“SHARDS OF THE DREAM”

“So, where were you conceived?” It’s a question I like to throw out during blind dates and other equally awkward romantic interludes. It’s supposed to conjure up images of our possible pasts - of the world as it existed before we came into it, the circumstances of our eventual arrival, etc. The goal is an imaginative answer that will reveal an introspective personality, someone who has thought about her own life, its beginnings and its possible trajectory. Unfortunately it usually fails miserably. “What the hell kind of question is that?” I don’t know . . .

As for where I was conceived, I haven’t bothered to work it out - not the kind of question you dare ask yourself if you have a sensitive stomach. I know that I was born the youngest of six children and that at the time my mom was a waitress and my dad worked two jobs. We lived in low income housing on the city’s north side - five boys in one room.

As for the larger world it was pretty much chaos. I was born in 1967 - the year of the Milwaukee riots. My mother has told me stories about having to pass through military checkpoints to take me to the doctor. The Vietnam war raged while I teethed, assassinations occurred while I napped. These were turbulent times. The Russians threatened us with nuclear annihilation, but I stayed warm and safe and oblivious to the Cold War and the cold world outside my own neighborhood.

So what’s the point of all this? I’m not sure, but there is one here somewhere. It’s just buried deep under the rubble of a myth that exploded this week. The myth is that the world is a peaceful place where it is safe to raise a child. The myth of American safety and security exploded two days ago when terrorists hijacked four jumbo jets then crashed them into the Pentagon and the twin towers of the World Trade Center. Thousands dead and wounded. What do you do? What do you say?

It’s common for baby boomers to say they remember exactly where they were when John Kennedy was shot. I can’t help but wonder if this incident will be the same. A defining moment. Or is it just the first salvo in a long, ugly battle?

Tuesday morning, 8:20 and the word comes through to turn on the t.v. The students are long settled in and copying math and grammar problems off the chalkboard while I wheel in the t.v., unhook the VCR, fuddle with the antenna, then stand dumbfounded as the images on the screen unfold.

“ . . . draw a picture . . . read a book . . . whatever . . .” I say as I stand transfixed for an hour with the kids rarely making a sound. 9:30 and the principle gets on the school intercom to say that we should turn off the television sets so that the vulgar images don’t scare the children. Oh yes, the children . . .

I try to explain what has just happened to these children who should be inheriting a world so much better than this and for a brief moment I feel guilty. I want to tell them that Disneyland and Pokemon and Santa Claus are all charades, shams, distractions designed to shield the truth: that the adults of the world have done a pretty shitty job of handling things, that for all our talk of generosity we’ve screwed over much of the world, that we talk of peace while arming anyone mad enough to kill our enemies so we don’t have to bloody our own hands, that the world they stand to inherit will be a hornets’ nest. I pause, take a deep breath and attempt to relate the mornings events with Cronkite-like objectivity . . . Their time will come. They too will live through this latest insanity with a resiliency that will shock their parents.

I was born into a chaotic world. It has shaped me but only slightly. When we’re small our world is small too, and events 1,000 miles away are no more real than events 1,000 years away. Our families and schools and neighborhoods constitute our world when we’re young. It’s that world we need to focus on, and it’s that world where we can still make a difference.