Why I’m Not Talking To My Child About Terrorism, At Least Not Yet
There are some parents who believe you should talk to your children, however young, about terrorism. Some parents will tell their toddlers and their elementary-aged children about what happened on Friday in Paris, as is their right. But I won’t explain to my child what happened in Paris, and I won’t teach her about terrorism — at least, not quite yet. Because on September 11, 2001, I watched the world burn not from some stream on the Internet or through the curved lens of a network news camera, but from my home. Of course it wasn’t “the world” I was watching, but at 17 years old (and on the day of the worst terrorist attack I’d seen in my lifetime), it may as well have been. I was a just kid myself, how could I have predicted that one day I’d worry about when or how I’d explain what happened to my own child?
I watched the Manhattan skyline — the one I know and love like the back of my own hand — fill with fire and grey smoke, understanding everything and nothing about what I was seeing. I watched that grey smoke turn black; I watched our own sky darken in New Jersey, and before long, I couldn’t watch any longer. That perfect, picture-perfect view I had of the city was gone, consumed by a cloud so thick and heavy it wouldn’t lift for nearly two weeks.
I saw the Towers burn, and fall, from exit 12 on the New Jersey Turnpike, and I watched for months — and years — as the rubble was hauled across the water and sorted on our shores. Then, and even now, there are pieces I don’t yet understand: How could people kill so easily? How could we have lost so much? How could hate hit us so hard?
