My Life as History

Fence @ the Oklahoma City National Memorial

You know, I’m having a hard time figuring out exactly what I want to write about our stop at the Oklahoma City National Memorial and Museum. I could ramble on about how this was the last stop on our trip and how we made it back to Sorta’ Cosmopolitan with only two hours to spare before The Coach had to leave for work. I could reflect on the fact that the monument was really well designed with touching symbolism or how the museum’s audio-visuals were poorly designed which lead me to both auditory confusion and a bit of a headache (something that TQE has experienced elsewhere in America). I could talk about how I really liked the golden cranes and the Japanese allegory, how I nearly cried when I saw the teddy bear found in the ruins of the Murrah Building, how I was made nauseous by the story about cutting a woman’s leg off with a pocket knife to free her from the rubble, or how it struck me as odd that only some of the victims’ families had placed keepsakes with the photos of their dead kin.

But, it all seems rather trite, you know?I just don’t think I can get the proper tone. I mean, are we sad? Are we hopeful? Are we angry? Are we amazed at how well the response was carried out in Oklahoma City while FEMA and others really screwed the pooch when dealing with the aftermath of Katrina? Is this an outdated tragedy because of 9/11? (And I don’t mean that in a nasty way — what I mean is that people have short attention spans and tend to focus on the next big catastrophe.)

Survivor Tree
Oklahoma City National Memorial

Mostly, however, the site just made me feel … well, it made me feel old. I remember how family members would talk about where they were when Pearl Harbor was bombed or when JFK was killed. Me, I remember Oklahoma City. At the time of the bombing, I was working for a small weekly newspaper in the midwest. The paper was so small that even though I was the news editor, I still had to go out and sell ads. On the day of the Oklahoma City bombing, I was out selling ads for a special section of the paper. I remember how my boss — a Rush Limbaugh listening, conservative Republican freak — was convinced that the bombers were Arabs. I remember her fearmongering statements. I remember how shocked she was when it turned out to be McVeigh. Fast forward a few years and I can even tell you where I was when McVeigh was killed by lethal injection.

In my mind, monuments are supposed to be about historical events, things that occurred well before I was twinkle in my parents’ eyes. How shocking is it to discover that your own life span includes historical events? In a way, I guess I should be more aware of this seeing how I also remember the Iran Hostage Crisis (when Vulcan’s lamp burned yellow), the first (and second) space shuttle explosions, the Soviets pulling out of Afghanistan, and the fall of the Berlin Wall.

Damn, I *am* getting old!