later visited the CADB's website, I was surprised by what I found: Multiple references to the "soft" and "natural/soothing" lighting (the references in links two and three are in the captions on the pictures on each page). I don't know for whom those lights actually are soothing, but I would have expected a bit more consideration to have been made in the design of a facility in which treatment is provided for individuals with autism.

As I walked through the still and silent corridors that day, I felt the memory of all those offices returning to me. Behind the toys, the cheery colors, the lush, green leaves of new plants, was that same all-consuming feeling that I found as inescapable then as I did when I was a child:

I am here because something is wrong with me.

Awareness about and visibility of autism and autism spectrum disorders has come so far since I was a child, as have ideas about treatment and embracing neurodiversity. Yet in spite of all this, the feeling of being "different" persists, and is augmented by the fact that a swing set surrounded by four walls and a two-way mirror is a far cry from a swing set on a playground bathed in sunlight.

At the time, I don't think I fully understood why I had to go to all of those offices, but I was always, always aware of being away from the light.

The very existence of CADB is tremendously promising, however, and represents a step in the right direction. It is my hope that facilities such as theirs will incorporate input from individuals on the spectrum into their design--the design of their buildings and of their programs.

It is we who spent so much time in these places growing up who can offer the best insight into how to make the experience a better one for individuals on the spectrum--not only while they are there receiving treatment, but as a positive foundation for the rest of their lives.

The Ghosts of Thanksgiving Past

They say that everyone has some kind of horror story related to Thanksgiving—missed flights, dysfunctional families, burned turkeys, and so many other flavors of chaos that rear their unwelcome head whenever this particular holiday comes around.

My own history with Thanksgiving is not nearly as sensational, but when this day rolls around each year, I always take a moment to pause and reflect.

When I was a kid, I used to get sick on Thanksgiving, every single year. I can’t remember exactly when it started, but I’ll guess and say I had to be about 12 years old. My great-aunt Florence had Thanksgiving at her house in those days, and for almost the entire duration, I would be sequestered in the guest room bed, wageel (metal bowl) beside me, trying to shut out the fragrant aromas wafting from the kitchen as I vomited into the bowl, over and over.

Being the gourmand that I am now, it seems almost cruel that I was shut out of these dinners, and indeed, I have no memory of ever eating anything at Thanksgiving for many years, simply because I could not keep anything down. The repetition of this event was bizarre, and baffled both me and my parents, as there seemed to be no reasonable explanation for the cause of it.

…And then it stopped. The Thanksgiving after I graduated high school, I didn’t get sick. At all. Nor have I gotten sick on Thanksgiving since.

For the longest time, I’ve wondered why or how this could have happened. All those years of getting sick like clockwork, and suddenly it ended, with no warning. Well, realization does not always dawn; sometimes, it thwacks, and that’s how it was when I figured out the reason why.

I think that my social skills problems and the teasing/tormenting that I endured in junior high/high school were so bad that, by the time Thanksgiving rolled around each year, my body responded to it by just completely shutting down. Then I went off to college, and the teasing went away…and the sickness went along with it.

So, with all of that behind me, I was finally able to build a new image of Thanksgiving, which included enjoying the fabulous feast that, well, is pretty much the sole purpose of the holiday. But the shape of Thanksgiving was radically altered yet again, when my grandpa passed away on Thanksgiving Day in 2003.

It was my junior year of college. My grandpa had been sick for some time, and my dad and his siblings had put him in an assisted living facility. He was a diabetic, and he was slowly starting to lose his vision, and even as I grieved his loss, I knew that would have been an intolerable state for him to be in.

I remember my great-aunt Lollie (Grandpa’s sister-in-law) walking into the kitchen in her white Florida sweatshirt, her voice breaking into tears, and my Aunt Nancy right behind her, also crying. I’d never seen my aunt cry before, and it took everything in me not to fall apart on the spot when she said that, when she’d seen him, my Grandpa had looked just like he was taking a nap.

The house I was in at the time was my dad’s cousin’s here in New Jersey, and that’s where my parents and I have gone for most every subsequent Thanksgiving. The memory replays itself whenever I find myself sitting at the counter in that kitchen, and as a result, Thanksgiving Day itself will always be tinged with a certain sadness. Eight years later, and I still miss my Grandpa so much.

What does Thanksgiving mean now? I can’t say for sure. It is ever-changing, evolving, as is my place among my family and in the world. I’ve told my parents that I would like to have Thanksgiving at our house one year, because they have always gone to New Jersey, time and again. One tradition that I do love is that, in addition to turkey, we always have Italian and Syrian food with the Thanksgiving spread, and I want to keep that alive.

My passion for cooking especially means that Thanksgiving is more or less my Oscar season, and I want a chance to step up to the plate. I hope that I will be able to do most, if not all of the cooking for it one year, which would be my way of showing the people I love how thankful I am for them. Yes, the days of being a passive, distant observer of Thanksgiving are long over; now, I am an active, eager, and willing participant.

Remembering September 11th

I swore I wouldn’t be one of the many people contributing to the flood of “9/11” posts today, but the memories that I have are too strong. I promise I will be brief.

It was my freshman year of college. I was in my American Civilization class that morning, lamenting the ungodly early, ignorant to how deeply irony was working overtime that day.

My professor was Mr. Fedrick, a man who bore more than a passing resemblance to Bilbo Baggins. Another professor interrupted the lesson, and he stepped into the hall to speak with him. He came back a few moments later, blue eyes now glassy and downcast. He held his hands in front of him, clutching his glasses, and gravely informed us of what had happened.

Class was immediately dismissed. Dazed, frightened, and still not entirely sure of what was going on, I returned to my dorm. The elevators opened, and I saw that the floor was deserted. The silence was deafening, save for the televisions in the lounge. The doors were open wide, and several students were standing near the TVs, where the news blared loudly. We were all grief-stricken, more so as each new moment of horror unfolded in front of us.

Smoke, flame, ash. Bodies falling. Dust to dust.

My parents were on Long Island, not near the city. Still, I thought of them, and ran for the phone in my room. But I could not get through—the lines were jammed. Cut off from the people I loved—from safety, from reassurance, from calm—my chest clenched. Yet this was only the barest taste of the agony that others felt that day, and have felt every day since.

Ten years later, I still remember. Ten years later, and I will never forget.

R.I.P. to all of the victims of September 11th, in NYC, the Pentagon, Pennsylvania, and everywhere else; and to the firefighters, police, and emergency personnel who went into those towers and never came out. And a special nod to my uncle, who actually was employed in one of the towers, but wasn’t feeling well and didn’t go into work that day.