memory

"United Flight 93 bound for San Francisco from Newark crashes in a field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania". I get chills when I write those words. My sister and I dropped our phones and both fell to the floor crying, screaming and physically sick from the news. It was not real to us; it could not be, not our beautiful mom. My husband immediately left work, came home, where we hugged and cried in the driveway. Shortly thereafter, neighbors stopped by, some crying, some leaving flowers and notes... My strongest memory is the coming together of people in support of others. I cannot remember much about my own pain because it was so strong, so sickening, so difficult to put words to it. I do remember the stories of heroism; people helping others get up off the ground in New York; watching it on TV, at the time not realizing how my life would be changed forever."
These are the words of someone recounting her memories from 9/11.
There are many more like her, and not just from 9/11.

What is it about events-especially tragic ones-that make us want to memorialize them?

Memorializing is an interesting cultural practice. I never really thought about it much before, and never really considered as a cultural practice. But today, I do.

What is it that brings so many people together to see Ground Zero, even if they had nothing to do with the event, even if they are not American, or were only six years old at the time of the event? What is it that drives us closer to objects of memory? Why do we visit our beloved at their graves? Why do we go and touch a wall with the names of all those who died fighting for something even though we don't know who any of them were? How is it possible that foreigners are attracted to these sites and objects just as much as anyone else?

. . .

My grandfather passed away when I was in eighth grade. I didn't cry much at the funeral.
But I did afterwards.

I had worn his favorite skirt of mine, believing that he could see it. It was long, black, and puffy. Probably wouldn't be appropriate if anyone else wore it, but it was ok for me to be the one wearing it because I was really young.
That day is clearly saved in my memory, but one moment is sharper than most others.

I was walking back to my aunt's car, holding her hand, because my mom wanted to be with my dad for a while longer, and I remember asking her this question:
"Will I not be able to see him again?"
My aunt, who I could tell was trying to stop herself from crying, told me 'no', but that I could visit him whenever I wanted in his new, and now eternal bed.

. . .

I think with loss, and especially with the loss of a loved one, one of the hardest things to cope with is the physical absence of that person from your life.
Memorials, however, allow us to maintain that physical connection. They are the symbolic presence of that person in our lives, and make it slightly easier to cope with loss.
And that's why I think they are so necessary.

. . .

This is the AIDS Memorial Quilt:
(please listen to this songs while looking at the quilt:)

 research.microsoft.com/aidsquilt
"celebration of the lives of people who have died of AIDS-related causes. Weighing an estimated 54 tons, it is the largest piece of community folk art in the world as of 2010. "- Wikipedia

I actually found myself in tears when I was looking at the AIDS Quilt.
What I think caused me to cry was the pureness and innocence presented by each piece. There's a story, a family, a couple, a relationship, someone's friend lying on each of those pieces on the quilt, and not only those who passed away, but those who are connected to them become connected through the quilt. It is amazing to think how an everyday object such as a quilt can have such a great sense of collective effervescence, and bring so many people together. What touched me the most was the softness, and the innocence conveyed by the decoration with the teddy bears, kites, balloons, toys, clowns... and even though the quilt is remembering those who passed away, it seems, with the lively colors used, that its more of a celebration of their lives, rather than a grieving for their passing, which to me is a beautiful thing.

One of the quilts had the following lines from a poem, and I think it summarizes everything anyone can say about memories beautifully:
"For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain."-Kahlil Gibran

. . .

Today was the last day of the first half of my junior year in college.
I had two classes, and this post was based on one of them.