Remembering the Violence

I saw today that Denise Brown, sister of Nicole Brown Simpson, has written a new book. And down the Rabbit Hole I went.

But this one turned out to be about remembrance.

My grandchildren will not remember Nicole Brown Simpson. They will not remember the handsome, smiling O.J. Simpson who was once an athletic hero, a television personality and one of the most recognizable men in America.

I remember both.

I believe O.J. killed Nicole. I’m no scholar of the case, and I didn’t follow every minute of the trial, but the horror of a woman being murdered by her husband and their two children being left without their mother still astounds me.

Maybe that is what sent my mind where it went next, because today is September 11.

I remember that day, too.

I remember watching the Twin Towers fall. Not topple. Not tip over. They seemed to sink straight down into the earth.

I can still imagine the dust and debris filling the air. I can still see the people running. I can still remember the almost impossible feeling of understanding that this was happening here, to us, right now.

My grandchildren will see those same images. They will probably see them for the rest of their lives.

But will they ever feel the shock?

I wonder because I know World War I and World War II only through books, movies, photographs and documentaries. I know what happened. I can be horrified by it. I can grieve for people who lived and died long before I was born.

But I don't remember it.

There is a difference.

I remember the Challenger exploding in the sky.

I remember September 11.

There are events we learn about, and there are events that become part of us because we were there—even if “there” was sitting in front of a television hundreds or thousands of miles away.

One informs us.

The other becomes part of the ties that bind us together as a Nation through shared pain.

And maybe that is why remembering matters.

We are meant to feel.

We are meant to hold on to one another and take care of one another.

I don't believe this country was meant to be simply a place where each of us grabs whatever we can and worries only about our own progress. I don't believe America belongs more to the rich than the poor, or to one race, one religion, one birthplace or one kind of person.

We are people whose families came from every corner of the globe. Black and white. Rich and poor. Short and tall. People whose grandparents arrived on ships and people whose ancestors were already here. People who came willingly and people whose ancestors did not.

At our best, we stand tall and protect the weak. We gather the hurt and oppressed to our bosom. We pick up the pieces when violence invades our homes, our country, or the world we want to live in.

Maybe that is one of the responsibilities of those of us who remember.

Not just to tell younger generations what happened.

But to tell them what it felt like.

Because eventually memory becomes history.

And history alone cannot tell them everything.