48 Hours

I sat in my college philosophy class this morning. A strange chill through the room. The last time we met was Tuesday morning, 8 o'clock. We'd been talking about terrorists, and old beliefs that no one does wrong intentionally. In the two days since we saw each other last, our whole lives have been flipped around. We start to talk about what happened. Half of us are ready to go, kill them all, get revenge, defend our country. Then there are those who argue we brought this on ourselves. We let others die until it's in our own backyard. Emotions flying high, people defending their beliefs, until one girl is called upon to speak. We listen to hear who she'll side with, whether she feels we should strike back, or let it pass. Her words change everything. In the small class in Harrisburg PA, half way between New York and Arlington, a silence spread across the room. And once again we'll never be the same. The girl stood silent, brave and tall, listening to us all. Then strongly stated, "I've only got one thing to say, from someone who hasn't seen her father in 48 hours.  My dad is a pilot, he flies for American Airlines, from Boston to LA. And I, I don't want anyone to feel this way.This poem is true. I have to say that I am one of those people ready to strike back. But what can you say after hearing that, how can you argue? Written September 17th, 2001 © on Sep 17 2001 03:02 PM PST   0 • 1