Every year the anniversary of September 11, 2001 becomes exponentially more heartrending to observe.

Because we do not live in a society that respects forgiveness of monstrous atrocities, I routinely feel obligated to remember the day, to relive the unimaginable terror and confusion of everything that went on in just my little, self-involved 18-year-old mind because I could never begin to absorb what horror wrenched its way across the human consciousness. I remember watching the second plane hit, two weeks into my first semester at college, just as I’d climbed on my treadmill for an early morning run. I remember the whirr of machines in the gym grinding to a halt as the strangers astride each other glanced around as if one of us had some sort of answer. I remember hearing about the Pentagon’s attack moments later. I remember thinking, “This is the end of the world. I am going to die today.”

I remember spending the day in my gym clothes, watching the news and straining to hear live newscasters over the sound of New York screaming. I remember calling people I knew to make sure they were okay, even if they lived in South Carolina. I remember watching strangers leap to their deaths while the whole world gasped. I remember somehow getting through to one of my friends in New York - just a few blocks away from the crumbling towers - and telling her that the rumors about America now being under terrorist rule she and her new classmates were hearing weren’t true. I remember people walking around in a shared glossy-eyed stupor, professors believing their classes were too important to cancel, housemates sobbing over missing relatives, fanatics screaming anti-Islamic threats and this fear that we would all be at war within days. I remember watching the boy down the hall begin to pack his bag, moments after being summoned to his National Guard post. (He never returned to college.) I remember seeing a photo of Osama bin Laden and remembering a 2nd grade friend telling me about Nostradamous’s prediction that had scared me into a monthlong insomnia some ten years prior. I remember the craziest bitch in our whole hallway [who stole my roommate's car and publicly announced her abortion plans to the whole dorm later that year] planning and executing a very peaceful, loving prayer group that night.

(A Side Note: Incidentally, that evening was when the fuckhead boyfriend I insisted on reuniting with over the course of 6 years decided to cheat on me and leave me again. One, because he processes grief pertaining to others well apparently and, Two, because I guess he thought I shouldn’t be allowed to experience heartbreak that had nothing to do with him. So I have all kinds of conflicting emotions going on from that specific time frame.)

I remember weeks of confusion and paranoia and rumors of upcoming attacks. I remember nothing but the recurring images of bloody, dust-covered bodies and matching pillars of smoke appearing on television, in my email, in my dreams. Everyone wanted to talk about how it affected them even though we all knew without anyone having to speak. I remember pages and pages of political cartoons portraying the rolling-up of Uncle Sam’s sleeves, accompanied with vows to seek revenge. I remember watching performance art pieces at my university and being moved to tears, crying in deep embraces with people I’d never see again.

I remember “freedom fries” and xenophobia. I remember everyone being so angry they wanted to blame everyone, anyone. I remember everyone suddenly becoming patriotic again, buying flags, screaming about their proud Americanism. I remember the whole world telling us to rethink our invasion and perhaps not fight ignorant hate with more ignorant hate. I remember nobody listening. I remember all the incredibly angry music that ensued.

I remember everyone being alike in their experiences with fear and trauma and grief and, yet, still somehow remaining incredibly alone.

But the real tragedy of this day lies in the fact that the hate and fear planted then has only grown and flourished in the years since, leaking out so casually and subtlely that we have accepted it into our daily lives, perpetuated and taught it to our children and advocated it to each other. We keep insisting that we “Never Forget!” but we still have never brought anyone to justice for any of it and have, instead, busied ourselves with meaningless arguments amongst ourselves over fictititious wars as we have lost even more of our hard-working people to what our president himself even admitted was a complete lie. Even those of us who have no power to change anything about our nation’s happenings have spent years hating these faceless demons, these other countries, our authorities, each other. Idiotic political pundits have gone on the air to insult the widows and surviving family members of those who were horrifically, brutally murdered on September 11 and the date as a colloquialism has become fodder for casual, rating-boosting heated debates amongst trivial, shock-value driven commentators of no importance and perpetuated anger amongst the American public instead of remaining a notation for a solemn day of loss and horror. We have used this event to turn on each other, to make enemies of the people we live among, to scream violent, hateful words at entire groups of people who are innocent as individuals. Our hatred has allowed us to justify the invasion of personal privacies, the arrogant need to sacrifice young men and women, and the unfortunate success of Toby Keith. Filled with hatred and unable to hold any specific person accountable, we have become viciously spiteful of each other, unbudging in our ignorant prejudice of other cultures, and willing to murder each other over the same diversities that, a mere decade ago were what made us proud to be American in the first place.

These emotions are the same anger and the very hatred that the terrorists thrived on and intended to plant within us during their insane, evil mission. And yet, even today, mentioning the notion of forgiveness is seen as inhumane, unfeeling and particularly disturbing to the average American.

We are still expected to hate and fear. We encourage each other to remember the pain and terror and draw strength and fuel for more wrath from it. We still scream about seeking revenge. We loudly cheer when we destroy anyone we loosely associate with these events in our desperate, ongoing search for vengeance. In the eight years since those attacks, we have not seen another like it and yet we are still just as wrathful as we were in the weeks following. We are proud to perpetuate this fear and hate in the name of “patriotism”, as though being consumed with loathing for people who are no longer alive to know us is somehow serving them justice.

We, alone, are responsible for carrying the hatred of the terrorists in our hearts. And until we realize and relinquish that, we will never find the peace and freedom we desire.